Yesterday, I woke up feeling somewhat refreshed; I yawned and stretched and then grabbed my laptop to check my email.
Like a lot of folks, especially folks my age, I use Gmail, Google's email service. I'm sure many of my tens of readers do, too, since Blogger is a Google site. I love Gmail; it's the first email service I've used that I've loved enough to stop using other email providers. That is, back when I had AOL mail, I also had a Hotmail account and a Yahoo account. I checked all three on a regular basis. Now, my AOL mail is long dead (RIP Steflutie), my Hotmail is officially my spam account, and I think I check my Yahoo mail once a month to make sure no one's emailing me there by accident.
Meanwhile, my work and grad school accounts are both hooked up to my Gmail, even though my grad school email is Gmail-based. I just can't be bothered to check BOTH accounts. Plus, my regular Gmail is already set up just the way I like it.
Last year, when Gmail put free voice calls in Gchat, it was a lifesaver for me. My cell phone microphone had just broken, and I was waiting two weeks for my new smartphone to arrive (it was out of stock at the store). I could make some phone calls at work, but my boss was discouraging us from using the work phone for personal calls. So I quickly set up a Google Voice account and was able to make calls using my home and work computers. It wasn't as convenient or easy as making a regular phone call, but I was able to make necessary phone calls during those two weeks.
These days, I don't use the phone call function, mostly since I've got a working cell phone again, and it's just much easier to use that. But that didn't stop me from noticing something odd yesterday when I pulled up Gmail.
The "Call Phone" button had a line of text underneath it. It said, "Reminder: call dad."
At first, I wondered if one of my siblings had somehow hacked into my computer, thinking they were doing the right thing. Then I realized that neither of my siblings would know how to do that, and that both of them have been pretty great with respecting my decision to stay estranged from our father. Then I wondered if maybe I had somehow signed into the wrong email account. But no, those were my regular contacts underneath the offending message, and here were all of my emails.
And then I got what it was. Granted, this all happened in the span of a few seconds, so if you're imagining me scratching my head, pacing around, shouting, "I must find the culprit!" you are both very imaginative, but also a bit wrong. It wasn't my siblings or the wrong email. Google put it there.
I mean, I understand why. It's a good way to remind folks about the call phone function. Great. But seriously? Not a good idea.
Like plenty of other people, I'm estranged from one of my parents, in this case my father. A reminder to call him is like a bad joke. But what about people who don't have fathers anymore, whose fathers have died? What about people whose fathers have abused them, neglected them, deserted them? What about people who have grown up with a single mother, or with two mothers, or who were raised by a sibling?
So, Google, if you're listening, please don't ever do that again. It's enough that Father's Day is all over the place commercially. But invading my email, putting up a reminder that stayed up ALL day? It made me seriously angry and uncomfortable.
Also, you need to have a way for people to complain about shit like this. Your "Help" section doesn't let us do that. Bulllll.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Sunday, June 12, 2011
A Letter to Medical Professionals
Dear medical community,
Hello! How are you? I hope you're well. Because I'm a bit pissed off at you. Don't worry, I'll explain in detail.
When I was fourteen years old, I woke up on Rosh Hashanah with an impressively horrible stabbing pain in my abdomen. My brother thought my appendix was bursting, but I had no other symptoms besides the worst pain in my life. By the time I could get to the doctor's office, the pain had subsided. A couple of weeks later, on my fifteenth birthday, I sat in the waiting room again, needing to pee, waiting to have an ultrasound. There was a medium sized cyst on my ovary, on the other side, making it highly probable that the pain I had was from another cyst on the other ovary rupturing.
I saw a pediatric endocrinologist after that. She was one of the more respected doctors in the field, and is still one of the more prominent endocrinologists at Children's Hospital in Boston. I hate her, eight years later. She diagnosed me with Poly-Cystic Ovaian Syndrome (PCOS), a hormonal imbalance that would explain the cysts, as well as the fact that in 3 years, I had only had my period about 10 times. She decided that she wanted to check and see if she could feel any additional cysts. Without telling me what she was going to do, she performed a pelvic exam. When I was in pain, she told me that "it shouldn't hurt," when clearly it did. I was so upset afterwards that I cried and couldn't concentrate when I got back to school later that day. When I told my mom what happened, she was furious. I was only fifteen; I had not been asked for my consent to have this exam, I was not even told it would be happening until it had already started, and it was incredibly painful. I regret that my mom and I didn't file a complaint with Children's.
She and my pediatrician scared me into going onto the pill when I was sixteen, since that was the "treatment" for PCOS. When I asked the simple question, "If I don't go on the pill, will that affect my fertility in 15 years?" they answered non-committally, and told me that, "If we don't take care of this problem, then you might have a lot of trouble conceiving." I explained that I didn't want to go on it, that I felt like it would make me MORE likely to have sex before I was really ready, but they both ignored me. I finally caved to the pressure about six months later, and was incredibly ashamed to be on the pill. Even now, when I mention that I've been on the pill since I was sixteen, the reaction is very negative; a lot of people assume that I was already having sex very early, or at least expecting to have sex so early.
It took me a while to find a pill that worked for me. The first two gave me severe morning sickness, which I hadn't been warned about when my doctors put me on it. I would miss class in the morning every month, like clockwork. I finally switched to Yasmin after a few months and had no problems.
Being on the pill did have benefits. While I didn't love having my period every single month, it was nice to know when it was coming. My cramps became less severe, my flow was much lighter, and each period only lasted four days, instead of six or seven. It cleared up my acne a bit, and when it didn't clear up all of it, it let me go right back onto Accutane; I didn't have to start birth control and wait a month before I could start the acne medication.
But one thing became very obvious. My breasts, which had been a slightly large B since I finished puberty, ballooned up to a large C. And I started gaining weight.
Since I'd hit puberty, my mom had fretted hardcore over my weight, since I weighed more than she did. But I was super healthy; 130lbs, 5'5". Not skinny, but certainly not overweight. Very, very normal. When I started the pill, I was about 140.
By the end of high school, I was at 180. Now, I'm struggling to stay below 195.
I've done Weight Watchers three times. I've dieted and counted calories endlessly. I've tried working out more. And even regular lifestyle changes made no difference. I would eat only as much as my slim friends, often less, and I'd gain. I would walk and take the stairs significantly more. No change. Last year, I would walk about 3 miles a day just to get to and from work. I gained weight.
My mom was in the camp of, "You must be doing something wrong." If I was dieting, I was either cheating, or I needed to exercise. If I was exercising, it was because I must be overeating afterwards as a reward. But it was obvious that something was keeping me from actually losing weight.
My doctors insisted that it was PCOS that was keeping me heavy, and I just needed to try harder, since I was at risk for type 2 diabetes. But I have a life. I have other things I want to be doing other than obsessing over my weight. And that was really the only problem; my blood tests were always fabulous, and I wasn't even close to being really at risk for diabetes.
