Tag: life

I Didn’t Grow Out of Being Weird

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

I was a weird kid.

Hardly a revolutionary statement since most kids are weird. They arrive into the world with no context for anything going on and they tend to make shit up as they go along until they’re either educated or ridiculed into some kind of normal. The teenage years definitely inflict a certain conformity, otherwise they will be the most miserable years of existence until the escape into adulthood. Anything outside the strict rules of the adolescent society is game for all sorts of bullying.

I was a weird kid that had an imagination too big for my britches, who indulged in being weird because it made people laugh or skitter away, who found a way to stay weird throughout my adolescent years without too much damage. I’d do things like tell myself stories out loud while I played Tetris. I’d spend a whole day talking in an accent just because (my mother hated it). I’d play with bees, catching them and letting them go until I finally got stung. And then I went to the park to ride my bike with a swollen hand because it turned out that I was allergic.

As a teen my outward weirdness was confined to my interests, which were way out of fashion from everyone else’s. My uncoolness masked much of my weirdness, and my reputation as someone not to cross protected me from any serious harassment.

I went into my legally adult years still weird and indulged in it -dying my hair various colors long before it was accepted and wearing elaborate, brightly colored make-up and rocking pro-wrestling t-shirts over prom dresses. My weirdness retreated from the public eye once again by my mid-twenties, again only coming out in my interests. Even adults are allowed their weirdo interests without much question. But at home, alone or with my closest friends and family, I was weird.

And now I’m middle aged and still weird.

I have yet to mature out of my weirdness. Probably because I have yet to mature to an acceptable degree.

I still tell myself stories out loud.

I still talk to myself in various accents.

I still make up songs on the spot that narrates what I’m doing (my “Scoopin’ the Poops” song while cleaning the litter boxes is an absolute banger).

I still make up songs for my cats (they hate this).

I still have an imagination too big for my britches.

There are times when I think I might be too weird to be loved. I’ll catch myself calling squirrels to the backyard to feed them peanuts and I’ll be talking to them in a funny voice and I’ll realize I’m still in my pajamas and my house shoes and I’ll think, this is probably why it’s best that I’m single. It’s a lot to ask someone to put up with that. I’m lucky I have friends.

I don’t mind being weird. I know it’s off-putting to a lot of people, but I enjoy it. It’s natural. It’s authentic. I don’t have the energy to restrain it anymore, not at my advanced age. I’m afraid everyone is going to have to learn to live with it. I’m already amassing a squirrel army. It’s only going to get worse.

Good luck.

Turning 45

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

Okay, so I turned 45 a few days ago and I’m a bit behind on my birthday post. Mind your business.

Last year, I said that 44 sounded bouncy and fun because double numbers are bouncy and fun. I can’t say that it was necessarily bouncy, but it did have its fun moments. I think mostly, though, I managed to find a certain calm, gooey center of my being for a big part of 44. I attained a certain level of peace that I hadn’t had in a while.

Then everything tanked like a baseball team trying to get first pick in the draft.

45 is a serious number. It just sounds serious. It can be considered a milestone age for some folks. It’s the peak before the downward slope to 50. Fitting that it sounds serious considering that I’ll be spending a not insignificant amount of time dealing with serious business.

But I don’t want the whole age to be serious. That sounds like a drag. However, 45 sounds like a great age to get serious about some of my goals. I spent 44 working on some baby steps for The Remarkable Life Plan and I’ve made some progress. It’s funny how there were some baby steps I intentionally wrote down and actively worked on and there were some that just happened. I’d like to make some more of that magic during 45. So, I need to get serious about it.

I know it’s not going to be easy. The difficulty level of my life has been turned up a little bit. Which is why it’s a good thing that 45 is a serious number. Getting serious about my goals is going to take some serious effort.

I rediscovered my fondness for poetry last year and made a point of working on it. I think my poetry is another thing I’m going to spend 45 getting serious about. It was a bright spot during the hardest last few months of 2024 and 44. I want it to continue to be a bright spot during 45. Will anything come of it? Probably not. It’s looking less and less likely the older I get that I will have any sort of a significant writing career. I just don’t have what it takes. But that doesn’t mean I have to stop writing and finding joy in it.

I realize at this advanced age, so close to 50, I should feel more disappointed about where I am in my life and how much I’ve failed to accomplish and become. I should have more regrets and laments. But I just don’t. I can’t find the energy for it. I’m not doing life right at all, but I am doing it. I’m giving myself credit for that.

I think 45 is going to live up to the serious vibe, but I think I’m going to make the best of it and be serious right back.

And I’ll sneak in a little fun when I can.

