I painted my nails this morning, a seemingly small thing. But I cannot remember the last time I painted them. Perhaps we still had snow on the ground from last winter. The parallel of our early snow is not lost on me.

My nails are short, which makes the manicure imperfect. It’s hard to make nails this short and uneven look good, but painting them feels like an accomplishment nonetheless. I’m going to call it a win because when I am anxious or otherwise struggling, my nails are often the first things to go. When everything seems pointless, I am not going to take the time and effort it requires to paint my nails without butchering them.

So when I’m dealing with family drama, health concerns, poor pet behavior, frustrating clients, or trying to pay my bills like a functioning adult, nail polish falls to the wayside. After all, it’s such a trivial thing. It’s more important to vacuum or do the dishes.

But my naked nails break so much more easily. They become weak and uneven, and every time I look at this I feel frustrated that I haven’t been able to keep up with such a trivial thing. What’s more, I worry that others will see them and similarly judge me, perhaps not because they are judgmental but because I have similar thoughts about others’ appearances. I am hard on others, harder on myself.

On the other hand, I cannot help but wonder if people might take note of my nails, which have been naked for much of the year and make note of my struggle. They are, after all, a gauge of my mental health. It’s something I have not been able to forget over the last few years, but perhaps no one else has noticed.

I noticed, however. I also noticed that things have been on the upswing. This year started more positive. It felt like a fresh start. And while COVID and several injuries have added some stress, the trend of my mental state has generally been positive. I legitimately feel better than I have in a few years, and sometimes thoughts to that extent pop into my mind. I stop and notice that I’m enjoying myself. I don’t know if anyone else has noticed that, either. But I have.

Yet, I am still brought down by the state of my nails. Sadly because my nails break so easily, it doesn’t feel worth the effort to paint them when they’re short. That’s why they’ve remained naked aside from some inconsistent clear polish this year. I have to convince myself that it’s worth doing, anyway, that starting now will offer some protection and perhaps help them grow out. It’s like the awkward stage bangs go through when you’re growing them out.

And I was finally able to convince myself of that today after considering it for the last few weeks. To be honest, it feels like a bit of a waste to pick a pricier polish as I did, but I wanted to motivate myself to paint my nails, and I did. I did an okay job, even though it’s hard to keep them neat when they’re so short. I even bought and used a cuticle pusher. The process took a bit of time. I forgot how long it takes for the polish to dry.

But dry it did. They’re painted. I set a goal and achieved it, even if it took much longer than I would have liked. And maybe I won’t keep up with it long enough for my nails to grow a bit more so I can shed that silly sense of shame. But, for today, I feel a bit better. And maybe I will tomorrow, too.

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.

It is a grey day, the first after a stretch of sunny days. Waking up to the gloom and chill is a harsh reality to face after so many days of light, warmth, and melting snow. The world was just beginning to reveal itself again, and my spirits were lifted with it.

That is not so today. My spirits are overcast, just like the skies.

And while I could argue that my mood simply reflects the weather, it’s more than that.

Today is a grey day, but it is also the day that Elizabeth Warren has resigned as a democratic candidate for president.

This, too, has lowered my spirits.

Warren was my candidate, a progressive with a flawed past. But that past showed an ability to learn better and do better. Those who would critique her would focus on her imperfections and not her growth. Even when reading those accounts, however, I would Elizabeth Warren relatable. I, too, have been wrong in the past, have become aware of my mistakes, and have tried to do better. In that way, we don’t seem so different.

There is another way in which I relate to Warren: we are both women. I have long since stopped listening to people who tell me not to vote for candidates on the basis of similarities such as gender or skill color.

Furthermore, I know it matters when a woman is added to the table, whether that be in the boardroom or the Oval Office. It brings much-needed diversity. When you invite a woman, a person of color, a disabled person, a queer, or trans person to the table, you are inviting their life experience, an experience that 99% of the previous white, Christian, able-bodied, straight presidents have lacked. A person from a different background becomes the desirable 1%.

We know that this diversity helps companies, and I see why it should do no less for our country.

Of course, I am not opposed to our other progressive candidate. I have even voted for him before. The problem lies not in his politics but his identity, much of which is shared with those 99-percenters.

I will vote for Bernie again, and I will do so with only a little chagrin. He was my second choice, after all.

However, he wasn’t my first choice. And because of the staggered primary voting schedule in this country — just one of many issues I have with the process — I will have to vote for Bernie. Warren has left the race, and I hadn’t even gotten a chance to vote for her in my state’s primary.

So, yes, I am disheartened. And worried. I worry not just because I am unsure if Bernie can beat Biden let alone trump. I worry that every time a woman runs from president and “fails,” we are that much further from having a president whose life experience in any way matches mine. I worry still that even if we do elect a woman president, the misogynists will come out in full force after her term and vote for a sexist pig to lead our country, much like the racists did after Obama’s two terms.

I wish I could not worry, even while knowing how much privilege that involves. I am not that privileged, however. I do worry. I care.

I care enough to write a blog post about Elizabeth Warren dropping out of the presidential race when I have not even opened a tab to discuss my own personal life.

But therein lies the crux of the issue. The political is personal. Lke I recently posted on Facebook, it always has been, and I do not see it changing in my lifetime.

This is about Elizabetha, but it’s also about Amy, Kirsten, Hillary, and Victoria god-damned Woodhull, all women who were brave enough to run for president yet were not perfect enough to be seen as electable. As if all the men who have successfully made it into office were perfect.

It is about all the women who were laughed out of sight before they could throw their hats into the ring.

And, yes, it is about me, an American woman. So, of course, it makes me worry, but it also makes me angry.

Perhaps if more people were angry, the detractors could no longer use that as a reason why a woman is “unelectable.” Perhaps a woman younger than I would not have to feel worry and anger like I do now. Perhaps a newly-minted voter, like my sister will soon be, will be able to live in a world where a woman is electable as President of the United States and know she is not just living in a man’s world, a world that makes so many days gloomy in spite of the sun shining brightly.

I worry, but I also hope.

Rather than just feel guilt about how many games I’ve been playing lately, especially those on my phone, I figured I might enjoy dragging some other folks in to play with me. So if you’re a fan of mobile gaming and want to be my friend so we can help each other out by sending gifts back and forth, now’s your chance!

Harry Potter Wizards Unite

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Pokemon Go

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Mario Kart Tour

601578905852

That is all

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.