Category Archives: Rants

Today’s episode is sponsored by a weird ‘gentleman’ who, from the looks of him, likely has a complex similar to that of George Costanza. It is, of course, not kind to judge someone for their looks and perhaps hypocritical of me given that he went on a tirade about how “fucking ugly” I was, but those same comments don’t motivate me to be an especially good person in response.

The length of this man’s tirade may have been a bit “Extra”, but the sentiments or the fact that it occurred at all are not entirely surprising. It may be the first time this year that someone has yelled at me through their open car window, but this is mostly due to my own activities. Today is the first day in a while that I’ve head into busier parts of town, mostly due to the fact that I’ve achieved an average six miles a day this week, many of those miles spent climbing hills. Today I aimed to complete my goals with another six, cooler weather and wind be damned, but stayed on flat land to appease my griping muscles.

But that people yell out their car windows or from the side of the street is nothing new. They honk, they rev their engines. They make suggestive comments or whistle. Once or twice they tried to trap me with their vehicles. On the other hand, they yell about my appearance and how it is not good enough for them, as if that should matter to me or determine my value as a person. I am too ugly and too fat, usually. I may be climbing hills in the middle of humid summer and my very existence in their line of sight has caused them enough grief to comment, to yell.

In fact, I look forward to those days when the temperature falls below freezing because the sidewalks and street will be cleared, everyone snug inside while I am still walking and bettering myself. It’s part of the same reason why I enjoy walks in the dead of night, as long as I can avoid the drunks around bar close. It’s serene, and disturbances are few and far between.

But I shouldn’t have to change my activities to avoid these negative experiences. My experience, and most others’, indicates that while it’s not only men who do these things, it is the men who participate in these activities with the most menace and the men who are the most likely to do us harm. I haven’t been physically harmed by these people, but that’s not the point, is it? Even if I were offensive to look at, do I not deserve a little dignity? Can people not just leave me the fuck alone?

That’s what gets to me, really. I see people of all sorts of natures, yet never take it upon myself to disturb them by yelling obscenities and insults. I certainly don’t think it’s up to other people to please my sensibilities. I suspect I wrote some similar words last year, so I guess that some things haven’t changed. I do think that are fewer comments than there were when I was younger, so that’s something.

But I’m torn from my thoughts I’m reminded how fucking weird (read: rude) people (read: men) can be when I’m out for a walk and not even compensated with the grim satisfaction of watching those fuckers drive their cars into a lightpost.

As a woman who is fat, I find myself at the intersection of a certain type of commentary. Those things make me visible, as does the fact that I walk a few miles every day. “Day” seems like a misnomer considering that I’ve avoided being outside when the sun was up this summer. It’s been ridiculously humid, so I only crawl out of my hobbit hole after midnight when it’s slightly cooler and no one can see the sweat dripping down my face.

Today was the first day where it was not so humid, and I made good use of it. I walked for a few groceries, played Pokemon with friends, and took a walk along the river walk for a total of 6.6 miles. Decent. Not the 10 miles I was getting a day a few years ago, but it’s been difficult to get back to where I want to be, but that’s more than most can say.

I guarantee that I worked harder today than the group of people who were sitting in their yard when I walked by, the group of people that contained one person who decided to yell in my direction (unknown to me because I was listening to a podcast) and a whole slew of people who continued to yell at me as I walked past. At some point, it became loud enough for me to hear over my earbuds, even though I had passed the yard.

At the point when it became clear that men and women were yelling at me to stop ignoring them and ‘give my number to him,’ I realized someone had catcalled me without me realizing and all their friends joined in.

Except to call it catcalling is not quite right. I knew there had to be a name for what I experience specifically as a fat woman, and I was right, there is: fatcalling.

See, sometimes people catcall me. Sometimes people are interested. I have been thin enough to”earn” that. But I have been otherwise. That’s where I am now.

Fatcalling differs from catcalling in that it’s not genuine. There’s an implication that the fatcall isn’t intended to be complimentary (as if catcalling really is, anyway). It’s intended to denigrate because the recipient is not considered conventionally attractive and does not deserve attention. It’s a farce designed to remind us — me — of that, and to make us — me — feel bad about my body. You cannot, even if you were inclined, respond to a fatcall as though it were a catcall. You’re not worthy of even being objectified in that way, and you’re supposed to know it. The fatcall is just a reminder.

