Category: Megalomania

Celebrating 20 Years of My Boobs…with a Mammogram

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

On August 13th, my boobs will be 20 years old.

If you’re new to the blog and my breasts, the short story is that I had breast reduction surgery in 2002. I wrote about the long story here. I’ve also written about some of my hang-ups with the resulting scars and told a story that has been retold multiple times by my friends so people I’ve never met in other states know about my boobs.

And in honor of my jubblies making 20, I’ve added another titty story to my biography.

Okay, so it wasn’t exactly in honor the anniversary of my surgery but it just happened to work out that way. Call it serendipity.

At the end of last month I had my first mammogram adventure.

In all fairness, I should have had my first mammogram after my breast reduction surgery. But in the months that followed while I was healing I lost my insurance and never really gave it much thought afterwards since I was young and I’ve always been horrible at taking care of myself. Probably should have gotten it done anyway. But we’ll get to that.

I saw my doctor early in the last week of July for a routine pap smear that I was overdue to have by about twenty years (what did I just say?) and that included having my doctor do a breast exam. I self-exam (not as often as I should, of course, are you getting the theme?), but a second opinion is always a good thing.

Especially in this case because my doctor wanted a second opinion on the fatty tissue on the side of my upper right breast, just under my armpit. We both agreed that it was probably nothing, but a mammogram was a good idea, especially since I’m the age to start regular mammograms anyway and I’d already put it off.

So, I scheduled my first mammogram for that Friday.

Now, my first wasn’t like a regular first because it was a diagnostic. Meaning that I’d have my mammogram and then wait while a doctor elsewhere (there’s none on site in my little town) looked at the pictures and decided whether or not I needed to get an ultrasound.

Groovy.

I will admit that the thing I was most nervous about was remembering NOT to put on deodorant the morning of my appointment. As someone with anxiety who stresses over just making appointments, I find this to be amusing. And the mammogram itself wasn’t too bad. It was awkward and uncomfortable and some of the squishing was a little painful, but nothing terrible. The tech I worked with was quite skilled and we were done pretty quickly even though she was also showing a newbie the ropes and offering up teaching points as she went.

Then I got to sit in the hallway in my front closing smock and watch Shark Week while I waited for the word on whether or not I had to have an ultrasound.

It turns out that I did. It was only after I got into the ultrasound room that the new tech (my first dude in the whole process starting from my doctor’s appointment) told me the remote doctor wanted an ultrasound on my left side -not the side my doctor had been concerned about.

Okay then. A plot twist.

I lay down, whip off that gown so the tech can gel up my tit, and we proceed to stare at the screen looking for anything that looks like it shouldn’t be there. The tech took some pictures to send to the remote doc, but told me that he didn’t see anything. Neither did I, but I struggle to pick out shit in those baby sonograms, so I’m probably not the most qualified.

He let me clean up the gel and then he left to send off the pics and see what the remote doc wanted. It was only after the lights were on and I sat up that I realized that gel had gotten all over my smock. Like, what the fuck? How did it get from my left boob all the way over on my right side? Absolute chaos.

The tech came back and informed me that now we had to do the right side in the area that my doctor wanted checked. So, we had a repeat process of gel and staring and picture taking and once again seeing nothing. This time after I cleaned up, I got to go back to home base and change. The tech was pretty confident that the remote doc wouldn’t need to see anything else, especially since there wasn’t anything to see.

After some more Shark Week time in the hallway, my original mammogram tech came in and informed me that the right side was just fat (as I, a veteran fatty, suspected). She then explained that the remote doc had seen a spot on my left breast on the mammogram, but since nothing showed up on my ultrasound, they’re not too concerned. It’s probably just a natural occurrence, possibly as a result of my breast reduction surgery, but since they don’t have any previous mammogram to compare it to (see how I screwed myself there?), I have to go back and have a second mammogram done in about six months just to be sure. So, after going two decades without getting a mammogram when I should have, I get to have two in six months time. Sounds about right for me.

Fun fact about me: After spending years with tits so big that they felt like their own person and after having breast reduction surgery and all of the exams that go with that before and after, I’m actually pretty comfortable whipping out my boobs in a clinical setting. No less than five people saw my boobs during Mammogram Week and three of them manhandled them. That’s the most action I’ve gotten in a long time.

