Fat and Fabulous

Many people on my Twitter timeline watched the Victoria Secret Fashion Show last week. Of those that watched, the comments ranged from the impracticality of the lingerie shown to men drooling to women complaining about how good the women looked and how they paled in comparison to men complaining about the women complaining.

I was eating ice cream and watching reruns of The A-Team at the time, but I did catch a snippet of it and saw a woman in elaborate tiger lingerie and my first thought was, “Holy hell, I couldn’t wear that. I’d get shot by some big game hunter or a redneck drinking shine on his porch.” That probably wasn’t supposed to be my first thought, but I’m crap about getting it right the first time.

Here’s the thing, I don’t watch the Victoria Secret Fashion Show because it holds no interest for me. I can’t fit into their lingerie, practical or impractical, I don’t really need lingerie, and though I do appreciate the female form, their models are too skinny for me. It creeps me out if I can see your spine when you bend over. You might be a very lovely person and we might get along swimmingly, but still. Bones go on the inside. That’s just one of my irrational quirks.

And I certainly don’t watch it to punish myself. There’s no sense in me looking at underwear I’m never going to fit into or compare myself to women I’m never going to look like. I was built to plow fields, so I’ll never lose enough weight to be thin. Being a size 4 is impossible if my bone structure won’t allow it. My self-esteem is kind of important and I try to go out of my way to nurture it. Watching HM Murdock fly helicopters and do impressions of Paul Lynde and aggravate BA Baracus is way better for my self-image than watching thin women walk around in their underwear. But that’s just me.

I try to maintain a mindset of fat and fabulous. I try to make that be my center. I can be both. I realize most people don’t believe this and in fact, try to fight it as hard as they can, and that’s cool. Everyone has their own agenda and this one is mind. I feel it’s better for my mental health to rock the body I’m currently using. If this body loses forty pounds, then I’ll rock it forty pounds lighter (I’ve done it before). If this body loses 100 pounds, I’ll rock that one, too (but I bet I’d be able to see my spine, so I’d probably spend a good portion of my time creeping myself out, too). The same would be done if I gained twenty pounds.

If it’s mine, then I’m going to own it. I realize that really offends people that want me to change to fit the ideal. I realize that it automatically puts me at a huge disadvantage in the realm of romance because society dictates that I’m not allowed to have what I want unless I conform or am willing to settle for much less than I want. I realize that I’m going to have to be harshly judged until the end of time and have to constantly correct people’s misconceptions.

But I also realize that I’m not the loser in this situation either. Your hang-ups about my looks aren’t my problem. It’s a consequence of being fabulous.

So good on Victoria and her secrets and her model and her questionable underwear.

But it doesn’t do a thing for me.