Is when people reckon they know all about you just by knowing all about themselves. Take the fuckwits on SA and Reddit who've been hassling the excellent Heidi. I went and read some of their idiocy (which was a bad idea, because god knows I'm low enough on Sanity Watchers points at the moment), and the comment that kept cropping up again and again was, "How can a person let themselves get to 529.8 pounds? I would never let that happen to me!"
Guess what, chumps. Knowing one fact about someone means just that. One fact. You have no idea what they have experienced. You have no way of understanding their world. So you would never let yourself get fat, or get that fat. Well, I'm glad we've established that. Now, did you have an actual point?
And don't be so sure you'll always be able to walk. Stand. Wipe your arse. Our bodies have allllll kinds of surprises in store for us. So learn some goddamn humility.
Saturday, 19 July 2008
Friday, 18 July 2008
In which I expand (hur hur) on my comments policy
It cracks my shit up when trolls are all, "Ha, I know you won't even post this comment." Well, you're absolutely right. I won't post your comment. I don't post comments I don't like, cause it's my fucking blog, not a public service covered by teh taxpayar. My definition of twattery is the only one that applies here. That's the short version. Read on for the long version.
I've written briefly about this before, but it bears repeating. We have all heard it. We have heard it a thousand times. We hear all about why fat is bad, every damn day. If all you're going to tell me is the same old shit, why would I put everyone else through having to read your negative fat-hating unpleasantries? There are precious few places online and IRL where we don't have to hear that stuff. Apparently this blog can't be a place for me not to hear that stuff, because it all lands in my inbox - but it can be for everyone else.
The FA movement IS our response to the crap you're regurgitating. If your comment is no different, it's not going to change anybody's mind. You're trying to convert an atheist to religion by saying, "But look, it says so right there!" Yes. We know. We disagree. Repeating yourself ad nauseam ain't gonna work. But sure, go ahead and believe that I'm too scared to post your brilliant argument because then I would be DEFEATED and weep the greasy, gravy-scented tears of the fatty.
Please, I would love for someone to comment with a new angle on this. You could point me to some studies that you actually understand. Show me that their method was sound. Show me that their findings are statistically significant. Posit a mechanism by which this correlation could actually be cause and effect. Do it without insulting or dehumanising fat people. Do it respectfully. Do it without being a dick. And maybe, just maybe, I'll consider posting your comment and having a debate.
Whaddya bet I don't get that comment?
I've written briefly about this before, but it bears repeating. We have all heard it. We have heard it a thousand times. We hear all about why fat is bad, every damn day. If all you're going to tell me is the same old shit, why would I put everyone else through having to read your negative fat-hating unpleasantries? There are precious few places online and IRL where we don't have to hear that stuff. Apparently this blog can't be a place for me not to hear that stuff, because it all lands in my inbox - but it can be for everyone else.
The FA movement IS our response to the crap you're regurgitating. If your comment is no different, it's not going to change anybody's mind. You're trying to convert an atheist to religion by saying, "But look, it says so right there!" Yes. We know. We disagree. Repeating yourself ad nauseam ain't gonna work. But sure, go ahead and believe that I'm too scared to post your brilliant argument because then I would be DEFEATED and weep the greasy, gravy-scented tears of the fatty.
Please, I would love for someone to comment with a new angle on this. You could point me to some studies that you actually understand. Show me that their method was sound. Show me that their findings are statistically significant. Posit a mechanism by which this correlation could actually be cause and effect. Do it without insulting or dehumanising fat people. Do it respectfully. Do it without being a dick. And maybe, just maybe, I'll consider posting your comment and having a debate.
Whaddya bet I don't get that comment?
Sunday, 13 July 2008
Yet another post about Wall-E
OK, I haven't seen Wall-E. Obviously, since it hasn't come out in the UK yet. But I sure as hell don't intend to when it does, and here's why.
Most of the blogs I follow are based in the States, and so are the majority of my online friends, so everyone's been talking about it. Some people find the fat hate appalling and distressing, and others think they should lighten the hell up. For the record, I think that second group need to wake the hell up and smell the twatting coffee.
It doesn't matter what Pixar's intentions were. It doesn't matter what Pixar's intentions were. And again; it doesn't matter what Pixar's intentions were. I don't care if it's explained in the movie that the humans didn't start out fat, that they have lost bone and muscle mass and that's why they're so helpless. (I don't care if they're not the bad guys, either. What, that counts as throwing us a bone? Fatties are greedy helpless sheep, but they're not evil. Gee thanks.) What I care about is what people see.