So, here’s to my next boobsquish and to twenty years of smaller tatas.

Sláinte!

What Do You (Stress) Dream About?

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

One charming thing about my brain is that I have nightmares on the regular. Despite my fascination with horror movies, when I was a kid I was terrified to the point of not sleeping by them solely because I was afraid I’d have nightmares. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized my nightmares are seldom influenced by anything I watched during the day. They are an independent entity and they come so often than I got used to them. In fact, I seldom have a nightmare that makes it difficult for me to go back to sleep.

I read somewhere that it’s believed there’s actually a nightmare trait -a gene that makes a person predisposed to having nightmares- and I believe it. My youngest niece suffers from the same nightmare issue. Her sleep got a lot better once I gave her some of my coping mechanisms. She used to call recurring dreams “reruns” and get annoyed with them. “Ugh! I had another bad dream last night, but it was a rerun! I already did this!”

As annoying and sometimes disturbing as those nightmares can be, I’d take them over stress dreams any day.

Or night, as it were.

I’ve had stress dreams since probably junior high or high school. I get stressed, my dreams get stressed. They’re different from nightmares because stress dreams are more likely to trigger my somnambulism.

They’re also different from nightmares because stress dreams are relentless. If I have one, then that’s going to be my night. No amount of changing position is going to save me. I’ll wake up, roll over, and go right back into it.

My stress dreams are usually about the situation that has me stressed. That’s usually work. A busy library with no help and an inability to do my job is pretty common. Or I’ll dream about past jobs as a substitute for my current one. Usually I’m back at Wal-Mart trying to remember how to do my job.

But sometimes my stress dreams take on a fun twist.

They evoke the same feelings as my usual stress dreams, but they’re more like the nightmares I have. Like the time I dreamed about the 10 plagues, but not in a fun, Dr. Phibes way. Or the time I dreamed about stabbing zombies in the eye with the handle of a rat tail comb. Normally, these nightmare-adjacent dreams would have been nothing for me. Instead, I was left feeling wound for sound as much as drained.

Sometimes the stress dreams will co-opt dreams that I don’t consider bad and warp them. I frequently dream about tornadoes and sharks (but not together), which might be nightmares for some people, but for me they’re not because I’m never scared in any of them. Unless they’re stress-related. Then these dreams take on an anxiety-inducing quality that spills over into my waking hours and wrecks my day.

My stress dreams have become more and more frequent over the past few years to the point that recently I couldn’t remember the last time I didn’t have one. My body adjusted to them apparently because they stopped wearing me out as much as they used to, but my mind still struggles.

It’s bad when I crave the bizarre dreams, the absolute nightmares, but I really would prefer them.

Those I can sleep through.

The Greatest Mystery of My Life–Solved!

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I have just recently solved probably the greatest mystery of my life and since this is my life, it was of course a ridiculous one.

How did I get Styx Extended Versions Live on my iTunes?

Here’s the thing, I like music. When I say I like music, I mean I like all kinds and as such I have a sizeable, bizarre collection of it. And since I had internet access during the Napster/Limewire/Kazaa days, I have a lot of songs that I randomly acquired (and not all of them labeled correctly). These were also the days of ripping/burning CDs. I have a ton of music that I not only ripped from CDs I own, but also CDs burned for me by my friends (those were the days). I also have songs randomly acquired from my friends posting the tunes on LiveJournal.

What I’m saying is that even though I have a whole lot of music, I know where most of it has come from.

And I’ve managed to keep most of it through the years despite numerous hard drive failures and computer crashes. I have literally transferred songs from my dying desktops to USBs to new laptops. I will go above and beyond to keep my music. I don’t trust iTunes to save it for me.

Prior to my trip to Seattle back in 2017, I decided to make a massive playlist for the trip. That way I could load that one playlist and my pacifier shows onto my iPod (yes, I’m old and still don’t put music or media on my phone) and be set for the 4+ hour flight from O’Hare to the Seattle and back. My flight anxiety stems from being locked in a metal tube with too many other humans rather than any fear that the plane might crash. If I plug myself in to my music or my shows and try not to think about peeing in the tiny bathroom, I can manage. At the time, those 4+ hour legs were the longest flights I’d ever taken and I was understandably concerned. I wanted to be prepared.

