Free Range MPA?

I woke up 2 hours before I technically hit 33. At 4 hours removed I could say that it feels like 32 but with a migraine and knee pain.

It got me thinking about all the ways I don't recognize myself. Yes, my upper arms wave when I do and my meaty forearm ends in cankle-like wrist before spitting out stubby hands with sausage fingers. Yes, I may have gained a chin. And, yes... I am still a mixture of appalled and sad when I see myself from the side in a mirror. I am still quick with a trivia answer as well as with sharp wit. Indulging in garbage pop music is still delightful. But fundamentally a few things have changed.

The Husband went out for a day with the nephews Monday. After picking me up from work we dropped his PIC off at his home and ended up at an intersection with a Farmer's Market. It took immense self control not to scream that we should go check it out. I am planning a trip to Portland with a friend and one of the things I am most hype about is going to a Farmer's Market. Not drinks. Not poutine made with french fries that have been fried to perfection in duck fat. Nope. The Farmer's Market. And not JUST the Farmer's Market, guys. My excitement over locally grown Maine produce and artisan shit has me wondering not which breweries to tour but how many reusable shopping bags to pack. I want to wander around Whole Foods and Common Crow or any other natural grocery store. The smell of small natural markets is the purest smell on Earth.

WHY AM I EXCITED ABOUT FREE RANGE MEAT AND LOCALLY GROWN PRODUCTS?

WHY AM I WEARING NATURAL DEODORANT?

WHY DO I SUDDENLY WANT TO THRIFT FOR DOZENS OF JARS?

But the horrors don’t end there.

I spend my free time watching vegan videos on YouTube. I watch videos on zero waste life styles. I signed a pledge to stop using single-use straws (which I think should still be made available for those who need them but like maybe we shift to the paper ones?). I question whether I should order coffee via mobile pick-up because it means I sacrifice bringing a reusable cup for convenience. When grocery shopping I lament buying soaps/detergents I could easily make at home and paper towels when I could use a washable option. If we have kids do I go the fabric diaper route? Or those rad ones that breakup in the toilet and are flush-able?

And don’t get me started on period products. The tax is enough to piss me off but all that waste?!?! Do I order washable pads? Do I switch to the cup?

The madness seems to be permanent. It grows every year. Is this adulting? No one warned me about this. No one told me I would slowly turn into a hippie. My go to when leaving or entering a room, letting a car go, being let through by another car, taking pictures, or apparently just existing is to throw up a peace sign. I think shaving is a stupid societal convention the patriarchy uses to make women feel less than. I can’t wash my hair daily if I want to keep the dye vibrant and it does not bother me at all. It is like as I age I go more rogue but the idea of it is almost comforting - as if aging gives me a free pass to live my crazy hippie dreams and everyone will just look at me and quietly say to each other “ahhh, she must be over 30” like it naturally explains my behavior.

I suppose it isn’t a bad place to be but it sure will take some time to get used to this me that wonders where on the North Shore I can buy shampoo and conditioner in mason jars I brought in, weighed empty, filled, weighed again, and bicker with the cashier before asking for the manager who I greet with a peace sign.

TMI Time! Fat Girl Problems: The Search For Sexy

**This post will, toward the end, discuss a sexual encounter with The Husband. It is fairly detail-less and not at all porn-y but the disclaimer is there.**
 
I follow some body positive blogs on the internet and tumblr. While I identify with those that lean on the more fat positive (duh.), I feel strongly that it is just as hard to be “too” skinny as well. Lately, a lot of the blogs I have looked at are focusing on larger women wearing whatever they damn well please (Fatkinis, crop tops and leggings, etc) regardless of our fatphobic culture. The idea is to own your largeness instead of being afraid of it. To find what makes you the whole motherfucking package to someone. But mostly, to see the beauty others seen in you and feel sexy (so scandalous for a fattie!) in your skin.

 

How does one feel sexy while fat while living in the good ol’ USofA? Is it lingerie? Is it walking around the house naked as a jaybird while telling yourself you are sexy? Is it wearing whatever you please, whenever you please and not internalizing the stares or comments?

