This Little Piggy Said Fuck You

I know I've been on hiatus for awhile, but I couldn't keep my silence after I saw this story unfold:



That's right. One Mr. George Lopez, compares Kirstie Alley to swine. Because we all know how original and imaginative fat jokes are, especially ones that relate us to farm animals.

Lopez eventually apologizes, if you call "I misjudged the joke" an apology. Kirstie, reluctantly accepts it.

Let's say for a moment that we can set aside the sophomoric nature of this joke. I realize that some people find fat jokes to be hilarious, and even I can chuckle at them myself, if they're done well. No one wants to hear some obvious comparison to pork any more than any one wants to be schooled about the differences between men and women. An easy insult does not a respected comedian make. But I can get over that. What I can't get over is the sort of catch-22 that I think most overweight people feel they are stuck in. We are constantly being bombarded with messages on how to correct our "problem." And that if just got off our big, fat asses, and stopped stuffing hamburgers and ice cream in our mouths, we could be socially accepted and able to shop at more than 4% of the stores in any given shopping center.

Enter Kirstie Alley. A former skinny girl, who has publicly shared her weight struggle with the world in a humorous, HUMAN way. She goes on national television, clothed in little more than straps and sequins, and stands shoulder to shoulder with super models, teenagers, and professionally lauded female dancers. And proceeds to kick ass by landing in second place after her first week of Dancing With The Stars. How exactly is she rewarded? With a fat joke by late night nobody who only a few years back was chubbing up the airways.

To say this infuriates me would be an understatement, but that's not really the point. What I am wondering is what exactly the fuck are we supposed to do? Being fat in public is generally not accepted. You may remember a few months back when Marie Claire published this column by resident fat expert, Maura Kelly. The backlash was huge, and an apology followed, but the damage was done. Fat people are getting the message, loud and clear. We are not worthy of good jobs, healthy relationships, or according to Kelly, the freedom to just walk around. Yet when an overweight person not only performs something that is considering exercise, but also excels at it, it is suggested that she be lined up at the trough and prepared for slaughter. So apparently it's only acceptable that we lose weight in private, as not to force anyone to look at us being all...fat and stuff.

Comments like this come from a place of truth. Whether it stems from insecurity or fear (which I think may be the case of Kelly, jury's still out on Lopez) or from deep rooted malice, these aren't just passing, unintentional comments. These jokes and articles were not accidental. They were written and said with purpose, and directed at an increasingly growing number of people. Until fat people can be seen as people, without a preface, I don't think stories like this are going away any time soon.

But I will definitely keep my hooves crossed.

Not Appropriate for Milk Cartons

I like to shop. I enjoy spending afternoons at the bookstore, cutting out of work early to check out sales at Macy’s, and browsing house wares at my favorite home décor shops. And although I love all these things, nothing plagues me with fear and trepidation like shopping for bras.

So a few weeks ago I took a deep breath, hopped in my car, and set out on Mission: Brapossible.

It’s not that I hate bras. Sure, nothing feels better than slipping out of my boob cradler after a long day at work, but overall I don’t mind wearing a bra. Bras are meant to be functional, compliment a cute pair of undies, and even assist in foreplay. I don’t have beef with brassieres.

What I hate is trying them on. I hate waltzing through the store clasping 87 mammary snugglers. I hate locking myself in a fitting room, stripping down, hooking, and un-hooking myself into a series of bras. I have my method down to a science, so there’s not much shifting that needs to happen, but there are so many things I would rather do than examine how my back appears in a strapless demi-cup. What’s even better is that many stores have adopted a sort of bra-whisperer philosophy. Now, I have a sales associate camped outside of the fitting room door, asking me every five seconds if I need any help. I have to repeatedly turn down offers for bra fittings from girls with names like Bailey and Gracie-Kate.

Back to the mission.

Last week, I entered the fitting room with no fewer than 20 bras. I have lost a bit of weight in the past few months, so I knew I may have to go down a size. What I did not expect to happen though, was to experience such a gross reduction in boobie tissue.

“Boobs!?!?!” I cried. “Where have you gone?”

I was met only with silence.

It’s not that I’m sad that my boobs are diminishing. It’s just weird. I’m used to looking for bra sizes with double letter values. I’m accustomed upgrading my shirt size because I can’t get my actual size over my ta-tas. I’ve grown tired of the way my cleavage peeks out from even the most modest of dresses.