So, I created the Why Not? playlist. It’s just the broadest sampling of my weirdo collection of music. I’ve got everything from 1920s swing jazz to 50s country to 60s pop to 70s Southern rock to 80s synth to 90s alt to 00’s hard rock to 10s dance and everything in between. It’s a good time.

However, when I first put this playlist together, going through my catalogue of songs, I ran into something I couldn’t explain.

Styx Extended Versions Live.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t mad about it. I like Styx. I just could not for the life of me remember how I ended up with it in my collection. I know I didn’t buy it because for all my love of music, my CD collection is rather paltry compared to other folks my age (or at least what their collections might have looked like during the heyday since I can’t say that anyone my age still has their CDs) and even though I like Styx, I couldn’t see myself spending money on one of their CDs. And I was pretty sure nobody gave me the CD because I know I didn’t have it in my pitiful collection and no one I was running with at the time would have gifted it to me.

I was sure I didn’t download it off of iTunes because again, not the thing I would have spent money on and I almost never download complete albums anyway.

So, that left my Dad’s CD collection, which is surprisingly bigger than mine. Probably because his car actually had a CD player and I don’t think a single car I’ve owned ever did. I ripped a big chunk of his collection (mostly his country and Southern rock stuff), but for the life of me I could not remember him ever listening to Styx, let alone owning one of their CDs. There was also the matter of not finding a Styx CD in his collection in his Jeep which is where all of his CDs live.

For years, I had no idea where the hell this Styx album came from or how I came to possess it in my digital music collection.

And then recently, I had to go look for my CDs. Yes. I still have them.

My Dad had cleaned out the pie safe where they’d been kept and ended up putting them down in the basement with a bunch of other unused items. As I was rooting through the box he’d stored them in, I came across Styx.

I don’t know why it’s not with the rest of my dad’s CDs (my guess is that it’s related to an ex-ladyfriend because I highly doubt it was one of the CDs my grandpa had, which are also down there) and I don’t remember ripping it, but I suppose I must have. After all, I do have the whole album and no other explanation about how I acquired it.

So, I’ll go with this logical conclusion.

Mystery solved.

I’m Not Patriotic By Nature

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I know this seems a radical thing to say by someone raised in a country that prides itself on its patriotism, that injects the performance of it into so many aspects of life. I said the Pledge of Allegiance every morning in grade school like everyone else. I’ve sung the “Star Spangled Banner” before sports events. But they’re just motions to go through. They don’t stir that “America, Fuck Yeah!” feeling that I’m supposed to have, that unbridled, unconditional loyalty akin to what an avid sports fan feels for their team (now that I do have for my beloved shitshow Chicago Cubs). I do not well up with pride or any other emotion when I see the flag.

The patriotism didn’t take. Sorry. It’s just not my bag.

Now don’t get me wrong. I enjoy the 4th of July. I love a good theme. The color scheme and coordination, the insistence on consuming only barbecued meats and mayo-based salads, and there’s explosives. What more could a Midwestern girl want?

But I am not patriotic.

I do not feel an unconditional love to a bordered area just because of the happenstance that I was born there. Do I acknowledge that I was fortunate to be born into my circumstances in this country as opposed to perhaps another country? Yes. Do I also acknowledge that I could still have been less fortunate being born in this country, but into different circumstances? Yes.

None of the freedoms that I’m supposed to celebrate were given to me freely by this county I’m supposed to pledge allegiance to. All of them had to be fought for, bled for, and are now being casually ripped away. The only “freedom” I have going for me in this country is that I’m white. Everything else -being a woman, being queer, being poor, being non-Christian- disqualifies me. Why should I be patriotic to that?

Shouldn’t loyalty to country be no different than loyalty to anything else (except my loyalty to the Cubs)? Shouldn’t my country be as loyal to me as I am to it?

No. Because patriotism is an unrequited act. You’re expected to show your devotion, up to and including giving your life for you country, and in return you hope it spares you its worst. You point to the freedoms that are just illusions and claim that asking for anything more is an insult because this is the best country in the world.