You might be thinking that I'm awfully opinionated for someone who hasn't even seen the movie. Frankly, I don't need to. I've seen how people are reacting, and that tells me everything I need to know. I've seen everyone nodding their heads sagely and saying well, yaknow, that's how we're gonna end up if we keep over-consuming like this. It's biting social satire, apparently. Whether it was Pixar's intention or not, the message people are clearly taking away is that the future is fat and that is a terrible thing. Stop eating burgers and start planting trees, you fat fatty fucks!
I don't know about you guys, but I'm kind of over being a symbol and a scapegoat for human over-consumption. Everyone knows that their local McDonalds is full of 700 lb infants tossing back ten Happy Meals at a time. Everyone sees hippo-sized drivers struggling out of SUVs all over the place. Ohh the handwringing. Oh the HUMANITY. WHAT ARE WE COMING TO.
Thanks, Pixar. Thank you so much for spreading your message far and wide. Thank you for opening my mind. I will stop guzzling thick shakes right this instant, and reach out to my fellow man with love and understanding. Thank God, thank God it's not too late.
Most of the blogs I follow are based in the States, and so are the majority of my online friends, so everyone's been talking about it. Some people find the fat hate appalling and distressing, and others think they should lighten the hell up. For the record, I think that second group need to wake the hell up and smell the twatting coffee.
It doesn't matter what Pixar's intentions were. It doesn't matter what Pixar's intentions were. And again; it doesn't matter what Pixar's intentions were. I don't care if it's explained in the movie that the humans didn't start out fat, that they have lost bone and muscle mass and that's why they're so helpless. (I don't care if they're not the bad guys, either. What, that counts as throwing us a bone? Fatties are greedy helpless sheep, but they're not evil. Gee thanks.) What I care about is what people see.
You might be thinking that I'm awfully opinionated for someone who hasn't even seen the movie. Frankly, I don't need to. I've seen how people are reacting, and that tells me everything I need to know. I've seen everyone nodding their heads sagely and saying well, yaknow, that's how we're gonna end up if we keep over-consuming like this. It's biting social satire, apparently. Whether it was Pixar's intention or not, the message people are clearly taking away is that the future is fat and that is a terrible thing. Stop eating burgers and start planting trees, you fat fatty fucks!
I don't know about you guys, but I'm kind of over being a symbol and a scapegoat for human over-consumption. Everyone knows that their local McDonalds is full of 700 lb infants tossing back ten Happy Meals at a time. Everyone sees hippo-sized drivers struggling out of SUVs all over the place. Ohh the handwringing. Oh the HUMANITY. WHAT ARE WE COMING TO.
Thanks, Pixar. Thank you so much for spreading your message far and wide. Thank you for opening my mind. I will stop guzzling thick shakes right this instant, and reach out to my fellow man with love and understanding. Thank God, thank God it's not too late.
Sunday, 29 June 2008
I'm no dirtier than you
Sorry chaps. I took a bit of a break from the internet, and then a slightly longer break from the fatosphere. Hi. How's things?
What I want to rage about today is the fact that fat people are perceived as dirty and smelly (if you don't think that perception is alive and well, see that thing with the Subway advert).
I do it myself, too. Looking in the mirror, I see that my flesh is soft, that I have rolls, that my skin is not smooth and tight on every inch of my body. And I think I look dirty. Where the hell does this come from? My personal hygiene is what it's always been. Do I sweat much more than I did when I was smaller? No, not really. Sure, I have more creases now. Mostly in my back when I stand up, and in my belly when I sit down. Are backs noted for being a particularly stinky body part? Chrissakes, it's not like I grew three more armpits and an extra arse crack. I have not become Smegma Woman.
Perhaps it's the perception that we're lazy and can't be bothered to look after ourselves. But the Subway ad at least implies that it's an inevitable consequence of fatness.
It makes me think of something Judith Moore says when telling us why she wrote Fat Girl. She says, "Plus, right away after a bath, in your fat folds and under your breasts and in your secular and your sacred secret places, you smell bad. Nobody, especially nobody fat or once-fat, wants to write this."
OK. This is for science.
I have just had a shower. I washed my hair, I swiped some soap around, I rubbed, I rinsed.
Hair smells great. Armpits smell the same as hair because I washed them with some leftover shampoo. Under my breasts I smell like soap. In all the fat folds I can get my nose into, I smell like soap. For the ones on my back, I give them a good prod and smell my hand. Huh, soap.