All of them denied that the pill was causing the weight to come on and stay on. Every last one of them. For eight years. Never mind that I gained 50 lbs. Never mind that my breasts grew. And, more importantly, never mind that almost every woman I know who has gone on the pill has gained weight. I know so many women on the pill, or other hormonal birth control, that I've lost count. It's the majority of my female friends, and plenty of acquaintances. Only two of them haven't noticed any weight gain or breast growth. Clearly, something's happening, and it's not just "water retention."
I went off the pill on May 31st in preparation for surgery. I haven't been exercising lately (beyond walking to and from the T, and clubbing with friends), and while I haven't been eating ridiculously unhealthily, I haven't been making an effort to eat well. When I went to Planned Parenthood on the 27th, I weighed 196 lbs, 5 lbs more than I did at the beginning of the month.
Today, I weigh 188 lbs. I have been off the pill for almost two weeks.
So, medical community, here's my advice for you. Stop lying. Really, that's it. Be honest with your patients. That means:
Don't tell them that the pill is necessary for treating PCOS. It's not. When I got older, I did my research.
When your patient is deciding to forgo treatment, that is their right. Don't pressure them.
The pill causes breast growth and weight gain. Stop saying it doesn't. I didn't gain 50lbs of water weight.
Do not perform a pelvic exam on a patient without informed consent. It doesn't matter how necessary it is. Otherwise, you will violate them.
I hope we've learned something here today. Because if I keep losing weight now that I'm off the pill, you can be sure that I will never go back on hormonal birth control. I've worked very, very hard to love my body as it is, and I've dealt with discrimination, nasty remarks from people who love me, stressful shopping trips, and the overwhelming number of negative feelings that fat people deal with in a thin-privileged society. I have spent eight years fighting and wishing and trying very hard to love myself while knowing that other people hate my body. If I find out that this all could have been avoided by having better doctors, you can be sure I'll never go back on the pill. And I will be making a stink about this.
Love,
Me
Hello! How are you? I hope you're well. Because I'm a bit pissed off at you. Don't worry, I'll explain in detail.
When I was fourteen years old, I woke up on Rosh Hashanah with an impressively horrible stabbing pain in my abdomen. My brother thought my appendix was bursting, but I had no other symptoms besides the worst pain in my life. By the time I could get to the doctor's office, the pain had subsided. A couple of weeks later, on my fifteenth birthday, I sat in the waiting room again, needing to pee, waiting to have an ultrasound. There was a medium sized cyst on my ovary, on the other side, making it highly probable that the pain I had was from another cyst on the other ovary rupturing.
I saw a pediatric endocrinologist after that. She was one of the more respected doctors in the field, and is still one of the more prominent endocrinologists at Children's Hospital in Boston. I hate her, eight years later. She diagnosed me with Poly-Cystic Ovaian Syndrome (PCOS), a hormonal imbalance that would explain the cysts, as well as the fact that in 3 years, I had only had my period about 10 times. She decided that she wanted to check and see if she could feel any additional cysts. Without telling me what she was going to do, she performed a pelvic exam. When I was in pain, she told me that "it shouldn't hurt," when clearly it did. I was so upset afterwards that I cried and couldn't concentrate when I got back to school later that day. When I told my mom what happened, she was furious. I was only fifteen; I had not been asked for my consent to have this exam, I was not even told it would be happening until it had already started, and it was incredibly painful. I regret that my mom and I didn't file a complaint with Children's.
She and my pediatrician scared me into going onto the pill when I was sixteen, since that was the "treatment" for PCOS. When I asked the simple question, "If I don't go on the pill, will that affect my fertility in 15 years?" they answered non-committally, and told me that, "If we don't take care of this problem, then you might have a lot of trouble conceiving." I explained that I didn't want to go on it, that I felt like it would make me MORE likely to have sex before I was really ready, but they both ignored me. I finally caved to the pressure about six months later, and was incredibly ashamed to be on the pill. Even now, when I mention that I've been on the pill since I was sixteen, the reaction is very negative; a lot of people assume that I was already having sex very early, or at least expecting to have sex so early.
It took me a while to find a pill that worked for me. The first two gave me severe morning sickness, which I hadn't been warned about when my doctors put me on it. I would miss class in the morning every month, like clockwork. I finally switched to Yasmin after a few months and had no problems.
Being on the pill did have benefits. While I didn't love having my period every single month, it was nice to know when it was coming. My cramps became less severe, my flow was much lighter, and each period only lasted four days, instead of six or seven. It cleared up my acne a bit, and when it didn't clear up all of it, it let me go right back onto Accutane; I didn't have to start birth control and wait a month before I could start the acne medication.
But one thing became very obvious. My breasts, which had been a slightly large B since I finished puberty, ballooned up to a large C. And I started gaining weight.
Since I'd hit puberty, my mom had fretted hardcore over my weight, since I weighed more than she did. But I was super healthy; 130lbs, 5'5". Not skinny, but certainly not overweight. Very, very normal. When I started the pill, I was about 140.
By the end of high school, I was at 180. Now, I'm struggling to stay below 195.
I've done Weight Watchers three times. I've dieted and counted calories endlessly. I've tried working out more. And even regular lifestyle changes made no difference. I would eat only as much as my slim friends, often less, and I'd gain. I would walk and take the stairs significantly more. No change. Last year, I would walk about 3 miles a day just to get to and from work. I gained weight.
My mom was in the camp of, "You must be doing something wrong." If I was dieting, I was either cheating, or I needed to exercise. If I was exercising, it was because I must be overeating afterwards as a reward. But it was obvious that something was keeping me from actually losing weight.
My doctors insisted that it was PCOS that was keeping me heavy, and I just needed to try harder, since I was at risk for type 2 diabetes. But I have a life. I have other things I want to be doing other than obsessing over my weight. And that was really the only problem; my blood tests were always fabulous, and I wasn't even close to being really at risk for diabetes.
All of them denied that the pill was causing the weight to come on and stay on. Every last one of them. For eight years. Never mind that I gained 50 lbs. Never mind that my breasts grew. And, more importantly, never mind that almost every woman I know who has gone on the pill has gained weight. I know so many women on the pill, or other hormonal birth control, that I've lost count. It's the majority of my female friends, and plenty of acquaintances. Only two of them haven't noticed any weight gain or breast growth. Clearly, something's happening, and it's not just "water retention."
I went off the pill on May 31st in preparation for surgery. I haven't been exercising lately (beyond walking to and from the T, and clubbing with friends), and while I haven't been eating ridiculously unhealthily, I haven't been making an effort to eat well. When I went to Planned Parenthood on the 27th, I weighed 196 lbs, 5 lbs more than I did at the beginning of the month.
Today, I weigh 188 lbs. I have been off the pill for almost two weeks.
So, medical community, here's my advice for you. Stop lying. Really, that's it. Be honest with your patients. That means:
Don't tell them that the pill is necessary for treating PCOS. It's not. When I got older, I did my research.
When your patient is deciding to forgo treatment, that is their right. Don't pressure them.
The pill causes breast growth and weight gain. Stop saying it doesn't. I didn't gain 50lbs of water weight.
Do not perform a pelvic exam on a patient without informed consent. It doesn't matter how necessary it is. Otherwise, you will violate them.