But no longer. Now, I need padding, push-ups, and bras with titles like “The Balconette.” Gone are the days searching the racks for a hard to find girth/cup combo. I feel somewhat normal. And even though my breasts are running the risk of becoming ittie-bitties, I’m ok with it. Because it may just mean that the rest of me will follow.

Mitten Meanderings

Maybe it’s the commercials showing vast expanses of blue water, cherry trees, and smiling faces. Perhaps it’s the countless “Great Lakes” license I’ve seen the past few weeks. Or maybe it’s been the string of impossibly hot weather that commenced on Nashville before summer even started. Whatever it is, I am jonesin for summertime in Michigan.

I miss waking up to cool temperatures, and being able to dine outside in the evening without feeling the prick of perspiration. I miss needing a sweatshirt on cool nights, even when it was August. I miss breezy weekends in the sun, complete with surprise sunburns because I was lured into a false sense of security by the cooler temperatures.

I miss ice cream parlors. Real ice cream parlors with names the The Taystee Freeze, Ice Cream Junction, and The Grill and Chill. No homogenized, sterile, brightly lit, marble slab-with-all-the-fixins conglomerate. I want to slurp a hand dipped chocolate-covered vanilla cone while sitting on a weathered picnic table. Watch people come to the window in ill-fitting summer garb and order banana splits. Play the batting cages until the sun sets. And not to mention the ice cream flavors. Where is my Mooney’s Blue Moon? Tell me where I can find real Superman ice cream, and I will spend the rest of my days trying to avoid dripping pink, yellow, and blue drops on my clothes.

And what about the water? What about never being more than an hour’s drive away from a real lake? Not the man made stuff, with built-in grades and two feet of sand shoveled in from some foreign county. I’m talking sand dunes, light houses, and drop-offs that make you scream for your mommy. How I miss the stretches of time spent water skiing, fishing, and soaking up sun from my spot on the boat. How I crave dipping my toes in the water from the edge of the dock.

I miss getting in the car and heading to Pine Knob (sorry, I refuse to call it the DTE Energy something-or-other) for some amazing outdoor music. Where are the shows at The Fillmore, The Shelter, Saint Andrews, or the Royal Oak Theater? Gone are the days of sprawling out on a blanket at Meadowbrook Music Festival.

I’m craving YaYa’s chicken, Boston Coolers from Halo Burger, and mostaccioli al forno from Italia Gardens. I would love to pick-up a Reuben from Oliver T’s and an iced coffee at Tim Horton’s for lunch. I miss happy hours at Damon’s, Grand Blanc Inn, and Blackstone’s. Hell, I’d even settle for a coney at Angelo’s right now.

I know that in a little while, I’ll be back for a visit. And I’ll get my fix, and realize that I’ve spent a month romanticizing all of the things that I was so used to before. I’ll come back to the sultriness of the south and be ok for a few more months. Then, I’ll start missing Christmastime in the Midwest.

Help me, help me, help me sail away
Well, give me two good reasons why I oughta stay
Cause I love to live so pleasantly
Live this life of luxury
Lazing on a Sunday Afternoon

Losing It, Part I

I have been meaning to blog about The Biggest Loser television show for some time now. I have struggled to organize my feelings about this program in a constructive manner, so I have just sat back, and read what far more articulate bloggers have had to say. However, when I saw that Jillian Michaels now has her very own reality fat-hater show, I could stay quiet no longer.

I first, have to own up to a bit of hypocrisy. Right now, a coworker and I are running a Biggest Loser contest at our workplace. I have also purchased and/or rented various Biggest Loser products: cookbooks, exercise DVDs, etc. I have watched the show on a few occasions in the past, but I usually get too angry to sit through an entire season. I have a strong desire to improve my health, and have been healthfully and diligently working on my weight loss through the past year or so. I’m not knocking the desire or attempt to lose weight – I just want to make that clear.

I’ve always wondered what happened to Biggest Loser contestants after their time at the ranch had expired. I rounded up a couple where-are-they-now articles, and was interested to see that many contestants were not able to sustain their weight loss. In fact, most of the featured contestants gained back at least half of the weight they had lost. Sort of makes me wonder how successful the “scream til they drop” technique works in the long term.