My sacred super-duper shiny special secret place smells like CUNT, because I'm not fool enough to stick soap up there. If that's what you're doing, maybe that's why yours smells bad. It's called thrush.
I haven't read Fat Girl. From what Moore says here, I honestly can't tell how fat-positive it's going to be. If any of you have read it, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Going by that little piece, I think I get where she's coming from - but it sounds like a distorted truth. Fact is, bodies look funny. If one does happen to meet the cultural ideal right now, just give it a decade and it'll catch up. What's more, bodies smell funny. Sometimes they smell okay, sometimes they smell breathtakingly sexy, and sometimes they smell appalling.
For the next little while, one of the things I'll be working on is reminding myself that I am no dirtier, stinkier or more disgusting than anyone else.
What I want to rage about today is the fact that fat people are perceived as dirty and smelly (if you don't think that perception is alive and well, see that thing with the Subway advert).
I do it myself, too. Looking in the mirror, I see that my flesh is soft, that I have rolls, that my skin is not smooth and tight on every inch of my body. And I think I look dirty. Where the hell does this come from? My personal hygiene is what it's always been. Do I sweat much more than I did when I was smaller? No, not really. Sure, I have more creases now. Mostly in my back when I stand up, and in my belly when I sit down. Are backs noted for being a particularly stinky body part? Chrissakes, it's not like I grew three more armpits and an extra arse crack. I have not become Smegma Woman.
Perhaps it's the perception that we're lazy and can't be bothered to look after ourselves. But the Subway ad at least implies that it's an inevitable consequence of fatness.
It makes me think of something Judith Moore says when telling us why she wrote Fat Girl. She says, "Plus, right away after a bath, in your fat folds and under your breasts and in your secular and your sacred secret places, you smell bad. Nobody, especially nobody fat or once-fat, wants to write this."
OK. This is for science.
I have just had a shower. I washed my hair, I swiped some soap around, I rubbed, I rinsed.
Hair smells great. Armpits smell the same as hair because I washed them with some leftover shampoo. Under my breasts I smell like soap. In all the fat folds I can get my nose into, I smell like soap. For the ones on my back, I give them a good prod and smell my hand. Huh, soap.
My sacred super-duper shiny special secret place smells like CUNT, because I'm not fool enough to stick soap up there. If that's what you're doing, maybe that's why yours smells bad. It's called thrush.
I haven't read Fat Girl. From what Moore says here, I honestly can't tell how fat-positive it's going to be. If any of you have read it, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Going by that little piece, I think I get where she's coming from - but it sounds like a distorted truth. Fact is, bodies look funny. If one does happen to meet the cultural ideal right now, just give it a decade and it'll catch up. What's more, bodies smell funny. Sometimes they smell okay, sometimes they smell breathtakingly sexy, and sometimes they smell appalling.
For the next little while, one of the things I'll be working on is reminding myself that I am no dirtier, stinkier or more disgusting than anyone else.
Sunday, 4 May 2008
Not even Racism 101...but a starting point
I'm writing this now because of Angry Black Woman's Carnival of Allies. But I wanted to write it anyway, even if I don't make the carnival, even though this is specifically a fat blog. It's as good a place as any. And in the last couple of months, I've been learning some stuff.
I've been learning that, as someone who holds a whole shitload of white privilege, there's a lot goes on around me that I do not see, and do not understand when I do see it. A whole hell of a lot.
I first began to cotton on to this fact when I read Tara's Different Kind of Fat Rant over at Fatshionista. I posted about it at the time, and I've been mentally drafting this post ever since. (Yeah, I didn't think about it until it was addressed by a movement that touches me personally.) See, I had no idea that the fat acceptance movement was excluding POC. Not a frigging clue. Even if you'd asked me, I would have said no, of course it isn't. Had I ever seen an instance of white bloggers excluding others? Nope.
Thing is, Tara is living this shit. Whereas I am whiter than Whitey McBleachJob. And just as my dear skinny old dad blinks and misses examples of sexism and fatphobia that send me reeling, I don't spot racism when it's under my nose. Did I catch the unpleasant connotations of this image before reading the post and comments, for instance? No. I'm embarrassed to admit that I did not. I thought, oh, pretty headwrap and...well, kinda weird-looking lipstick. Guh.
Just because I didn't see it, doesn't mean it didn't happen.