I hope we've learned something here today. Because if I keep losing weight now that I'm off the pill, you can be sure that I will never go back on hormonal birth control. I've worked very, very hard to love my body as it is, and I've dealt with discrimination, nasty remarks from people who love me, stressful shopping trips, and the overwhelming number of negative feelings that fat people deal with in a thin-privileged society. I have spent eight years fighting and wishing and trying very hard to love myself while knowing that other people hate my body. If I find out that this all could have been avoided by having better doctors, you can be sure I'll never go back on the pill. And I will be making a stink about this.
Love,
Me
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Man Down
Trigger warning: Rape, murder, non-consensual crap
After reading a bunch of tumblr posts and short quotes about Rihanna's new video for her song "Man Down," I finally decided to take a time out for 5 minutes to watch it. The video can be found here, although if you are easily triggered by sexual assault, this might be difficult to watch.
I'm not going to go into how I felt about the song. As many of my friends know, I prefer to listen to alternative pop-rock (think Goo Goo Dolls). I like to go out to clubs, so I have some favorite club songs I like (Ke$ha sets my teeth on edge ... except when I'm at a club), but otherwise I'm not so much interested in hip-hop. I don't think I would ever have heard "Man Down" if I hadn't sought out the video, and while the song wasn't awful by any means, it's not my style of music. Point is, I don't care very much about the song, or even the lyrics so much, with one exception.
The video
As for the video, it speaks for itself without the song, and even if you watch it, unaware of the controversy. The video opens with a semi-crowded market, with plenty of people walking around; out of the shadows in a building window, Rihanna appears, looking immensely tense and unhappy, and she very slowly brandishes a gun. She then shoots and kills a particular man, and disappears as the crowd runs from the gunshot. We then cut to "Yesterday."
"Yesterday," Rihanna is walking/biking around, looking pretty normal and quite happy. It's obvious, even if you don't know what's coming, that that dude she shot did something to change her from bright and happy to miserable and in the shadows, driven to kill. We see her interacting with people happily, including children, smiling, enjoying life.
Then we see her go to a club. She does dance with a guy a bit, pretty sexily, but then she stops dancing with him and leaves the club. It doesn't look like she's upset (she still seems to be in a good mood); it seems as if she danced with him for a while and enjoyed it, and then decided it was time to go home. But then the man follows her, even asking bystanders outside which way Rihanna went. He catches up to her, grabs her forcefully, and rapes her. When he leaves her, his shirt is torn. Rihanna runs home, and frantically searches her drawers until she finds a gun, the one she uses at the beginning of the video.
The song
Like I said, I don't really care so much about the song, since it's not my type of music. But one important thing I noticed about the song is that it never references the rape. It's about how she shot a man, she feels guilty about it, that he meant something to other people (specifically, that he was someone's son), and that now she has to run. Maybe I'm reading too much into it, since again, it doesn't reference the actual rape, but it seems to capture the guilt that many survivors feel for trying to seek punishment for their perpetrators. We're encouraged not to "ruin the lives" of these perpetrators, and we're reminded of their humanity (that they're sons, boyfriends, brothers, friends ... normal people like you and me*). Rihanna's motives are absent from the song, making the video very necessary to understand it, but when both are together, the lyrics become much more powerful. You don't just know the motive anymore. You GET the motive. She's not saying, "He raped me, so I killed him." She's singing about the guilt that she feels, the knowledge that she did something she shouldn't have, but we don't just know why she did it. We understand why.
As a survivor
As many of you know, I was sexually assaulted as a teenager. My assault wasn't violent, fortunately, but it still happened. Part of my experience, along with the work I've done in sexual violence prevention, is that I cannot seem to separate myself from the feelings of a victim/survivor when hearing about sexual violence. For example, I was having a conversation with a coworker, and we somehow got on the topic of Emma Watson, the actress who portrays Hermione Granger in the Harry Potter films. He told a story he thought was amusing, that someone asked for an autograph from Watson, but the photo they wanted signed was a paparazzi photo taken up Watson's skirt when she wasn't wearing underwear.
I didn't find it funny. I couldn't really. If someone had taken a photo of my vulva without my consent, and distributed it, that would be incredibly, horrifyingly violating. My coworker brushed it off, saying that Watson should have just worn underwear. But this is bullshit. Sometimes, people don't wear underwear; there's no law that says that they can't. And no one should be punished for it either. Upskirting is illegal in the United States; going commando is not. Second of all, how would the photographer have known that Watson wasn't wearing underwear? And if she had worn underwear, THEN would it not be okay that it happened? Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.
Point is, I go right to the victim/survivor's point of view. And that's what happened while I watched the "Man Down" video.
As soon as the man began following Rihanna out of the club, I started getting very upset. When the video cut to a shot of him covering her mouth, I started crying.
Folks, it was kind of terrifying. Especially because I often go to clubs, wearing "sexy" clothing, and there are times when I dance with male strangers, and then decide I'm done dancing at one point or another. Not that I'm now too scared to do either now, but it's chilling to know that for some men, that's all it takes. A sexy outfit indicates that the woman's a slut. Stopping dancing with you indicates that she's a tease. Go punish her.** This could happen to me.
Like I said, I'm not going to stop dressing up, getting tipsy, going to clubs, and dancing with male strangers. I have a good time. And I already have known for a while that I'm taking a risk when I do that, a risk that there will be a rapist around, and he'll choose me as a target. But I know that ANYTHING I do besides barricading myself in my room and never going anywhere without gay male bodyguards, will increase my risk of being raped, because then I'll possibly expose myself to rapists, and not have a way to deter the rapists from raping me.
Would I ever shoot a perpetrator? Well, I haven't shot the friend who assaulted me. I've passed up opportunities to track him down, too. But I understand the anger and helplessness. I understand the fantasy. It's pretty fucking horrible.
Bottom line
Rihanna's "Man Down" video is a shocking, but good way to get people talking about sexual assault. It puts us in the place of the victim/survivor, and demonstrates (maybe too simply, but well nonetheless) the way that such an experience can change a person, and make them do things that would have seemed out of character before. I appreciate this video a lot, and I'm thankful to Rihanna for making it.
After reading a bunch of tumblr posts and short quotes about Rihanna's new video for her song "Man Down," I finally decided to take a time out for 5 minutes to watch it. The video can be found here, although if you are easily triggered by sexual assault, this might be difficult to watch.
I'm not going to go into how I felt about the song. As many of my friends know, I prefer to listen to alternative pop-rock (think Goo Goo Dolls). I like to go out to clubs, so I have some favorite club songs I like (Ke$ha sets my teeth on edge ... except when I'm at a club), but otherwise I'm not so much interested in hip-hop. I don't think I would ever have heard "Man Down" if I hadn't sought out the video, and while the song wasn't awful by any means, it's not my style of music. Point is, I don't care very much about the song, or even the lyrics so much, with one exception.