I don’t feel that way. I don’t feel like there is a Best Country in the World contest and if there was, I don’t think America would be seeded as high as everyone else does. I personally don’t see a country that prioritizes the destruction of the people in other countries over the well being of the people within it’s own pretend outline as even making the Sweet Sixteen, let alone the championship game.

People conflate patriotism with gratitude. I can be grateful for my existence (or not) and how where I live influences my existence. I can be grateful that I live in the middle of a cornfield in a perceived blue state in a carved up United States. But that gratitude is not patriotism.

I am not a patriotic person.

I just live here.

Parental Supervision–TV Edition

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

The other day I was watching Puppet Master on TV. An ’80s classic to be sure. I remember watching it with my sister when it came out on cable. I was probably 10 or 11, which would have made my sister 9 or 10 at the time. You could say that we might have been a little too young to be watching a movie in which a bunch of creepy puppets murder people, but hey, it was the late ’80s/early ’90s. We were allowed to do that back then.

The question came up on Twitter once about what were you not allowed to watch as a kid. While other people are listing R-rated movies and TV shows like South Park and in some cases The Simpsons, I really had to think about it because we didn’t really have restrictions on the TV we consumed. The best I could come up with was we weren’t allowed to watch anything with excessive sex. That’s it. Excessive violence was fine. We were allowed to watch horror movies with the understanding that we were not to wake up our mother if we had nightmares. We made this choice. We got to deal with the consequences.

This is why I went through a period of sleep deprivation one summer after watching Creepshow 2 and A Nightmare on Elm Street 4. I was afraid to sleep because I was afraid to have nightmares. It turns out I don’t remember having any nightmares about the movies when I did sleep and as I’ve gotten older I realize the my nightmares act independently of anything I watch. They just are.

As a result of this lack of parental supervision, I watched A LOT of horror movies when I was more than likely too young to be watching them. I can remember sitting on the couch when I was really little watching Poltergeist and V: The Mini Series with my dad. Of the two, it turns out V was the one that scarred me for life. Fucking lizard people.

The best part was that this lack of parental supervision extended to grandparents on both sides. In the case of my paternal grandpa, you could say it was even encouraged. He might make us rent stuff like The Journey of Natty Gan and The Princess Bride from the video store, but then we’d go back to the house and he’d say, “Oh, look! There’s a Maximum Overdrive/Duel double feature!” and then we’d watch that (my sister still hates driving alongside semis).

At his place I can remember watching Halloween II and Halloween III: Season of the Witch; The Hitcher; Aliens; Poltergeist III; and Trilogy of Terror (I was convinced the Zuni doll lived in the bookcase after that viewing).

At my maternal grandmother’s house, I’d sometimes go off to watch TV in the den. There I remember watching Jaws 2, Cujo, and Motel Hell.

Most of these movies were consumed by my eyeballs before I got through junior high (some of them before I got to junior high).

And it wasn’t just horror that we were allowed to watch, either. There were some more adult action and comedy flicks we were consuming at tender ages, too. I don’t know how many kids in fourth grade watched Fatal Beauty, but for a period of time, I could quote it. Ditto for Police Academy 3, but that was one of those things where the adult jokes kind of fly over your head and you just laugh at Proctor walking into a room full of people while stark naked.

TV shows were the same way. Do you want to watch Unsolved Mysteries and America’s Most Wanted? Go for it. Pro wrestling and Beverly Hills 90210? Enjoy. 21 Jump Street and Cagney and Lacey? By all means. Cartoons? Okay then. Cartoons are for kids anyway. Just no Wile E. Coyote impersonations.

Did I watch age-appropriate stuff? Sure. All the time. Did all of this unbridled media consumption warp me? I dunno. I think if it did, it’s probably way down on the list.

Did it help form my tastes in regards to the media I consume as an apparent adult? Yeah, I’m sure it did. I wouldn’t have watched all of those horror movies as a kid if I weren’t fascinated with them and wasn’t willing to face the potential nightmares to experience them.

Am I saying that parents should let their kids watch whatever? Of course not. They’re your kids. Warp them in your own unique way.

