Whomever Introduced Size 0 Into Our World Should Be Shot

Today I'm grateful to have acquired a modicum of body acceptance.

Fred Meyer is having a "sidewalk" sale (which is actually in the parking lot, behind barbed-wire...?) and I need shorts - shorts that really fit and don't trigger my personal busy signal, "tight waistband, tight waistband, tight waistband" while I'm walking in them. Or sitting. Or driving. This internal, infernal noise tends to make conversing with someone outside my head virtually impossible. Anyway, I flip through the racks in my usual size, looking for Gloria Vanderbilts, my ace-in-the-hole affordable brand for when I just want to be comfortable. Gloria cuts for the curvy girl. The waistband is usually too high, but not tight, so I can work with that. I mean, nothing's going to be perfect while a girl's still on welfare, right? So - into the dressing room area and, having had a successful week on Weight Watchers, I'm feeling pretty sleek, even though it's only been three pounds shed. Those first few are really energizing! Not exactly my fighting weight, but since I split with my husband I don't fight anymore anyway (yipee!!).

And there in front of the mirror, trying on a pair of jeans, stands a young woman with her mother behind her. I know they're related because they look similar, maybe 30 years apart. And because mom is scowling in disapproval as daughter is looking at herself in the mirror with a meek, apologetic look on her face. They are both full-figured, plus-sized women but the mom is just a teensy bit smaller , which apparently she thinks gives her some kind of superior one-up. The daughter says, "I don't know, really, I guess I just don't look very good in jeans. Or even pants, really." Her mother huffs and smirks, says nothing and shaking her head, sits down in a chair. The girls eyes get a little on the watery side.

I can't help it, okay, I gotta say something. Because besides just wanting her fat-headed mom to get a grip and do her god-given nuturing job, her daughter's butt looks GREAT in these jeans - and I tell her so. "Nah, I think those make your ass look great. Real women are supposed to have curves - we're not little boys! You know who cuts jeans really well for us? Gloria Vanderbilt. You should check it out." Daughter shyly beams at me in the mirror and says something quietly like, "wow, thanks, maybe I'll see if I can find..." And there sits mom, vein pulsing hard on her temple, turning a dark shade of pink. Of course, I smile sideways at her. Again, can't help it.

So I go into my own dressing room to try on my Gloria Vanderbilt's - perfect fit. And it just so happens that they're a size smaller than my last ones. Not that this matters, of course...but it may help to bring my blood pressure cholesterol down, oui...? So programmed!!

I have learned, over many years, to embrace my curviness for the most part, despite all my years in New York City, land of the fashion-laden, bony bulemic. Acceptance has not been easy in this regard, as Twiggy and all the gay-men-fashionistas of the 60s ruined it for all of us. Did you know that this trend started because designers thought people were paying too much attention to the models on the runway and not to their clothes? Oy - how out of whack did that throw womanhood?

I've only had one boyfriend who thought "skinny" women were attractive, and when I met his mother I knew why - the poor woman ate saltines and cheese at Thanksgiving while we chowed down on a beautiful meal she had prepared for the extended family. But men have always told me that they want a woman, not a little boy, and that for the most part, they know that what we see on TV and in print-ads is relevant to about 3% of women in the world.

I just had to learn this for myself. My mantra on my bad body days is simply, "Don't look down." Because as hard as it still is to know how I feel sometimes, I seriously will never know how I look. And life is just too damned short!

Process du Change be Ugly Sometimes

Pissyness, in my book, is an absolute necessity to true and lasting change. For me, it's the sheer resistance of one (or two) of my interior committee members knowing they're about to be fired - for good! I have to remind myself that butterflies look like coughed up mucous while they're morphing.

I don't know how the hell to write in this thing

What kind of a forum is this? Blog. I'm a dialoguist by nature and, while that is not a real word, this doesn't feel like a real form either. I have friends and acquaintances and lawyers and doctors and social workers and caseworkers and, actually, even a bag boy at the Safeway - all of them, every time I open my mouth, tell me this is the next wave I should surf. So here I am again. And I don't know WTF to do here. It seems to create too much percolating interior judgmentalism.

But it is what it is, right? So I guess I'll figure it out.

So Here It Is

Okay, so here It is. It is what It is. I'd like to describe It with a bit more flair or fancy words, maybe make It sound attainable and articulate It with more precision, like maybe I know more than the next being. But I don't know that I do. What I do know - and this is from hanging myself back out on the line to dry, again and again, after lathering myself up into a good froth about It more than a few times - is that It is what It is, that's It's going to be what It's going to be, and that we're not really going to know any more about It until It's over.

That is, if It really ends.