The video
As for the video, it speaks for itself without the song, and even if you watch it, unaware of the controversy. The video opens with a semi-crowded market, with plenty of people walking around; out of the shadows in a building window, Rihanna appears, looking immensely tense and unhappy, and she very slowly brandishes a gun. She then shoots and kills a particular man, and disappears as the crowd runs from the gunshot. We then cut to "Yesterday."
"Yesterday," Rihanna is walking/biking around, looking pretty normal and quite happy. It's obvious, even if you don't know what's coming, that that dude she shot did something to change her from bright and happy to miserable and in the shadows, driven to kill. We see her interacting with people happily, including children, smiling, enjoying life.
Then we see her go to a club. She does dance with a guy a bit, pretty sexily, but then she stops dancing with him and leaves the club. It doesn't look like she's upset (she still seems to be in a good mood); it seems as if she danced with him for a while and enjoyed it, and then decided it was time to go home. But then the man follows her, even asking bystanders outside which way Rihanna went. He catches up to her, grabs her forcefully, and rapes her. When he leaves her, his shirt is torn. Rihanna runs home, and frantically searches her drawers until she finds a gun, the one she uses at the beginning of the video.
The song
Like I said, I don't really care so much about the song, since it's not my type of music. But one important thing I noticed about the song is that it never references the rape. It's about how she shot a man, she feels guilty about it, that he meant something to other people (specifically, that he was someone's son), and that now she has to run. Maybe I'm reading too much into it, since again, it doesn't reference the actual rape, but it seems to capture the guilt that many survivors feel for trying to seek punishment for their perpetrators. We're encouraged not to "ruin the lives" of these perpetrators, and we're reminded of their humanity (that they're sons, boyfriends, brothers, friends ... normal people like you and me*). Rihanna's motives are absent from the song, making the video very necessary to understand it, but when both are together, the lyrics become much more powerful. You don't just know the motive anymore. You GET the motive. She's not saying, "He raped me, so I killed him." She's singing about the guilt that she feels, the knowledge that she did something she shouldn't have, but we don't just know why she did it. We understand why.
As a survivor
As many of you know, I was sexually assaulted as a teenager. My assault wasn't violent, fortunately, but it still happened. Part of my experience, along with the work I've done in sexual violence prevention, is that I cannot seem to separate myself from the feelings of a victim/survivor when hearing about sexual violence. For example, I was having a conversation with a coworker, and we somehow got on the topic of Emma Watson, the actress who portrays Hermione Granger in the Harry Potter films. He told a story he thought was amusing, that someone asked for an autograph from Watson, but the photo they wanted signed was a paparazzi photo taken up Watson's skirt when she wasn't wearing underwear.
I didn't find it funny. I couldn't really. If someone had taken a photo of my vulva without my consent, and distributed it, that would be incredibly, horrifyingly violating. My coworker brushed it off, saying that Watson should have just worn underwear. But this is bullshit. Sometimes, people don't wear underwear; there's no law that says that they can't. And no one should be punished for it either. Upskirting is illegal in the United States; going commando is not. Second of all, how would the photographer have known that Watson wasn't wearing underwear? And if she had worn underwear, THEN would it not be okay that it happened? Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.
Point is, I go right to the victim/survivor's point of view. And that's what happened while I watched the "Man Down" video.
As soon as the man began following Rihanna out of the club, I started getting very upset. When the video cut to a shot of him covering her mouth, I started crying.
Folks, it was kind of terrifying. Especially because I often go to clubs, wearing "sexy" clothing, and there are times when I dance with male strangers, and then decide I'm done dancing at one point or another. Not that I'm now too scared to do either now, but it's chilling to know that for some men, that's all it takes. A sexy outfit indicates that the woman's a slut. Stopping dancing with you indicates that she's a tease. Go punish her.** This could happen to me.
Like I said, I'm not going to stop dressing up, getting tipsy, going to clubs, and dancing with male strangers. I have a good time. And I already have known for a while that I'm taking a risk when I do that, a risk that there will be a rapist around, and he'll choose me as a target. But I know that ANYTHING I do besides barricading myself in my room and never going anywhere without gay male bodyguards, will increase my risk of being raped, because then I'll possibly expose myself to rapists, and not have a way to deter the rapists from raping me.
Would I ever shoot a perpetrator? Well, I haven't shot the friend who assaulted me. I've passed up opportunities to track him down, too. But I understand the anger and helplessness. I understand the fantasy. It's pretty fucking horrible.
Bottom line
Rihanna's "Man Down" video is a shocking, but good way to get people talking about sexual assault. It puts us in the place of the victim/survivor, and demonstrates (maybe too simply, but well nonetheless) the way that such an experience can change a person, and make them do things that would have seemed out of character before. I appreciate this video a lot, and I'm thankful to Rihanna for making it.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Learning to live a philosophy
Over the past week and a half, I've had a few experiences that have struck me as rather odd, at least in terms of my own personal comfort and my reactions to situations. Allow me to explain.
Growing up, after I hit puberty, I began to worry constantly about how fat I was. My mother, whom I love very much, didn't help. And by "didn't help," I mean, "actively and knowingly contributed to my insecurities surrounding my body." When I weighed 130 lbs, she was worried that I needed to lose weight, since I now weighed more than she did, and was about 5 inches shorter. As the years passed and my weight continued to increase, she worried more. I'm currently at the point where I'm about ready to issue an ultimatum when it comes to her commenting on my appearance at all.
The end result was that I was miserable about my body. Contributing to my insecurities was the fact that I had been sexually assaulted when I was 14. While I didn't experience PTSD, the take-away from the experience, and from plenty of other experiences that weren't non-consensual, was that I was unattractive and should be damn grateful for whatever attention the opposite sex wished to bestow upon me. My physical appearance and my sexuality had become entwined in a very obnoxious way. I was fat, and therefore my sexuality consisted purely of being lonely most of the time, and grateful for whatever attention I got. Consensual or not. I was supposed to consider street harassment a compliment. I was supposed to go out on a date with any dude who thought I might be worth his time.
It was totally uncool.
Over the past few years, I have worked extremely hard to live out the feminist philosophies that I find so amazing. I knew that I needed to learn how to love my body, not necessarily regardless of what it looks like, but in a general, holistic way. Don't love IN SPITE of flaws. Love, including the stuff other people think are flaws.
I also understood that I needed to be more gung-ho about being true to my sexuality. I needed to stop going on dates with guys I didn't want to date (or even more specifically, I also needed to stop wasting my time in IM conversations on OKCupid with guys I wasn't remotely interested in). I needed to stop issuing cop-out excuses, like, "I can't go out on Saturday, but you know what? I'll get back to you when I know my availability," when I really mean, "Sorry, I'm not interested, best of luck."
The issue here, of course, is that there are some actions I can take to combat these issues, but often, there are mental obstacles to get over. It's one thing to declare war on fat hatred by going sleeveless. It's another to be able to look in the mirror while wearing a sleeveless dress and think, "Wow, I look fab." Likewise, with sexuality, it's easy to turn down guys at the club. But it's hard to control feelings of inadequacy when all of your other female friends, who all happen to be slimmer, are getting male attention. You almost feel like a failure because you can't break the hold that the patriarchy has over your brain.