I’ve been fatcalled more than one and, sadly, more than once by a group of people that included men and women. I would never engage in behavior like this as a teenager let alone an adult. It makes me sad to think about the world and the people who inhabit it.

It’s a sad world when you’d rather receive a catcall than deal with how people actually behave toward you.

Rest assured that I do not think of catcalls as positive. They’re harassment in every way. Yet they somehow seem preferable to fatcalls.

Both are rooted in misogyny and harassing fat and thin women differently just further divides us. Of course, that’s the point. Women are stronger together, so division is their tactic to weaken us, to paint women as the ‘enemy’ rather than misogyny or the patriarchy.

I won’t be distracted. I’ve got focus. Hell, I’m so focused I might not even notice when a person fatcalls me. That doesn’t mean they should, anyway. I deserve more respect. Hell, they should respect themselves more. If they weren’t so busy fatcalling, they might be able to learn that lesson from me.

A is for anxiety.

Anxiety manifests as anger and aloofness and alarming sadness.

(A is also for alliteration)

Anxiety is to be expected when your cat is dying, your bank account is empty, your credit card won’t work, and your debit card has been stolen.

But one of the worst things about anxiety is how it makes you feel bad for being anxious. Why should you feel so bad when other people could handle this better, perhaps in stride?

When you feel bad about feeling anxious, you don’t want to let people know that you’re experiencing anxiety. By the time I’ve made it to sadness, I’ve found myself so overcome by anxiety that I cannot hide it, even if I want to. If you see it, I’ve been struggling for a while and I didn’t want to or couldn’t reach out. It comes out because if it doesn’t, it feels like I will burst. Keeping it inside prevents me from eating, sleepy, and certainly thinking clearly.

Anxiety is not helped by those who tell you to relax or repeat platitudes like “It will all be okay,” especially when the issues are guaranteed to have a negative ending. Anxiety eases with time, with medication, with meditation, with a good sleep, with the resolution or lessening of those problems. And while just getting it out doesn’t necessary decrease anxiety, it’s easier to bear the load with a few shoulders to help.

I have been watching more new (to me) TV as of late. When I saw that Sex and the City was on Amazon, I figured I’d give it a go. It was a big deal when it was relevant. And a cast of women in their 30s is still virtually unheard of. Perhaps it would better fit my life as a 32-year-old woman.

So I dove in.

And I do have some praise. SATC was so ahead of its time in terms of feminism and women’s right. Every time Miranda or Samantha demanded equality (whether it be financial or orgasm), I cheered them on. Same goes for the frank talk about abortions. Why are we backsliding, society?

The honest discussions about sex were so culturally important, and they remain to this day. Women talking about, even demanding their own pleasure? Whoa! Oral sex, toys, and bondage were all up for discussion. Awesome.

I cannot forget about the way that these women supported each other, even when they were not necessarily in agreement.

As I watched, I couldn’t help but try to figure out… who am I?

Since SATC is no longer a cultural phenomenon, the Internet isn’t littered with quizzes telling you which of the women you are. But it used to be, and it’s natural to consider. To no one’s surprise, Miranda resonated with me the most — in both positive and negative ways. She’s certainly pragmatic, but she can also be judgmental. Samantha’s sex-positive and feminist messages are also mirrored in my own behavior, but if I am being quite honest, I am not as much like her as I would want to be.

I am neither as prudish or romantic as Charlotte. Although, I do like her taste. Where it gets tricky is the comparison with Carrie. I might share some characteristics with the narrator and main character of the show, but I am likely blinded to them because I fucking hate her.

That’s right, boys and girls. This might as well be titled I Hate Carrie Bradshaw.

Honestly, I get it. She’s a trainwreck. Drama makes for entertainment. I am certain that some people tuned in every week for this reason alone. And yet, it didn’t make it entertaining for me. In the beginning, it was bearly, but I found myself watching and actively angry toward the middle. By the time I finished the series, I was just glad to be done and had no desire to watch either of the movies. In some ways, I am perplexed that Sex and the City was such a hit. Although, I recognize that preferences are personal.