I’m just saying that for me, I’m glad I wasn’t so supervised.

I Am Not Flirting With You

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I saw a tweet the other day (that I failed to screencap) that said something to the effect of, “I’m not flirting with you. I’m just hot and talking.” And on a level I could relate to that tweet. Not the hot part, of course. The not flirting with you part.

Because I can assure you that I’m never flirting with anyone, ever. Even if I’m attracted to you, I’m not intentionally flirting with you.

I study many languages, but flirting is one I do not speak. I don’t know a single word. There are people who can weave that flattery and charm and innuendo and whatever else it is into conversations effortlessly. I can’t even attempt this. I’ve tried. I’ve also conveniently erased those times from my memory because they were so awkward and cringe-worthy. If you put me on a plank over a tank full of alligators and told me the only way I was getting out alive was if I successfully flirted my way out of that situation, I’d go ahead and jump. I have no game. None. Non-existent.

However, I am frequently assumed to be flirting with people even when I’m not. This is most notable with men who panic that a fat girl might be hitting on them. Meanwhile, I’m oblivious because I think we’re just having a conversation, maybe joking around. Under no circumstance am I actively flirting. As we’ve discussed, I have no skill there.

What I’m doing -and what I’m good at- is bantering. I’m quick with a joke or an insult, I know a lot of random stuff, and my mind is just dirty enough that I can come up with an appropriate innuendo or two. Every conversation with me has the potential to be a comedy routine if I’m feeling it. I’m a natural.

People mistake this for flirting. It’s wild. I know that there are some similarities. But I can assure that I’m not trying to seduce you.

I’m trying to entertain you. It’s my defense mechanism.

If I’m entertaining you, then you might not notice that my anxiety is raging and that I feel incredibly awkward, that I AM incredibly awkward, that I know I don’t quite fit in, that my introvert ass is plotting a socially acceptable exit. If you think I’m funny, you won’t notice I’m weird.

You gotta get to know me better before I ease you into my weird .

And by then my banter stops being a defense mechanism and becomes just my natural conversational skills. You’ll never notice the difference.

I’m told that what I really am is a natural flirt. That’s why I don’t notice what I’m doing. But I think it’s the other way around. I think everyone else doesn’t notice what I’m doing.

So, don’t panic. I’m not flirting with you.

*Obvious customer service related aside: I am definitely not flirting with you when I am at work. My job is to be professional and courteous. I am paid to indulge your presence to a certain extent. I do not want your body or your phone number.

Aunt Kiki the Answer Bi

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I knew at a young age that I was not straight, but I didn’t really put that out into the world until I was 17 and came out as bisexual. As it happens, living in a conservative, rural area, I don’t have a whole lot of queer friends or acquaintances in my immediate physical space. I’m surrounded by straights. For many of these folks, I’m the only queer they know. Or the only queer they know well enough to ask questions about queerdom. I don’t know if they thought I just automatically downloaded all of this info upon claiming my bi identity, but I have become the go-to person on all things LGBTQIA+.

Truthfully, I don’t mind.

Honestly, they’re not wrong about me having the answers.

It’s a given that I’d know something about my own sexuality and believe me, I still get a lot of questions about how it works. The stereotypes and myths persist, biphobia is real, and bi-erasure is a fucking annoying aspect of reality. I have facts, I have opinions, and I will word vomit them all at you when only mildly provoked.

But I get asked a lot of questions outside my area of my own personal expertise as the token queer in many of my friend groups. Naturally, I should know these things because they all came with my gay agenda and rainbow mafia handbook. Right?

As it turns out, no. I know these things (or I find the answer to the questions I don’t know) because I am a huge nerd and I like to learn stuff.

Back in the long, long ago of my youth I watched a lot of shows on The Discovery Channel (before it became whatever it is now) and they actually had a lot of stuff on sexuality, which I was found fascinating, possibly because of my own non-straight status. I learned quite about about gender and gender expression and sexuality from these shows and it created the base from which I continue to learn because I like to be an educated member of my community. I’ve read books and science papers and watched documentaries and Googled all sorts of information in the years since being a 16 year old watching how bottom surgeries are performed while my friends were out cruising the square.