It's not that I'm particularly dense, or even much less aware than my peers. My parents took good care to din the basics into my head. When other kids were reading Babysitters Club, I was reading about apartheid. When other kids were at Butlins, I was at festivals being exposed to World Music Tee Em. I had a somewhat hippy, seriously lefty upbringing. Did I think racism was a bad thing? Absofuckinglutely.
Trouble was, I wouldn't actually have known racism if it bit me on the arse. That's what white privilege does. My eyes don't see. My experience doesn't tell me that these things are going on. I'm white, my entire family is white, virtually every social circle I've ever been part of has been 100% white. I have learnt that whiteness is the default experience, and I assume that other people are experiencing life as I do unless it is (very forcibly) pointed out to me that they are not. Yep, I was that wee scrote who claims to be "colour-blind" and is terribly pleased with hirself, never twigging that the option of ignoring race is in itself the most stupendous privilege.
When Tara made that post, and when ABW wrote Thank You, White People, a lot of white commenters got defensive and said stupid things. I understand that, even though it makes me fucking livid. When people are expressing anger and pain because they have never had something that you take for granted, and that is because people like you have been systematically denying it to people like them for a very, very long time...well. Your immediate response is quite unlikely to be appropriate.
Thing is, we're supposed to be able to get past the immediate response and use our noggins before we start typing.
Some people react by apologising for the atrocious things their ancestors did, and expecting those words to make things better in the here and now. Some people get pissy and start dissecting their own family history to prove that all that shit was nothing to do with them. Some people tell the angry POC in question that they should try not to be so confrontational and then maybe we'd listen. Some people try to show that they have had a tough time in life too and that means they're not privileged. Some people whine to be told what they're supposed to doooo.
Please, and I speak as a white chick who is only just beginning to get to grips with some of this stuff herself, please let me tell you that this is bullshit.
It's not about saying sorry because your great-great-great-grandad owned slaves. What the hell is that worth? It's about recognising that these God-awful things happened and that they are still affecting our perceptions and privileges right now. It's about having some awareness of the sheer, outrageous, dizzying injustice that has been committed. It's about knowing that it can't be forgotten. It's about bearing this stuff in mind next time you see the only black model on the page, and she's in the only leopard print dress.
Likewise, it doesn't matter a damn that your personal great-great-great-grandad didn't own any slaves, or that you don't have the privilege of wealth or education in addition to the privilege of whiteness. What, you think that means you are somehow not part of this situation, this whole fucked-up relationship between white and non-white? Um. No.
As for catching more flies with honey than with vinegar, do you really need people to coax you into basic human decency? Get a fucking grip. If it's making you uncomfortable, too freaking bad. Your discomfort does not even register on the scale of shittiness we're dealing with here.
Finally, it's not the responsibility of the injured party to painstakingly teach you how not to injure them all over again. If they are willing and able to give you some pointers, then for God's sake listen. If not, you do have a certain amount of grey matter between your ears. You will still miss stuff. You will still say the wrong thing sometimes. You won't please everyone, because - guess what - no one person speaks for an entire ethnic group. But listen, observe, think, and try. Keep trying. Try for the rest of your life. What the hell else would you even consider doing?
And be angry, for fuck's sake! The people who ask how they should act, how they should respond, how they should feel - I imagine that, from a POC's point of view, this could be one of the most discouraging things of all. You can see this much hurt, this much injustice, and you have to ask how you should feel about it. How about, oh, the white-hot rage of a thousand suns? Stop farting around with feeble guilt and wanky little fears about losing your privilege. Stop trying to turn it into a question of whether you suck or whether you've been acceptably non-racist today. It's not about mustering enough good thoughts to tip you over into officially being a Good Person. It's not about you.
Just fucking get on with it.
I've been learning that, as someone who holds a whole shitload of white privilege, there's a lot goes on around me that I do not see, and do not understand when I do see it. A whole hell of a lot.
I first began to cotton on to this fact when I read Tara's Different Kind of Fat Rant over at Fatshionista. I posted about it at the time, and I've been mentally drafting this post ever since. (Yeah, I didn't think about it until it was addressed by a movement that touches me personally.) See, I had no idea that the fat acceptance movement was excluding POC. Not a frigging clue. Even if you'd asked me, I would have said no, of course it isn't. Had I ever seen an instance of white bloggers excluding others? Nope.
