9 – Gainful Employment, Sickness and Men Hurt Us All (and the blog)

I’m going to talk about my method for a moment. In order to, some day, score that book deal based on my blog that’s going to lift me out of the pink collar ghetto in which I exist, I try to post entries consistently—in my world that means every two weeks. Week one is devoted to research (or in the case of “Big Lust” consolidating weeks of research) and week two is about writing, tweaking, editing, re-writing and then having that prince of a man, my proofreader/editor, take a looksie—at which point, I post (and for those of you combing entries for typos and misplaced commas, he's only been on board for two weeks). The problem is that last week—the research week—was a total write off. Here’s why.

On March 25^th one of my colleagues announced his impending departure for a new job. In the normal world this isn’t a big deal, but in my world it means that the one other person who’s been helping me hold down the fort at work just jumped shipped. To add insult to injury I’ve been job hunting since August of ’07—which is only about a month longer than he’s been looking, but I can be petty if I want to be. This announcement came after another colleague bailed just a week prior. In addition to the shock of being left alone, there was the feeling of crushing despair about being the first to sign on ten years ago and being, obviously, the last to leave. Frankly, given the spiral of depression into which I fell that day, it’s amazing the last blog entry was posted at all.

Then on the 28^th I missed my dear friend’s 30-something birthday because I started feeling nauseated. The nausea progressed into some unholy cold/flu-like sickness that left me with only some of my hearing for a period of time, a snot-filled head, horrible hacking cough, all the focus of an infant and the wakefulness of a sloth. I had to use up 1 ½ of my eight precious sick days per year to beat this thing.

And lastly—men. Need I say more? There have been skirmishes on that front in the last couple of weeks that make my brain tired. And unfortunately, unlike during puberty, this kind of stress doesn’t make me all angsty/creative and thus prolific—it drains me like an alkaline battery in a digital camera[i] because now there are shriveling ovaries and the understanding of my mortality in the mix.

Now I will admit, things at work are not as abysmal as they were last week because they can’t afford to lose me right now; hence on the 31^st concessions were made and demands were almost met resulting in a decent raise, my own cave-like office and a promise that once the new folk are trained I will never again have to speak to another ungrateful, lazy, snarky, illiterate, insipid, shit-eating customer.

Unfortunately, however, this still amounts to zero research. So today, I speak to you from the heart. (Why do I feel like Celine Dion right now?)

I was overjoyed to see the hoopla that my interview with “Greg” caused. In addition to helping me get a better of idea of what y’all want to read and giving me lots of ideas for future entries (when I’m not too sick or depressed to research them) I was forced to think about my own feelings on this issue of discrimination against the heavy weighted.

Now clearly, as disgruntled employee of the month, I’m in no position to make any decisions about anyone’s job prospects based on their weight, so no one need fear me on that level. But if I didn’t admit that I have mean old nasty thoughts about people who are overweight, it would be completely dishonest.

So full disclosure: sometimes I’m as big a hater as the people that I resent for being haters.

Firstly, it’s all part and parcel of my, so far, absolute inability to accept myself as I am in this body. There are certainly times when I think I’m hot but the bulk of those moments are tied to my sexuality. While I’m thrilled about the verging-on-ridiculous enormity of my breasts at my present size, they’re only really the main event when my clothes are off—which is not the bulk of my day (in fact, I’m dressed right now!). And frankly, I do feel more secure naked than I do clothed. But it’s when I have to get dressed and be compared to everyone else in the world that I lose my cool. And while we all have days when we just think we’re the ugliest creature to walk the earth (or am I the only one; or is it just a female thing?) my days like that—when they aren’t revolving around my hair—are completely bound up in my weight. So yes, I hate on people because I kinda hate me.

But I don’t hate on heavy people across the board. As one reader brought up last week, it seems to come down to how people carry themselves. It’s all about the “fat slob” syndrome. For some reason, in my head, skinny slobs get a pass of sorts. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I’m looking to make friends with a slim guy who looks like he hasn’t bathed in a few days, but the judgment that races through my head when I see a heavy person seemingly not making an effort, is scathing to say the least.

While I applaud the heavy woman or man who dresses impeccably, part of what I’m often thinking is “Well you’d better dress well—you can’t afford not to.” And the irony in all this is that I’ve convinced myself that I look stunning in sweatpants (well two people told me I did so I’m sticking with it). I don’t think I’m quite a slob but the days when I don’t make a concerted effort are certainly numerous. I work across from a transfer station for Pete’s sake[ii]. I’m the youngest of six kids and the other five have spent the better part of 32 years trying to get me to dress up a little more. So clearly I’m not really “representing” on behalf of heavy folks but for some reason I think I get a pass. It makes zero sense, I realize, but I think I know why my brain works this way. I’m a mid-ranger in denial. I’m certainly not average, (and I’ve been called “fat” in no uncertain terms by people before) but so far I can still squeeze with another person into those freaking small public transit seats and I can still choose a side of the escalator. The result—I think I’m closer to average than I am to “fat.” Though, if I’m clearly in a certain amount of denial now, I wonder, if I put on 50 more pounds, would I still think I wasn’t “fat?” Food for thought.

I have too many friends who carry extra weight to think that generally people who are overweight can’t get the job done or that they lack ambition or that they’re lazy or so many of the negatives that have been brought up in the last couple posts; and frankly I know myself and I’m not like that. But I’m more critical of the passing stranger who is heavy than of the one who is slim. And that’s not cool.

It occurs to me that I get sad when heavy celebrities lose weight because I feel I’ve lost an ally. It’s like if they just maintain their size, then maybe it’s okay that I do too; or it’s at least okay for me to be accepting of myself, whether I eventually lose weight or not. But on the flip side, I’m definitely one to applaud the average person who loses weight; I applaud their moving closer to “normal.” It’s the same me who’s green with envy when some old high school acquaintance befriends me on Facebook and I realize they’re a shadow of their former selves while I’ve become 1 ⅓ of what I was.

So in a bid for further self-acceptance, as promised, a candid photo is posted below. I had never planned when I would post this picture after I made the promise to do so, but now seems an appropriate time. When I’m feeling like even more of a champ I’ll post the side shot—right now I still feel like my back fat is too cringe-worthy. Actually scratch that—no promises there. Baby steps, baby steps.

Come back in two weeks. I’ll let you know if I’ve made any movement towards accepting myself and by extension my heavy brothers and sisters. And by then I may even have researched something interesting for you to read.

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[i] Yes the analogy sucks but this is what I do for a living—gimme a break

[ii] A transfer station, for those of you not in the know, is where regional trash is consolidated before it is taken to the landfill. Now imagine what it smells like walking in to work on a day when it’s 35 degrees with the humidex outside—yeah, sweet.