Then yesterday, I came across this post over at Body Love Wellness. I remember watching Kai Hibbard a few years back, and found her to be funny and witty, and somewhat of a kindred spirit. I was really sad and disappointed to hear that she had developed an eating disorder. I was not surprised, however, that the show was so cutthroat behind the scenes.

I think what bothers me is that The Biggest Loser has turned into a resource for folks trying to fight the fat, myself included. And what makes me particularly sad is that the show promotes a really ugly approach to taking care of oneself. Most of the professionals I have consulted with regarding weight loss (nutritionists, psychologists, physicians) have all advocated weight loss that is slow-yet-steady. And more importantly, they've advocated treating myself well. Based on what Kai Hibbard has shared, it appears that Biggest Loser producers and consultants have taken a different approach. From what I can tell, this method has not proven successful beyond a few minutes.

All of this leads me to further question why we're OK with this. I'm continuing this post into a Part II, but I think there is a deeper issue at play. Why are we willing to accept and even delight over a form of abuse inflicted upon others?

Losing It, Part II

I had the pleasure of catching about fifteen minutes of Losing it With Jillian this week. I wasn’t able to watch much more than that, so I promptly turned the channel to something more appropriate, like the second season of Friday Night Lights. But I digress. Losing it With Jillian is aptly titled, as watching the show makes a person want to climb the bell tower. The show is more of what you’ve seen of Jillian. Insults, screaming, and a healthy dose of death threats, compliments of Ms. Michaels. In the episode I watched, a mother was humiliated in front of her children. She cried, begged to for breaks, and eventually pushed her huffing, puffing, red-faced self to complete Jillian’s odd combination of exercises. I have seen Jillian perform the same “technique” on Biggest Loser contestants. She treats them like cattle, reminds them of how close they are to dying, and screams and them for falling off treadmills and not being able to lift inordinately heavy weights. All for their own good though, because deep-down she cares very deeply for the fatties.

I then stumbled upon this entry over at fatshionista.com. Now, I don’t necessarily agree with all of Lesley’s opinions, but I appreciate that she articulates herself well, and provides substantial back-up to her arguments. But what shocked me the most about her entry, was the video she posted of Jillian Michael’s hot mic faux-pas during an interview. I think it is a true testimony to her intentions behind the verbal abuse she serves up weekly on The Biggest Loser. Michaels, like many others, views fat people as a sort of non-people. And I believe that Lesley hit the nail on the head when she says :

It’s not simply Michaels’ fat-hatin’ that bugs me, nor is it her penchant for yelling. My problem is that her methods of engaging and motivating her clients is frighteningly close to a relationship which in any other context we would call abusive. Working off the two clips above exclusively — two clips I chose pretty much at random from a multitude of possibilities — I can make this case. For one, Michaels dehumanizes the fat people she works with (”They’re not like normal people”, “half-dead”). She seems to think the brains of fat people have been compromised such that they can only respond to repetitive screaming, not unlike wayward cattle. She makes threats, not just to their physical safety, but to their very lives (”The only way you’re coming off this damn treadmill is if you die on it”). Her abuse is calculated to break her clients down until they weep, and even then she doesn’t let up. She is unpredictable, with a vicious and quick temper, and is apathetic toward (if not gratified by) her clients’ discomfort, be it physical or emotional. There’s even elements of codependency in there, as it’s only when the fat people in question behave as instructed that her mood might change and they may receive some encouragement or support, which is only meted out in doses small enough to keep them craving more. And before any of this happens, the people she trains must first be convinced that they cannot possibly survive without her, that their lives prior to this introduction were worthless, their bodies but hollow shells — or, in this case, shells filled with soulless fat.

The real kicker for me is that a few years ago, I would have seen nothing wrong with Michaels' (or anyone else for that matter) treatment of overweight people. Fat acceptance is something I struggle with, even now. In some ways I do believe that I don't deserve to have a certain amount of success, money, healthy relationships, or love. That I deserve to be treated like a second-rate citizen. And it's not Jillian Michaels' fault that I feel this way; this issue is far more deeply rooted and systemic than some flash-in-the-pan trendster trainer. But I do think that shows like Michaels' perpetuate the emotion many overweight people already feel. The reason there is no backlash towards this type of behavior, is in my opinion, because people don't see anything wrong with it - regardless of what their size may be. There's something so devastatingly wrong about this, but I recognize that I contribute to the problem.