Thing is, Tara is living this shit. Whereas I am whiter than Whitey McBleachJob. And just as my dear skinny old dad blinks and misses examples of sexism and fatphobia that send me reeling, I don't spot racism when it's under my nose. Did I catch the unpleasant connotations of this image before reading the post and comments, for instance? No. I'm embarrassed to admit that I did not. I thought, oh, pretty headwrap and...well, kinda weird-looking lipstick. Guh.
Just because I didn't see it, doesn't mean it didn't happen.
It's not that I'm particularly dense, or even much less aware than my peers. My parents took good care to din the basics into my head. When other kids were reading Babysitters Club, I was reading about apartheid. When other kids were at Butlins, I was at festivals being exposed to World Music Tee Em. I had a somewhat hippy, seriously lefty upbringing. Did I think racism was a bad thing? Absofuckinglutely.
Trouble was, I wouldn't actually have known racism if it bit me on the arse. That's what white privilege does. My eyes don't see. My experience doesn't tell me that these things are going on. I'm white, my entire family is white, virtually every social circle I've ever been part of has been 100% white. I have learnt that whiteness is the default experience, and I assume that other people are experiencing life as I do unless it is (very forcibly) pointed out to me that they are not. Yep, I was that wee scrote who claims to be "colour-blind" and is terribly pleased with hirself, never twigging that the option of ignoring race is in itself the most stupendous privilege.
When Tara made that post, and when ABW wrote Thank You, White People, a lot of white commenters got defensive and said stupid things. I understand that, even though it makes me fucking livid. When people are expressing anger and pain because they have never had something that you take for granted, and that is because people like you have been systematically denying it to people like them for a very, very long time...well. Your immediate response is quite unlikely to be appropriate.
Thing is, we're supposed to be able to get past the immediate response and use our noggins before we start typing.
Some people react by apologising for the atrocious things their ancestors did, and expecting those words to make things better in the here and now. Some people get pissy and start dissecting their own family history to prove that all that shit was nothing to do with them. Some people tell the angry POC in question that they should try not to be so confrontational and then maybe we'd listen. Some people try to show that they have had a tough time in life too and that means they're not privileged. Some people whine to be told what they're supposed to doooo.
Please, and I speak as a white chick who is only just beginning to get to grips with some of this stuff herself, please let me tell you that this is bullshit.
It's not about saying sorry because your great-great-great-grandad owned slaves. What the hell is that worth? It's about recognising that these God-awful things happened and that they are still affecting our perceptions and privileges right now. It's about having some awareness of the sheer, outrageous, dizzying injustice that has been committed. It's about knowing that it can't be forgotten. It's about bearing this stuff in mind next time you see the only black model on the page, and she's in the only leopard print dress.
Likewise, it doesn't matter a damn that your personal great-great-great-grandad didn't own any slaves, or that you don't have the privilege of wealth or education in addition to the privilege of whiteness. What, you think that means you are somehow not part of this situation, this whole fucked-up relationship between white and non-white? Um. No.
As for catching more flies with honey than with vinegar, do you really need people to coax you into basic human decency? Get a fucking grip. If it's making you uncomfortable, too freaking bad. Your discomfort does not even register on the scale of shittiness we're dealing with here.
Finally, it's not the responsibility of the injured party to painstakingly teach you how not to injure them all over again. If they are willing and able to give you some pointers, then for God's sake listen. If not, you do have a certain amount of grey matter between your ears. You will still miss stuff. You will still say the wrong thing sometimes. You won't please everyone, because - guess what - no one person speaks for an entire ethnic group. But listen, observe, think, and try. Keep trying. Try for the rest of your life. What the hell else would you even consider doing?
And be angry, for fuck's sake! The people who ask how they should act, how they should respond, how they should feel - I imagine that, from a POC's point of view, this could be one of the most discouraging things of all. You can see this much hurt, this much injustice, and you have to ask how you should feel about it. How about, oh, the white-hot rage of a thousand suns? Stop farting around with feeble guilt and wanky little fears about losing your privilege. Stop trying to turn it into a question of whether you suck or whether you've been acceptably non-racist today. It's not about mustering enough good thoughts to tip you over into officially being a Good Person. It's not about you.
Just fucking get on with it.
Sunday, 27 April 2008
This is why I need the fat acceptance movement
So it's been ages again, and I'm afraid this is going to be a quicky. Whatevs, whatevs.
OK. Deep breath.
Ten years ago I found out that my dad was not my biological father. I was fourteen. There was one conversation that shook my world, and then we never really spoke about it again. I was punch-drunk for a while, but I put it behind me.
