Fat

For a long time I refused to use the word fat. I was soft, I was curvy, but I felt by saying fat I was calling myself a bad name. But what is that extra softness made from? It’s not fairy dust or feathers. It’s fat, plain and simple.

Lately it seems that everyone is trying to fight stigmas on women’s bodies. Models are trying to #DropThePlus, brands are making extra weight sexy with #ImNoAngel, and those of us who aren’t rail thin are calling ourselves curvy, fluffy, voluptuous… everything but fat.

I’m not “the new 30.” Even if I could hop in a time machine and go back a decade I wouldn’t want to revisit that age. I’m 40, and I think it’s pretty fucking fantastic.

When it’s hot out (or when I get stressed or have to go to a horrible blogging event) I don’t glisten, I sweat. It’s not glitter coming out of my pores, it’s perspiration.

While I could just say I am standard size, I am a size that isn’t sold by every retailer. Not all Larges are created equal, and most trendy brands and boutiques don’t cater to me. I am Cusp Sized.

Not every fat woman is curvy (and along with that, not every curvy woman is fat). Not every fat woman is big boned, and not every big boned woman is fat. Not every overweight woman wants to be seen as a sex symbol or described with a sexy word. And you know what? All women regardless of size and shape are real. I’m okay if you would prefer to use a different term for yourself, but me deciding to call myself fat is a choice, and a positive one. I’m not trying to pretend I am something I am not, and by being honest with myself I can accept, love, and nurture this fuller figure at its current size.

I am fat. And that’s not a terrible thing. I don’t think that fat people should feel ashamed, should be treated differently, and I don’t think putting a cute term on what we are makes it any different for how we see ourselves or how society sees us.

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