It also did not occur to me that this knowledge might not be common knowledge until I found myself explaining how bottom surgery worked to a couple of hets over dinner one night. I thought if I knew it, then everybody knew it.

Apparently that’s not how it works.

But like I said, I don’t mind explaining these things. If I’m the one doing the answering, then I know they’re getting quality information. They’re also getting that information in a fun, no-bullshit way.

So, if say you ask me to explain asexuality, I’ll tell you that it’s a general term for a spectrum of people who experience little to no sexual attraction. And when you tell me that you don’t understand that, I’ll tell you that you don’t have to. It exists as is whether you understand it or not. Your job is to respect it, which takes literally no effort.

See? Simple. Concise. No room for anyone’s bullshit.

I have no trouble informing you in a do-no-harm-but-take-no-shit way why we don’t deadname and the value of using people’s correct pronouns and the complexity of biological sex. I can explain transitioning and coming out and the genders and why saying “pregnant people” and “people who menstruate” is not an insult to women because SPOILER ALERT women are people.

It is entirely possible that my answers will make you uncomfortable, but that’s okay. Sit with it. Once you realize that none of this affects you in anything other than treating other people as fellow humans instead subcategories that don’t deserve “special” rights (ie the same rights allo cis het white males have), you’ll be okay.

So ask Aunt Kiki the Answer Bi.

I’ve got the answer you need.

That Hardcore Work Ethic

~ Kiki Writes ~ 1 Comment

Last week I had to call off of work.

Somehow, in my sleep, probably due to being over 40, I threw my back out.

Now, here’s the thing. Prior to breast reduction surgery, my back was rarely ever in. However, when it would go out, it was always my lower back and I was so used to it that I could cope. I rarely have issues with my upper back. So I was wholly unprepared to sit up in bed last Thursday morning and quickly realize that I could not sit up straight. The only way I could be upright was if I hunched over.

This made standing -and walking- a real challenge.

My first thought was “Holy shit, this is really fucking problematic.”

My second thought was “How am I supposed to work like this?”

Because of course I wouldn’t think about calling in. Not me. That’s not what I do. Work sick. Work hurt. Don’t complain. Just get the work done. (Okay, I often get the work done while complaining, but still.) Be reliable. Until last Thursday, I hadn’t called off a job since the mid-aughts. I might have left early a couple of times, but I always went. Bad ass sinus infections, sprained ankles, bad ass sinus headaches, stress fractures, colds, jammed elbows, the flu, patellar tendonitis, I showed up.

And last Thursday, I didn’t.

You would think that being unable to stand up unless I was hunched over, struggling to walk, unable to lift either one of my arms above my head, unable to carry anything at all in my left hand, unable to sit up unless I was hunched over…all things I have to do at my job would be a clue that I needed to call off. The thought of shelving anything was ridiculous. I’d be limited to maybe two shelves that I could reach and I’d only be able to carry one book at a time and I’d be moving slower than a snail out of slime while looking like Lon Chaney and making the most unsettling noises. At that point, I had no idea how I was even going shower or get dressed, let alone work.

And yet!

I still tried to figure out how to make it work. Or at least how to make my back work enough that I could power through and get by with my library partner in crime picking up my slack (which she would totally do without hesitation or complaint because she is the best). I laid on flat on the floor and did an assortment of stretches before I finally conceded that I wasn’t going to be able to work.

And even then when I contacted my boss, I told her that I was going to keep trying to get my back to be work ready before it was time for my shift.

Spoiler alert: I didn’t. I spent most of the day in bed. My back gradually improved which just added on to the guilt I already felt about calling in.

I could have gone to work.

That’s why I’m writing about this. It’s not me bragging about how bad ass I am because I can work no matter what and it took extreme pain to the point of being unable to stand to knock me down. It’s me explaining the absolutely bonkers way my brain is wired to feel guilty about calling off when I legitimately need to call off of work.

I feel like I’m letting everyone I work with down by calling off. I feel like everyone feels like I’m faking if I call off.

I feel like there is no legitimate reason for me to call off.

Even when there absolutely is.

I may have spent the day feeling guilty, but I also spent it resting and at least the latter helped my back feel better.