Twenty four hours ago I found out that my biological father is alive, well, living a few counties away, has been in touch with my mum, knows I'm his kid, and is...happy. Happy that I'm his, but also happy that I got brought up by two awesome people, happy that Mum ended up with Dad, happy that everything turned out the way it has. He's seen photos of me as a kid, and me now. He said I was lovely. I can contact him if I like. He wants to know me, if I want to know him.
And through the shock and tears and overwhelming...ness of it all, I thought;
"What if we meet face to face and he's disappointed because I'm fat?"
This is why I need the fat acceptance movement. I thank you all for the fact that I can recognise this for a fucked-up thought. Please keep talking and working and fighting where I can read and watch and join in. I need you.
OK. Deep breath.
Ten years ago I found out that my dad was not my biological father. I was fourteen. There was one conversation that shook my world, and then we never really spoke about it again. I was punch-drunk for a while, but I put it behind me.
Twenty four hours ago I found out that my biological father is alive, well, living a few counties away, has been in touch with my mum, knows I'm his kid, and is...happy. Happy that I'm his, but also happy that I got brought up by two awesome people, happy that Mum ended up with Dad, happy that everything turned out the way it has. He's seen photos of me as a kid, and me now. He said I was lovely. I can contact him if I like. He wants to know me, if I want to know him.
And through the shock and tears and overwhelming...ness of it all, I thought;
"What if we meet face to face and he's disappointed because I'm fat?"
This is why I need the fat acceptance movement. I thank you all for the fact that I can recognise this for a fucked-up thought. Please keep talking and working and fighting where I can read and watch and join in. I need you.
Sunday, 6 April 2008
Yes, I wear size fat
I seem to have let myself be talked into the Race for Life this summer. Awesome cause, but...organised group physical activity is way down on my list of Things that Delight. Well, I'll step up the pace when walking, get on the exercise bike and see how it goes. Meh.
Of course, the far greater consideration among the group of us doing it is what we're going to wear.
So the others were talking about ordering some of the official RfL T-shirts from JB Sport or wherever it is. Now, they're all white or pink, which I look lousy in - but I wouldn't be able to get one even if they were in rich jewel tones or shades of bitter chocolate, because they just don't do my size. I said as much.
"Oh, but they go up to an 18!"
Er. Yes. I'm pretty sure you're missing something here.
I think people have a fixed notion of where fat begins. It's either at a UK 16 (maybe 18), or it's at 200 pounds. Remember when the fabulous Rotund asked us to guess how much she weighed, and we were all over the shop? If I hadn't mentioned my weight a few times on here already, I'd be tempted to do the same. The results are fascinating. People just have no idea what different weights and sizes look like. I mean, the same weight can look vastly different on different people, which doesn't help with guessing. But even so.
I'm two, nearly three sizes above an 18. Yet I'm young, somewhat active and clearly not disabled by my weight. In the right outfit and with the right posture (i.e. sucking it in as if my life depended on it) I can almost pass as having the same proportions as I did a few sizes ago, even though the actual measurements have changed. Therefore I can't possibly be over a size 18! Size 20 and beyond is for those fatties. Not fatties like me.
Uh huh.
Of course, the far greater consideration among the group of us doing it is what we're going to wear.
So the others were talking about ordering some of the official RfL T-shirts from JB Sport or wherever it is. Now, they're all white or pink, which I look lousy in - but I wouldn't be able to get one even if they were in rich jewel tones or shades of bitter chocolate, because they just don't do my size. I said as much.
"Oh, but they go up to an 18!"
Er. Yes. I'm pretty sure you're missing something here.
I think people have a fixed notion of where fat begins. It's either at a UK 16 (maybe 18), or it's at 200 pounds. Remember when the fabulous Rotund asked us to guess how much she weighed, and we were all over the shop? If I hadn't mentioned my weight a few times on here already, I'd be tempted to do the same. The results are fascinating. People just have no idea what different weights and sizes look like. I mean, the same weight can look vastly different on different people, which doesn't help with guessing. But even so.
I'm two, nearly three sizes above an 18. Yet I'm young, somewhat active and clearly not disabled by my weight. In the right outfit and with the right posture (i.e. sucking it in as if my life depended on it) I can almost pass as having the same proportions as I did a few sizes ago, even though the actual measurements have changed. Therefore I can't possibly be over a size 18! Size 20 and beyond is for those fatties. Not fatties like me.
Uh huh.
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