All of this is not to highlight what a horrible person Jillian Michaels is. She's playing a character, and obviously has filled a spot where there was demand for her type of character. There are a million Jillians in the world today, but I suppose this Jillian has made herself a mascot, in more than one way. The point of this exists in a challenge I have with myself. To talk to myself and treat myself the way I would if I were training The Biggest Loser contestants. To stop being so judgmental of other women of substance. To start questioning the mistreatment of all people, not just in cases where it's socially acceptable to do so.

…And See How That Goes

I’ve always enjoyed Sarah Silverman. She’s equal parts crass, witty, vulnerable, offensive, and intelligent. And if you asked the William, he’d add hot to the list.

I recently ran across this CNNOpinion interview with Sarah, where she discusses fat jokes.



According to Sarah:

"I don't really care for like, fat jokes about women, specifically, because I feel that we live in a society where fat men deserve love, and fat women do not deserve love -- at least in white America. And so I feel like that's an ugly thing, and it doesn't make me laugh."

Silverman’s perspective did two things to me. First, it hit really close to home. I realize that in allowing myself to feel undeserving of love, I contribute to a larger, societal issue. It’s something I feel challenged to fix every day, and it’s affects every relationship I have. Secondly, it reinforced the feeling I have about fat jokes. Don’t get me wrong – I can laugh at fat jokes. It’s not that I’m so sensitive that I can’t see how making fun of fat people is funny. However, it may be that same sensitivity that keeps me from thinking most fat jokes are funny enough to laugh at. To me, they usually seem cheap and unimaginative. It doesn’t require much insight or creativity to point out physical characteristics to others. And for similar reasons, I don’t like jokes about skinny people.

I hear a lot of overweight women make fun of themselves, in an attempt to be funny. And while I realize that this is likely just a defense mechanism, it really bothers me. Not only does it make others uncomfortable, I’m not sure that it doesn’t just perpetuate thoughts of negative self-worth. Having the ability to make fun of myself is important, but I have to draw the line at calling myself names, or referencing my body using negative terminology and overused stereotypes.

Sarah has gained a few more cool points in my book. Not that she needed any…

The Good Side of Down

Today, I was involved in a mid-day meeting where lunch was served. The choices allowed for some healthy decision making, so I loaded a plate up with veggie wraps and fruit. As I was enjoying my lunch, a women who works with me scrunched up her nose and squinted in the direction of my lunch.

"Ohhhh, look at you! You're being so good!"

My initial reaction was to find a nice spot in the middle of her forehead for which to place the heel of shoe. The fear of termination and/or jail time prevented me from proceeding with that plan, so instead I just stewed about it.

I'm being good, huh? And I suppose being bad would mean that I had chips instead of fruit, and maybe a cookie for dessert. How about two cookies? What if all I ate for lunch was chips and cookies and more chips, followed by a gallon-size swig of Coca-Cola? Would that make me really, really, really bad?

Eating fruit does not make one a good person. Having a cookie does not make one a bad person. Bad people punch little kids in the face. Bad people deface property, kick puppies, make fun of disabled people, or become republicans. Bad people are not bad because they eat cookies. I'm so tired of this constant measure of food's placement on the axis of evil. Pizza? Bad. Quinoa? Good! Pizza and quinoa? Uhhhh...

All of this scalability, this balance of good vs. evil that we all spew does not help. It doesn't. It makes people feel unnecessary shame and guilt. It makes people treat themselves poorly in the name of health. It makes people feel like they can't leave their houses for a meal. And that, really is bad.

I am just as guilty of this good/bad mentality. It's something I think of every day, with every morsel I decide to swallow. But I vow to try my damnedest not to place that on another person. Because no one is bad because of the things they choose to eat. Unless you're a cannibal, and even that's negotiable.

I constantly challenge myself to reshape the way I think when it comes to food. Part of what I have struggled with in regards to disordered eating stems from people in my life telling me that what I was eating was good or bad. Starting with my grandmother and moving all the way to my nutritionist in college, it's ingrained in me to associate feeling poor about myself with what I am eating at that time. And that's no way for anyone to feel - good, bad, or ugly.