Within the span of one week, I managed to have some significant break-throughs with these mental aspects.
Last weekend, I got a gorgeous new dress from Modcloth.com.* It's relatively short, bright purple, and sleeveless. I loved it instantly. I tried it on, praying to the baseball gods** that it would fit, since not everything from Modcloth fits me, even if it's the "right" size. It didn't just fit, it looked amazing. I was so excited, I decided to wear it to my sister-in-law's bridal shower on Memorial Day.
I just somehow forgot that my mother was going to be there. Like I said, she's my biggest critic when it comes to my appearance, even making unwarranted comments about my hair after I had just walked home in the sweltering heat from Longwood. I instantly got nervous when she came to pick me up. But she LOVED the dress. And more importantly, I loved the dress. And I wore it the entire afternoon at the shower, without a cardigan or shrug, showing off my arms in all their glory. It felt fantastic.
Like I said, it's one thing to go ahead and go sleeveless. But to get over the mental block, at least temporarily, and feel great about myself was completely unexpected, and completely awesome.
Cut to this past weekend. Saturday night, a girlfriend and I got all dressed up and went out to a club in the Fenway area. It was a mistake; the music was bad, the floor was sticky, and the majority of the dudes appeared to be in their 40s or fresh from the Jersey Shore. Very weird. My friend and I spent a while dancing together, just having fun, grabbing a couple drinks. There were a few cute guys, but they all seemed to be hanging out amongst themselves, trying to look super cool.
Halfway through the night, a guy started dancing behind my friend. Almost instantaneously, another guy, his friend, started dancing behind me. My reaction? I immediately moved, turned around, and said, "No thanks." Twice.
This was new. Usually, my first reaction when this kind of thing happens is fear and discomfort, but just to keep going with it for a few minutes. Now, I was just ending it right away. Weird/cool. But I was finally living my philosophy, which is that if a guy is going to just start rubbing up against me without giving me an opportunity to consent or not, I'm not interested.
My friend seemed to be enjoying the attention she was getting from the first guy, so I went and grabbed a drink and spent some time texting a couple of out-of-town friends until she was done with the guy. I had to reassure her, when the guy left for the bathroom, that I was okay with her dancing with him; I just didn't want to dance with his friend. Later on, her guy came back, and I guess his friend decided to try his luck with me again. He actually asked, so I said fine. Within the first minute, I told him that I just wanted to dance tonight, thanks;*** that got him to stop playing that annoying game where the guy keeps trying to make out with you. After a couple songs, I was bored and my feet hurt, so I said thanks and went to sit down till my friend was ready to go.
What was so weird about this? I wasn't grateful for the guy's attention. I didn't find him particularly attractive, I wasn't interested in doing anything with him, and I felt a serious combination of uncomfortable and bored while dancing with him. You're probably nodding along, thinking, "Of course you were uncomfortable!" but I'm more interested in the fact that I was overwhelmingly BORED. I was not interested in dancing with him, and I didn't enjoy it. I was finally out of the mindset that would leave me feeling bad about myself for not getting "enough" male attention. I know it might sound obvious that I shouldn't do something if I don't want to, but what's more important to me right now is the nuance of the situation. I didn't dance with the guy because I felt obligated. I danced with him because I was feeling bored while my friend danced with someone else. And to my surprise, I didn't enjoy it. Not because the guy was any more creepy than any other guy I've danced with at a club. Not because I was too sober. Not because he was a bad dancer.
Because I just wasn't interested. And that was enough for me to realize that I didn't even feel any sort of thrill at having attention. Didn't want it from him. Didn't feel flattered. It was a combination, where I finally feel great about my body, and where I finally don't feel obligated to give a guy anything just because he paid attention to me. That combination did mean that I was bored more often than I'd hoped on Saturday night. But otherwise, it rocked.
Finally, I seem to be getting more attention on OKCupid lately; fine. Not thrilled or disappointed; just been noticing. I got an IM from a guy over the long weekend, and he seemed okay. I wasn't excited about our conversation, but he hadn't made any obviously stupid/sexist comments, and I figured I'd give him a chance. During the second conversation with him, during which we made plans for a date, I got seriously uncomfortable. Looking back over the chat logs, I could find several small red flags. He didn't seem like a jerk, and (importantly) did not seem like a rapist. But he did seem like ... a Nice Guy. He seemed too familiar with me already. Too presumptuous. Too desperate. Too excited.
I know what some of you might be thinking. "Too excited? Haven't you ever been excited for a date?" Hell yes. But there are ways to express excitement about a date TO the date without going overboard. In this case, the guy was badgering me about taking the T to the restaurant together. To me, a first date starts and ends at the restaurant; I don't want a ride, I don't want to travel with you, and for the love of all that is good in this world, I don't want you to know where I live.
I canceled the date and didn't feel that guilty about it. I know the guy was disappointed, but I don't feel guilty. I was dreading the date so much by Thursday afternoon that I was feeling panicked, and who the hell wants to feel that for a first date?
Last night, another guy IMed me. Right off the bat, I wasn't that interested; he made a sexist comment about how I seemed to be smarter about tech than the average girl,**** and he also badgered me for my personal contact info. He got blocked the moment the conversation ended. And it makes me feel really good that I can make these calls.
By loving my body, I don't feel like I'm unlovable by default. By sticking up for my sexuality, I can enjoy it instead of being obligated to dudes. I'm aware of the fact that by refusing to diet myself tiny, and by refusing to give a guy whatever he wants, I'm decreasing my getting-laid-ness. But there's good getting-laid-ness, and there's bad getting-laid-ness, and I only want the good kind.
* Modcloth.com is a clothing website for women that sells a lot of retro/vintage apparel, as well as apartment items. They tend to be pricey, and their items tend to run small and run out of stock quickly. However, I've had excellent experiences with their customer service, and the items I've purchased and kept are fabulous. If you have the extra money, and see anything you like that's in stock, it's worth a go.
** Yeah, I'm a skeptic/atheist. But I'm also a baseball fan. So I have a deal with myself that if I have to pray, it's ONLY to the baseball gods, as they are the only real gods. They don't like me right now, I think I have a five game losing streak.
*** As I was typing this, I first typed, "I asked if we could just dance." Then I realized, with glee, that I had not asked him if we could just dance. I had TOLD him I just wanted to dance. I began typing it wrong because usually the story goes more along the lines of, "I wish I had said something dfferent." Finally, not this time.
**** First off, sexist. Second off, whoever things I'm tech savvier than the average person is an idiot. I'm tech savvier than your grandparents. That's it.
Growing up, after I hit puberty, I began to worry constantly about how fat I was. My mother, whom I love very much, didn't help. And by "didn't help," I mean, "actively and knowingly contributed to my insecurities surrounding my body." When I weighed 130 lbs, she was worried that I needed to lose weight, since I now weighed more than she did, and was about 5 inches shorter. As the years passed and my weight continued to increase, she worried more. I'm currently at the point where I'm about ready to issue an ultimatum when it comes to her commenting on my appearance at all.
