I was in the dressing room at New York & Company the other day trying on pants last week, and when I looked up and caught my reflection in the mirror, there was a stranger staring back at me.
“Who the fuck is this fat woman?” I heard a voice in my head demand.
Clearly, it was me. I was looking at myself in the mirror after all.
“Good god,” the voice scoffed, “You don’t look like you anymore. You look like your mother.”
I started taking deep breaths to calm the voice, but she put in one final jab, “WHERE THE FUCK DID THOSE UNSIGHTLY STRETCH MARKS ON YOUR BELLY COME FROM?! WHAT THE FUCK! YOU LOOK GROTESQUE! JUST LOOK HOW FAT YOU’VE GOTTEN!”
“Shut up,” I muttered to the voice and turned away from the mirror, “I just need to buy pants that fit and get out of here.”
I walked out of the store with size 18 pants, the biggest ones the store sells, half wondering if I should have waited until I found a store that sells size 20 or whether that’d be too big.
As I walked the ten blocks home, I relished in the fact that I had managed to acquire new pants and attempted to ignore the nasty comments my inner critic dealt to me.
I’d briefly considered blogging about it after I got home from the store, but decided it was just senseless whining rather than something worth bringing to the greater world, and I’d just about forgotten about it until Rachele posted this tweet today:
Ya know, when you say that you hate how fat you have gotten & disgusted to look at yourself…do you think ALL fat people are gross?
— The Nearsighted Owl (@rachelecateyes) August 23, 2013
To which I automatically thought, “Nope. Just me.”
I can think of a list a mile long of fat ladies who I think are gorgeous.
It’s not a hatred of fat in general issue for me.
For me, it’s more of a “I have a mental picture of what I look like and when I look in the mirror it doesn’t match and that really pisses me off” issue.
The me in my mind is smaller than the me in actuality.
As long as I don’t look in a mirror and I steer clear of clothing stores, I can happily entertain this delusion.
After all, when I look down all I see is tits… Mine are so big that my belly is well hidden under them.
And truth be told… I’d probably still be equally self-loathing if I were closer to my “ideal size” because most of my dislike of the way I look has little to do with my size anyway.
It has way more to do with fashion.
At the end of the day, I don’t really care about fashion.
I’d be perfectly happy to wear a pair of jeans and a t-shirt every day for the rest of my life.
But, I live and work in New York City and women dress up here.
Everywhere I look, I see well dressed women… and then I see me… The only lady in the office wearing jeans and not wearing makeup.
And then I wonder, shouldn’t I be getting my act together?