Open the Fat Floodgates!
Let your fat flag fly.
I’m giving up. I’m giving up on the sucking in, the tight pants, and the two-piece bathing suit. I’ve come to the conclusion that it feels so much better to let my rolls out then to try and deny their existence. And you know why I’m letting go? Because I’m not going to try and impress anyone anymore, especially that guy I saw once on the street and fell in love with only to never see him again or that other guy I saw at a Starbucks that I also fell in love with or the hotty with a man-bun in my Writing & Rhetoric class who never talked to me or was anywhere near my vicinity in the lecture hall.
Nope. Not going to put in the effort for these missed-out lovers in my life.
Now it’s just me, my jar of Nutella, and the slow decline of my health.
I don’t know why I didn’t do this sooner; there is something so freeing about wearing a loose t-shirt and knowing underneath it lays my deep, dark, distended secret that will be revealed to no man. No more putting in the effort to look like a weirder, more ethnic version of Kylie Jenner.
And listen, I did try to burn it off for, like, a solid two days. I drank some ranch dipped in Kale and had a diet coke for every meal and I counted me walking to the elevator as my exercise. So don’t say I didn’t try.
I didn’t go into this without some attempt to fit myself into the modern American stereotype for a perfect woman; 90 pounds, blond, and consuming only grass fed grass. I tried the protein shakes (diet coke), the “exercise”, the “not-eating-for-a-whole-hour” diet, and the hacking off of one of my limbs (which actually did wonders when I went on the scale), but none of them really worked to bring my body into the perfect, little mold that the white male has carved out for us.
Now, I’m not saying I’m this beast of a woman who has thrown all caution to the wind in terms of her overall physique, but I’m not the itsy-bitsy, tiny-weeny, yellow-polka-dot bikini woman that you saw for the first time today. I’ve just realized that I’d rather be truly healthy and happy than skinny and repressed. Because, let’s face it, the only reason I want to be skinny is to impress men and make other girls jealous, which we have learned in the 21st century, is WRONG.
I’m learning that it’s okay that I need to buy new jeans, it’s okay that my underwear has started to get tighter and tighter, making my ass look like a roasted ham ready for carving. I’ve accepted that the flub on my arm will continue to grow like a virus until it swings like a pendulum in my old age. And I’ve realized that I love my body for what it is. And what it is, is a working piece of meat on this planet that lets me walk and talk and breathe and laugh at stupid skater-boys who try and do a wheelie, but eat shit right outside of my apartment. It lets me type this article that a select few of my family members and friends will find and later text me ” Omgee, you are so hot don’t even right now you slutty bitch, love you!” It lets me reply back to them. “Dad, you need to stop trying so hard.”
My body is so much more magnificent than I can even comprehend. It makes sure I don’t burn myself on the stove, it keeps me from walking into traffic, it doesn’t let me be petty towards my dog because I know she loves my parents more than me (even though I rescued her.) And it lets me live.
So, basically, to sum up this whole article, I’m opening the fat floodgates and I’m letting you all drown in my new-found confidence.
Bye bitches! Love you.