The end result was that I was miserable about my body. Contributing to my insecurities was the fact that I had been sexually assaulted when I was 14. While I didn't experience PTSD, the take-away from the experience, and from plenty of other experiences that weren't non-consensual, was that I was unattractive and should be damn grateful for whatever attention the opposite sex wished to bestow upon me. My physical appearance and my sexuality had become entwined in a very obnoxious way. I was fat, and therefore my sexuality consisted purely of being lonely most of the time, and grateful for whatever attention I got. Consensual or not. I was supposed to consider street harassment a compliment. I was supposed to go out on a date with any dude who thought I might be worth his time.
It was totally uncool.
Over the past few years, I have worked extremely hard to live out the feminist philosophies that I find so amazing. I knew that I needed to learn how to love my body, not necessarily regardless of what it looks like, but in a general, holistic way. Don't love IN SPITE of flaws. Love, including the stuff other people think are flaws.
I also understood that I needed to be more gung-ho about being true to my sexuality. I needed to stop going on dates with guys I didn't want to date (or even more specifically, I also needed to stop wasting my time in IM conversations on OKCupid with guys I wasn't remotely interested in). I needed to stop issuing cop-out excuses, like, "I can't go out on Saturday, but you know what? I'll get back to you when I know my availability," when I really mean, "Sorry, I'm not interested, best of luck."
The issue here, of course, is that there are some actions I can take to combat these issues, but often, there are mental obstacles to get over. It's one thing to declare war on fat hatred by going sleeveless. It's another to be able to look in the mirror while wearing a sleeveless dress and think, "Wow, I look fab." Likewise, with sexuality, it's easy to turn down guys at the club. But it's hard to control feelings of inadequacy when all of your other female friends, who all happen to be slimmer, are getting male attention. You almost feel like a failure because you can't break the hold that the patriarchy has over your brain.
Within the span of one week, I managed to have some significant break-throughs with these mental aspects.
Last weekend, I got a gorgeous new dress from Modcloth.com.* It's relatively short, bright purple, and sleeveless. I loved it instantly. I tried it on, praying to the baseball gods** that it would fit, since not everything from Modcloth fits me, even if it's the "right" size. It didn't just fit, it looked amazing. I was so excited, I decided to wear it to my sister-in-law's bridal shower on Memorial Day.
I just somehow forgot that my mother was going to be there. Like I said, she's my biggest critic when it comes to my appearance, even making unwarranted comments about my hair after I had just walked home in the sweltering heat from Longwood. I instantly got nervous when she came to pick me up. But she LOVED the dress. And more importantly, I loved the dress. And I wore it the entire afternoon at the shower, without a cardigan or shrug, showing off my arms in all their glory. It felt fantastic.
Like I said, it's one thing to go ahead and go sleeveless. But to get over the mental block, at least temporarily, and feel great about myself was completely unexpected, and completely awesome.
Cut to this past weekend. Saturday night, a girlfriend and I got all dressed up and went out to a club in the Fenway area. It was a mistake; the music was bad, the floor was sticky, and the majority of the dudes appeared to be in their 40s or fresh from the Jersey Shore. Very weird. My friend and I spent a while dancing together, just having fun, grabbing a couple drinks. There were a few cute guys, but they all seemed to be hanging out amongst themselves, trying to look super cool.
Halfway through the night, a guy started dancing behind my friend. Almost instantaneously, another guy, his friend, started dancing behind me. My reaction? I immediately moved, turned around, and said, "No thanks." Twice.
This was new. Usually, my first reaction when this kind of thing happens is fear and discomfort, but just to keep going with it for a few minutes. Now, I was just ending it right away. Weird/cool. But I was finally living my philosophy, which is that if a guy is going to just start rubbing up against me without giving me an opportunity to consent or not, I'm not interested.
My friend seemed to be enjoying the attention she was getting from the first guy, so I went and grabbed a drink and spent some time texting a couple of out-of-town friends until she was done with the guy. I had to reassure her, when the guy left for the bathroom, that I was okay with her dancing with him; I just didn't want to dance with his friend. Later on, her guy came back, and I guess his friend decided to try his luck with me again. He actually asked, so I said fine. Within the first minute, I told him that I just wanted to dance tonight, thanks;*** that got him to stop playing that annoying game where the guy keeps trying to make out with you. After a couple songs, I was bored and my feet hurt, so I said thanks and went to sit down till my friend was ready to go.
What was so weird about this? I wasn't grateful for the guy's attention. I didn't find him particularly attractive, I wasn't interested in doing anything with him, and I felt a serious combination of uncomfortable and bored while dancing with him. You're probably nodding along, thinking, "Of course you were uncomfortable!" but I'm more interested in the fact that I was overwhelmingly BORED. I was not interested in dancing with him, and I didn't enjoy it. I was finally out of the mindset that would leave me feeling bad about myself for not getting "enough" male attention. I know it might sound obvious that I shouldn't do something if I don't want to, but what's more important to me right now is the nuance of the situation. I didn't dance with the guy because I felt obligated. I danced with him because I was feeling bored while my friend danced with someone else. And to my surprise, I didn't enjoy it. Not because the guy was any more creepy than any other guy I've danced with at a club. Not because I was too sober. Not because he was a bad dancer.
Because I just wasn't interested. And that was enough for me to realize that I didn't even feel any sort of thrill at having attention. Didn't want it from him. Didn't feel flattered. It was a combination, where I finally feel great about my body, and where I finally don't feel obligated to give a guy anything just because he paid attention to me. That combination did mean that I was bored more often than I'd hoped on Saturday night. But otherwise, it rocked.
Finally, I seem to be getting more attention on OKCupid lately; fine. Not thrilled or disappointed; just been noticing. I got an IM from a guy over the long weekend, and he seemed okay. I wasn't excited about our conversation, but he hadn't made any obviously stupid/sexist comments, and I figured I'd give him a chance. During the second conversation with him, during which we made plans for a date, I got seriously uncomfortable. Looking back over the chat logs, I could find several small red flags. He didn't seem like a jerk, and (importantly) did not seem like a rapist. But he did seem like ... a Nice Guy. He seemed too familiar with me already. Too presumptuous. Too desperate. Too excited.
I know what some of you might be thinking. "Too excited? Haven't you ever been excited for a date?" Hell yes. But there are ways to express excitement about a date TO the date without going overboard. In this case, the guy was badgering me about taking the T to the restaurant together. To me, a first date starts and ends at the restaurant; I don't want a ride, I don't want to travel with you, and for the love of all that is good in this world, I don't want you to know where I live.
I canceled the date and didn't feel that guilty about it. I know the guy was disappointed, but I don't feel guilty. I was dreading the date so much by Thursday afternoon that I was feeling panicked, and who the hell wants to feel that for a first date?
Last night, another guy IMed me. Right off the bat, I wasn't that interested; he made a sexist comment about how I seemed to be smarter about tech than the average girl,**** and he also badgered me for my personal contact info. He got blocked the moment the conversation ended. And it makes me feel really good that I can make these calls.