 Clearly, I have no idea. I never have. Sexy is not something I feel. There are days why the jiggle of my thighs or the swaying of my arms/wings doesn’t bother me. Days when my double chin doesn’t disgust me to some degree. For years I stopped going to the beach on the premise that I was doing others a favor-they didn’t have to see me in a bathing suit. In all actuality, it was my deepest fear that people would stare and make comments-or mistaken me for a very white, beached whale that had this misfortune of eating a plus-sized swimmer before getting tangled in her tragically ugly clearance one-piece. I mean, Jeezey Creezey, I have been in a Rocky Horror cast on and off since high school and two weeks ago wore the least I have ever worn in a show (It was a bitchin’ Eve costume I made for an Epic Rap Battle pre-show). Even then all I kept saying to The Husband and anyone who listened was how naked I felt. But the subtext there was not that I was showing a lot-I wore a tunic length tank top with a garter belt, two pairs of underwear, and fishnet thigh highs (in the RHPS that is pretty damn covered!)-but more that I felt like I looked… Fat.

Now, I am fully aware of my size. I 100% am fat. There is no sugar coating that. The word fat doesn’t bother me. If anything, the only term that bothers me is the hushed way people describe you as “a bigger girl.” Just grow a pair, say fat, and move on. Obviously I looked fat. You can’t hide what you are. My concern wasn’t that I hoped I somehow looked less large than usual… but that I looked fat in a way that makes thinner people look at me with pity. The look that toes the line between feeling bad that I look the way I do and being disgusted that I have the audacity to dress in so little in front of them. This look is what has made me take a back seat in the show since high school. I can count one hand the times I have played a major role in the show. Each one had options for remaining fully clothed. Each pre-show I was in kept with that trend. I spent most of my time doing tech work or stage managing.

 Recently, I lost a little weight. I am not trying to diet. I am trying to eat better: less take out, less meat, and more veggies. I am trying to limit gluten so I don’t spend hours in pain. Exercise and I have a very limited relationship. Will that change? Yes. Not because I feel like I need to be a size 2 but because I want the next big adventure in my life to involve children and I need to take care of myself before I can take care of others. This weight loss isn’t major. It’s a step in feeling more comfortable in my skin. Comfortable but not sexy. I give far fewer fucks about my thighs jiggling or touching or the inevitable chub-rub I get when wearing skirts and dresses. In an effort to embrace this new-ish me, I decided to leave the lights on during sexy-time with The Husband. *Please note, this incident took place at the height of my weight loss a few months ago* Lights on. All jiggly parts visible. Not cowering in the dark or hiding under a blanket. I, for the first time in recent memory, attempted to own my largess. Things were going quite well, until I looked at my shadow.

 What possessed me to look to the side where the wall was is unknown. But there, where my back should be was a tsunami of back fat that rippled and threatened to break on my head, drowning me in an eddy of shame. I could feel it move but it wasn’t until I saw it that everything came crashing (da dum tsss) down. If I can see this, how terrible must it be for him? The current is moving away from him, so I guess it is ok? How disgusting am I? How grossed out must he be that this is what he married? I have waves of back fat that could devastate a small island nation. And then I started crying. Uncontrollably. And then weeping. Unable to breath, weeping, panic attacking, nauseated, nose running, hot mess crying. Nothing gets you a one way ticket out of boner-ville like the above stated trauma. Naturally, The Husband handled it like a champ assuring me he did not feel that way and that I was beautiful, etc. It didn’t help. If anything, it made me feel worse. This is when I really jumped off the better eating wagon. Which naturally made me feel even more terrible about myself.

What have I learned from this? I have no idea how to feel sexy. Wearing next to nothing: Epic Fail. Losing weight and lights on sexy time: Epic Fail. Maybe the answer is to get a crop top and some (more) leggings. Maybe the answer is using RHPS to put myself out there more in front of others. Until then, I will rock my graphic tees, jeans, and cardigans while lamenting it isn’t cool enough out for tent-like sweatshirts.

-MPA