It’s hard to get over the foolish decisions Carrie makes regarding Big. I know that love makes you do stupid things, but I had no idea that their love affair started literally in the first episode. Big is neither charming nor good looking, so this only further confuses me. It’s not just that I prefer Aidan. Carrie is consistently making poor choices, some of which seem to fall on the writers. I know I am not the only one who thought Carrie and Aleks were breaking up right before she moved to Paris?!?

And Carrie’s high-pitched squealing and giggle was the epitome of immature and inappropriate. I can only pray that the directors want this and it was not a natural part of Sarah Jessica Parker’s personality. To be quite honest, it was downright embarrassing for me as a viewer.

I also found it unrealistic how hard the writers worked to craft poignant lines in her column, but Carrie was rarely able to articulate anything off the cuff. I know, I know. When you have time to sit down, the words come more easily, more gracefully. But I couldn’t buy that Carrie was sometimes so eloquent while most of the time she was so clueless.

There are other ways in which the show remains unrealistic. Carrie’s life as a freelancer could not support her shopping addiction. And while it was discussed, it just did not seem an accurate portrayal of life in NYC.

Sometimes, even the things that were accurate stand out in not-so-positive ways. The frequency with which any of the characters light up a cigarette, especially in public places, its nigh unheard of in 2018. Thank your deity of choice. I’ve been enjoying a few shows made in the 90s and early 2000s, so it’s impossible to ignore the lack of cell phones or the severely outdated designs where they do exist. It’s actually nice in its way. But the smoking thing is a prescient reminder of how far we’ve come, and I couldn’t be happier.

Perhaps that’s what I got out of watching Sex and the City. Although specifics have changed, there are some evergreen ideas around womanhood, friendship, and love. The questions Carrie posts and attempts to answer in her column are those we are still asking. I just wish the person asking them wasn’t so abhorrent.

I’ve been meaning to sit down and write this post for a couple hours, so let’s just do it. Okay? OKay!

This is a post about body positivity.

It seems to me that the younger you are, the more body positive you are. People who are five years my junior trend in this direction? A decade younger? It’s damned undeniable.

Do not get me wrong. This is a good thing. A great thing. A god damned miracle!

I see women telling makeup companies to “Fuck off” unless they want to experiment with it. I see unshaved legs and experimental fashion in full force. I see people living more and caring less. That is awesome.

But I sometimes look and see people who have not been indoctrinated into a cult that tells them what they care where and how and in what color and how they must present my body. I see people who haven’t had to go through the difficult process of unlearning body shame. And I am jealous.

It feels unfair that things are (just a little bit) easier for these people. Curvy women who get to wear jeggings and skinny jeans and haven’t had the idea that they can only wear flares or bootcut jeans drilled into their head time and again. People who wear what they want because they like it, damned if it’s not “flattering.”

I see this all and I feel jealousy because they don’t have to care. And I have not yet learned how to not care. I care less, of course, but I still care.

Perhaps it’s because this body shaming was taught not as something that was negative but as a sort of awareness. You were aware of how you — or others — looked. This awareness seemed something akin to sophisticated. It was something to aspire to be.

So when I judge, both myself and others, I still feel a tinge of that awareness. I know something. It doesn’t matter that whatever knowledge I have isn’t actually useful or is actively harmful. It feels like being part of some secret club.

“Well, I know women like me shouldn’t wear stripes.”

I also know how fucking ridiculous that sounds, believe me. I may not always have realized it, but I do now.

It’s been a process, though, to get here, to shed any of that body shame, to be okay-ish with myself, to stop judging others. Some days I am much better than others. Some venues, too (I am more body positive online than in person, I think because I have a bit more time to make something other than a snap judgment).

What I do know is that instead of feeling envy or jealousy of people who are more body positive and have been taught less body shame, I should be glad for them. I should remember that it’s not easy for anyone; there is still plenty of body shame for everyone. And that, my friends, is bullshit. So I’ll redirect my anger to the institutions that are still makin’ it hard to be body positive, no matter what generation you’re from.

I am positive that they can fuck off.