By loving my body, I don't feel like I'm unlovable by default. By sticking up for my sexuality, I can enjoy it instead of being obligated to dudes. I'm aware of the fact that by refusing to diet myself tiny, and by refusing to give a guy whatever he wants, I'm decreasing my getting-laid-ness. But there's good getting-laid-ness, and there's bad getting-laid-ness, and I only want the good kind.
* Modcloth.com is a clothing website for women that sells a lot of retro/vintage apparel, as well as apartment items. They tend to be pricey, and their items tend to run small and run out of stock quickly. However, I've had excellent experiences with their customer service, and the items I've purchased and kept are fabulous. If you have the extra money, and see anything you like that's in stock, it's worth a go.
** Yeah, I'm a skeptic/atheist. But I'm also a baseball fan. So I have a deal with myself that if I have to pray, it's ONLY to the baseball gods, as they are the only real gods. They don't like me right now, I think I have a five game losing streak.
*** As I was typing this, I first typed, "I asked if we could just dance." Then I realized, with glee, that I had not asked him if we could just dance. I had TOLD him I just wanted to dance. I began typing it wrong because usually the story goes more along the lines of, "I wish I had said something dfferent." Finally, not this time.
**** First off, sexist. Second off, whoever things I'm tech savvier than the average person is an idiot. I'm tech savvier than your grandparents. That's it.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Surgery is a go
On Tuesday morning, I met with my surgeon, and I scheduled a date for my surgery. The appointment was pretty interesting, and I'm looking forward to having this surgery over and done with.
The doctor mentioned that one of the risks of having both of my legs done at the same time is that I'll increase my chances of blot clots. I have to have both done at the same time, though, so I asked, "Should I stop taking my pill then?" The doctor was surprised, checked my records, and recommended that if I was having surgery in late July, I should stop taking my pill in June. Which was the next day. Whoops.
In other news, my sister's car crapped out, and so instead of selling mine, I gave it to her. All in one week, I've gone from owning a car and taking birth control to neither. And what's weird is that I started the pill February of sophomore year of high school, which is also when my dad gave me my first car.
Weird.
The doctor mentioned that one of the risks of having both of my legs done at the same time is that I'll increase my chances of blot clots. I have to have both done at the same time, though, so I asked, "Should I stop taking my pill then?" The doctor was surprised, checked my records, and recommended that if I was having surgery in late July, I should stop taking my pill in June. Which was the next day. Whoops.
In other news, my sister's car crapped out, and so instead of selling mine, I gave it to her. All in one week, I've gone from owning a car and taking birth control to neither. And what's weird is that I started the pill February of sophomore year of high school, which is also when my dad gave me my first car.
Weird.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
The Pink Hats
I have a pink Red Sox hat. It was a gift to me from my mom's boyfriend when I graduated from high school. He and I are both big Sox fans (unsurprising; this IS Boston). It's medium pink with a navy B. I like it. I have two other Sox hats (one traditional one, and one that's light blue; the light blue one is my oldest one, and I stuck a lobster pin in it and got it signed by a minor leaguer way back when), as well as a Celtics hat. I've also got a bunch of Sox number shirts, one with a giant American flag-colored B, and a pair of plaid boxer pants. I used to have a pink beanie (that and the PJ pants were another gift from my mom's boyfriend), but it died in the Great Basement Mold of 2010.*
I'm too broke to buy a lot of Sox tickets, and too lazy to try to get tickets last minute on game day. But I follow or watch as many games as I can, I know the players on the team, and I am absolutely an annoying Sox fan. Just missing the accent.
And yet, my sex (female) and my ownership of a pink Sox hat both make me somehow not a real fan. In the media, "pink hats" refer to female fans who are either bandwagon fans, just interested because of their boyfriends/husbands/crushes,** or mostly disinterested except everyone else seems to care and OOOOH, Jacoby Ellsbury is cute!! A pink hat is not a real fan, doesn't know anything about the team or the sport, and is to be ridiculed. Ownership of a pink hat is enough to indicate that the stereotype is true.
I'm not always reminded of this awful stereotype that so many female fans have to contend with. Boston has always struck me as a sports-obsessed city in general, and I see PLENTY of hardcore women at Sox games, at least as many as the hardcore menfolk. Additionally, I tend to wear my traditionally colored hat to games, mostly because it's the one that fits the best, and the color (navy) usually works better with whatever else I'm wearing (especially if the shirt I'm wearing is a Sox shirt). But then I get reminders about how "real fans" don't wear pink hats:
Well, fuck you, Boston Globe. I'm a female sports fan in Boston, I own and wear a pink hat, and I'm a deserving fan, too. Granted, I live and die for the Sox, not the Bruins, but this isn't a sport-specific sexism. Whether or not I lose interest when my team is sucking (which plenty of my male friends do as well), whether or not I wear pink, whether or not I find any athlete on any team attractive, I'm still a real fan.
So fuck you. And for the record, while I DO find Jacoby Ellsbury attractive (because, as you may have noticed, he's attractive), I also was thoroughly annoyed and frustrated last year with his ribs. Like plenty of dude fans. GET OVER YOURSELVES, please.
* I was told I could use the basement of my new (old) apartment for storage. And then it flooded over the summer and everything in it was destroyed. It sucked.
** The whole "pink hat" bullshit also relies on a lot of heteronormative stereotypes. It assumes that only the womenfolk like pink, or that ladies would maybe only be interested in sports because they are hetero and want to impress a dude. Ack.
I'm too broke to buy a lot of Sox tickets, and too lazy to try to get tickets last minute on game day. But I follow or watch as many games as I can, I know the players on the team, and I am absolutely an annoying Sox fan. Just missing the accent.
And yet, my sex (female) and my ownership of a pink Sox hat both make me somehow not a real fan. In the media, "pink hats" refer to female fans who are either bandwagon fans, just interested because of their boyfriends/husbands/crushes,** or mostly disinterested except everyone else seems to care and OOOOH, Jacoby Ellsbury is cute!! A pink hat is not a real fan, doesn't know anything about the team or the sport, and is to be ridiculed. Ownership of a pink hat is enough to indicate that the stereotype is true.
I'm not always reminded of this awful stereotype that so many female fans have to contend with. Boston has always struck me as a sports-obsessed city in general, and I see PLENTY of hardcore women at Sox games, at least as many as the hardcore menfolk. Additionally, I tend to wear my traditionally colored hat to games, mostly because it's the one that fits the best, and the color (navy) usually works better with whatever else I'm wearing (especially if the shirt I'm wearing is a Sox shirt). But then I get reminders about how "real fans" don't wear pink hats:
The regular (not a pink hat in the bunch) sweater-clad 17,565 filed into the air-conditioned barn with considerable trepidation.This line is from an article in the Boston Globe about how the Boston Bruins, our hockey team, is going to the finals for the first time in 21 years. The comment about the pink hats here is to demonstrate, just in case the reader was worried, that REALLY, the folks at the Garden last night? They're REAL fans. None of those ladies who are taking up seats that should have gone to real, deserving fans.