I’m Cheering You On…From Over Here

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

As an introvert with unmedicated anxiety, my desire to be supportive of friends and family can be somewhat less than what I’d like depending on the day.

On my best days, I can show up. Physically. In person. When my batteries are fully charged and my anxiety is either low-tide or manageable, I can actually be there for my people. Yes, I am capable of pushing myself for really important events when I’m not feeling my best, but I honestly try to make myself social interaction ready prior to those events. This means as much alone time as I can beforehand along with having my anxiety coping methods at the ready.

However, I can’t always do that. I work in a customer service job. Even part time, I can’t always successfully recharge my batteries. My anxiety can prevent it. Or my depression if it’s acting up.

So, sometimes -most times, too many times- I don’t show up. Not in the physical form.

Most of the time my support comes in a less full-bodied form. Text messages, emails, likes, favorites, retweets, memes, cards. It’s not ideal, I know. But sometimes it’s all I have the energy to do. I want you know that I’m thinking of you, that I support you, that I’m proud of you. Those little gestures are the best I can do and they’re the ones I end up doing the most.

And even with the easiest of these gestures I can still struggle because of my anxiety.

As I’ve mentioned before, my anxiety’s favorite thing to tell me is that people do not like me and do not want to hear from me. This applies to my closest friends and even my family. I have to psych myself up sometimes to text my own sister. Crazy, right? Yes, I am.

There are times, when I do not respond to social media posts even though I want to because I feel like that’s for the best. That my support would best be expressed with a like or a favorite or a share or a retweet rather than an actual verbally communicated interaction because I don’t want to be too familiar and/or bug anybody. And yes, this applies to people I’ve known for years and that I’m related to. I quite frequently backspace.

You’re welcome.

I’m lackluster in a lot of ways. My best is rarely good enough. But I do try. And I do care about the people in my world.

Believe me when I say that I’m cheering you all on.

But from over here.

There’s a Weight Limit on That

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

“I love it when girls wear white shorts.” Not if those shorts show off some cellulite. Then the best come on you can muster is a cow noise as you walk behind her.

“I love it when a girl eats.” Not if she’s got some meat on her bones and some rolls in her bakery. Then you have nothing but concern for her health that you spit out as snide comments.

“I love a girl in yoga pants.” Not if that pants size is in the double digits. Then she just looks like a slob because we all know she doesn’t actually do yoga, am I right?

When I hear comments like these which remark on a woman’s appearance (which are almost always made by a man), I automatically add the asterisk to it. Because there’s a weight limit on that comment, a footnote on it about the exceptions.

Because there are always exceptions.

Now of course these are generalized comments so they’re not necessarily supposed to include everyone. Most people are just speaking from their own attractions and I suppose there’s no harm in that. But when you take a closer look at the exclusions that apply to those statements, you start to see a pattern.

You see the weight limit.

Even people who claim to be body positive will put that kind of asterisk on their declarations.

“People can wear whatever they want.” “But are you sure you really want to wear that?”

“People can eat whatever they want.” “But are you sure you really want to eat that? All of it?”

These asterisks are so internalized that we don’t even notice them. It’s not something anyone has to say out loud. It’s just automatically understood that these statements don’t apply to those of us over the max weight. And, yes, we even apply those asterisks to ourselves.

These terms and conditions are established by society and just by being born into it, we click accept. Not that we would probably read them anyway. But they are pretty insidious. We agree to look a certain way and be a certain way. And when we violate those terms, we get removed from the privileges the agreement provides us. No seconds for us. Not without further consequences.

Sometimes I feel the urge to call out these comments. To point out the weight limit and watch the scramble to defend or justify or dismiss it. “You’re too sensitive!” Do you not see all of the asterisks spilling out of your mouth? They’re covering the floor like jacks. Have you ever stepped on a jack?! You’d be feeling sensitive, too. Downright sore, even. That shit is harmful.

People don’t like to be called to the carpet over things like that, the internalized bits of societal rhetoric that they blindly adhere too without questioning. They don’t like to think about the harm that they’ve been inflicting on others -or on themselves. They don’t like to take responsibility for a wrong they didn’t realize they were committing.

And that’s why their scales tip when I wear the white shorts.

Max weight indeed.