Well, fuck you, Boston Globe. I'm a female sports fan in Boston, I own and wear a pink hat, and I'm a deserving fan, too. Granted, I live and die for the Sox, not the Bruins, but this isn't a sport-specific sexism. Whether or not I lose interest when my team is sucking (which plenty of my male friends do as well), whether or not I wear pink, whether or not I find any athlete on any team attractive, I'm still a real fan.
So fuck you. And for the record, while I DO find Jacoby Ellsbury attractive (because, as you may have noticed, he's attractive), I also was thoroughly annoyed and frustrated last year with his ribs. Like plenty of dude fans. GET OVER YOURSELVES, please.
* I was told I could use the basement of my new (old) apartment for storage. And then it flooded over the summer and everything in it was destroyed. It sucked.
** The whole "pink hat" bullshit also relies on a lot of heteronormative stereotypes. It assumes that only the womenfolk like pink, or that ladies would maybe only be interested in sports because they are hetero and want to impress a dude. Ack.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Define "happier"
On my way to work this morning, I was daydreaming about late fall/early winter, when I'll be able to run again. I'm aware that when I run, my body becomes a running body; while I never managed to keep running long enough to see any dramatic changes, I did become more compact, more defined. The difference between me in August 2008 and October 2008 is pretty obvious; I managed to lose all that awesome running-ness in about a month and a half, once my calves gave out.
I know a lot of folks have this suspicion that I only want to run to lose weight, that losing weight is one of my goals, and that I'm somehow lying when I say this isn't true, and that I'm happy in my body right now. I've got some news for you folks. I'm actually not lying. Let's talk about this.
You like how your body changes when you run, therefore you dislike your body now.
My body now is pretty great. Yeah, I'm fat. I've noticed. But I also understand that my fat is from a combination of three things. First, my metabolism: it's not "slow" so much as it's more efficient. I can eat the same amount of calories as a person with a so-called "fast" metabolism, but still be fat. It's because my body can make do with far fewer calories, and so it stores the rest of them. There are advantages to having this kind of metabolism, and there's nothing actually WRONG with it.
Second, the pill: I've been on hormonal birth control for almost 10 years now. From what I know from my own experience, and from speaking with other women who are or who have been on the pill, weight gain is the rule, not the exception. I'm tired of doctors pooh-poohing that experience. "It's just water retention," "It's not real, it's perception," or, "That's just an anecdote." Yeah, just an anecdote from every single woman on the pill I've talked to.
It's really not that strange to attribute weight to the pill. More importantly, it's fair to attribute difficulty losing weight to the pill; I have to do more than just limit calories and walk a couple miles a day to lose weight. Medication plays a role.
Finally, I can't run. I know there are other ways to lose weight, blah blah blah, but we're talking about reasons why I'm fat, not why people (generalization) are fat. I can't run. So I stay fat. I have an invisible disability. The end.
So do I dislike my body now? I dislike my CALVES, that's for sure. And not how they look, but how they function. Because obsessing over how my body looks is pointless and exhausting. I care much more about how my body functions. Right now, it mostly functions well. I'll be happier once my calves function properly, and once my body becomes a running body again. If it's a fat running body, so be it. As long as it's a running body!
How can you be happy when your body is so repulsive?
Well, my body isn't repulsive, at least not to me. So I guess I can be happy because I don't hate myself? Does that work? It's not really debatable that beauty standards are dynamic, so I'm not going to worry about whether or not I can have different perception and opinions.
How could you claim that you wouldn't be happier if you lost weight?
This is generally the biggest question that people have that leads them to believe that I'm a lying liar who lies. If I'm happy with my body now, they believe, it's only because I don't realize how much happier I would be if I had a "normal" body. But that logic would only work in a world without thin privilege.
I am reminded every single day that my body is unacceptable in our society. I'm fat. I'm a burden because I'm fat. I'm destroying America. I'm repulsive. I will never be loved (by a man). There's something wrong with me. I can't be happy in my body. Etc.
I went shopping Tuesday night with a friend of mine, who has gained weight during her first year of graduate school. I think she looks totally fine, but both of us were frustrated as we searched for flattering, appropriate* party dresses. Sizing was a mess; I am by no means tiny, but I should be able to fit into a large or extra large; we found an "extra-large" dress that was almost too small on my friend, who typically wears a medium. We found that the current most popular dress type, bandage, made both of us look ridiculous.
We ended up finding some clothes we liked, including a dress for her (I was thrilled to find a dress the next day on Modcloth, which is hit or miss with sizing, but it's the right cut and style, and the fabric is flexible enough that I should be fine). But the whole trip was frustrating. Neither of us hates her body, neither of us is worried about our health or our attractiveness (although I'm sure plenty of people think I should worry about both because I AM SIZE FOURTEEN OMGGGGG DEATH SENTENCE). But I left the mall feeling like SOMEONE hated my body. It's a strange feeling.
So I know that I will be happier if I lose weight. Not because I hate my body, but because OTHER people hate it. I live in a world where being thin is privileged, so of COURSE I would be happier with that privilege. I would also be happier if that privilege ceased to exist.
Body weight and shape is one of the few things that I could change in order to gain or lose privilege. I cannot become cis-male, for example. My friends who are not white cannot become white. My queer friends can usually pass if they choose, but cannot change their sexuality. Etc.
I can lose weight and join the ranks of the privileged men and women (mostly women) whose bodies are deemed acceptable (not perfect, just acceptable). But I could also fight back against thin privilege. Part of that fight is loving my body. Part of it is dropping the services of doctors who insist that I need to lose weight, without any actual reason besides, "Well, your BMI is high." I can continue to speak out against the use of BMI as a measure of health. I can wear sleeveless shirts and skinny jeans.
I would be happier if I were skinnier, not because there's something wrong with my body now, but because there's something wrong with the culture I live in.
I don't judge people for wanting to lose weight in order to gain thin privilege. I don't think that losing weight, for whatever reason (life circumstances, actual effort, illness) is some sign of "giving in" to kyriarchy, or that it constitutes a loss. While I believe that many people could do more to fight kyriarchy, often we can be more successful when we gain privilege. We can still be allies.
When my calves have healed, and I can run again, I'm going to run like hell. Not for my health, which is excellent, or to lose weight, since I like my body, but because I LOVE running. Yes, I would be happy if running led to weight loss, only because my life would be happier if I didn't have to deal with other people hating my body for no reason. But I would still insist that weight isn't an indicator of health. I would still vehemently disagree with anyone who claimed that no one has an excuse not to exercise. I would still pressure clothing stores, such as Modcloth, to include more sizes, or to standardize sizing for women.
I just wouldn't have to deal with my mom fretting over my weight. I wouldn't have to scour the mall for party dresses and leave empty handed. I wouldn't have to forgo impromptu sleepovers because I know I won't fit into my friends' pajamas. Life would be happier, not because I hate my body now, but because our culture is designed to Other me, to deem my body abnormal, and to make it inconvenient for me to exist.
* By "appropriate" here, we mean "appropriately short and cleavage-y to wear to a club."
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