Finding the 2025 Vibe

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

I’m not starting this new year off like I’ve started off most new years in the past. I don’t have a plan or any goals or even a vibe that I want to achieve. Hell, I didn’t even have my planner for the year organized and ready to go until the last minute. I’m not sure what I want to do with 2025.

I’m carrying the grief of Carrie’s unexpected death with me into the new year. It’s obviously going to take time for me to heal and adjust to this new normal of not having her around. It’s understandable that this re-calibration of my existence would throw me off.

My father has also been dealing with health challenges (and that’s all I care to say about that for now) since October. A man who never gets sick suddenly having a schedule full of doctor’s appointments is enough to throw anyone off their game. And I’m way off mine.

In fact, I’m starting 2025 without any idea where my game even is.

As much as I don’t want to wade hips deep in my grief and loss for a prolonged period of time, sifting and sorting through the physical remains of Carrie’s life is going to take time. It’s going to take months. I know because I’ve been doing it in the month since she died and I’ve realized that even if I had more time to devote to this task, I’d still only be emotionally able to do it little by little.

As much as I’m not qualified to be responsible for someone’s health -hell, I’m not even responsible for mine- I’ll be helping my dad manage his.

These are things that I will do and deal with, but I don’t want them to be the year’s vibe, you know? The vibe is the undercurrent that carries you through. It’s the energy that gets you through the day and the week and the month and the year. It’s the pizzazz, the sparkle, the shine. It’s the foundation you build the year on. I need my foundation to be a little less depressing and tired. I’m going to need something jaunty to get me through this.

I just don’t know what that vibe is. I don’t know what rhythm is going to best suit what I’m doing this year. Because I’m doing so many hard things right now and I don’t want the hard things to be the vibe. But I don’t know what the vibe is. It’s a little scary going into a new year not knowing the vibe. It feels like I’m unprepared. After everything, I cannot afford to be unprepared. Unprepared is not the vibe. At least I know that.

I think the vibe is going to have to find me this year. I don’t think I’ll be able to establish it or choose it on my own. I think I’m going to trip over it or back into it while I’m not paying attention.

Or maybe this can be my mid-life crisis year. I think I’ve earned one.

Maybe that can be the vibe.

Let Me Tell You About Tinkerbell

~ Kiki Writes ~ 5 Comments

Carrie, my good friend for 20+ years and my roommate for 15+ years, unexpectedly passed away on December 1st.

Carrie and I met through the Lord of the Rings fandom back in the long, long ago of LiveJournal. We spent hours chatting on AIM and she flew out for a visit in 2004 (I think). A few years later, Carrie was in need of help. Plagued by depression and anxiety (as well as undiagnosed autism as we later discovered), she was struggling to survive on her own in Buffalo, NY. I offered her a place to stay in the cornfield and help to get her life back on track. She accepted. I drove 12 hours one way in a rented van to help her relocate her life. Her stay in the attic room was only supposed temporary. She never left.

Moving out here was a rough adjustment for Carrie. She went from living alone to living with two other people. She was afraid of my dad at first. Understandable since he was a police officer. He’s used to be intimidating even when he’s not trying to be. And Carrie’s history had left her easier to intimidate than most. She went from barely coming downstairs, especially if I was at work and only my dad was home, when she first got here to coming down for daily chats with my dad while she made tea as part of her routine in the last year.

Therapy was a big part of Carrie’s growth out here in flyover country. She had a few therapists, but her last connected with her the best. She really helped Carrie heal many of her old wounds and better manage her triggers. She was also key in getting Carrie on the medication that helped her function in life better. Their relationship was cut short thanks to state budget cuts that closed the mental health clinic in town, but Carrie still found a way to build on that progress and continue to improve.

Between the therapy and the support, Carrie really came into her own. She went to community college for a while, studying art. She took better care of her health and happiness. She learned to stand up for herself, assert herself, and set boundaries. She reconnected with her family and made several trips back home, including a solo road trip, something she never would have been able to do before. We went to DragonCon in Atlanta; took the train to Milwaukee for a weekend trip; and flew to Seattle for five days of exploring a city in the part of the country that Carrie adored. She always wanted to live in the Pacific Northwest.

We had a lot of long talks that covered everything from hopes and dreams to fears and nightmares to stories that made us cry to stories that made us laugh until we couldn’t catch our breath. She loved talking about her family, particularly sharing memories about her grandparents and the summers she spent with them, aunts, uncles, and cousins at Keuka Lake. One thing her family and mine had in common was a love of games, particularly card games. She always said that she believed in Heaven and in her version, her grandparents were playing cards with other beloveds who had passed.

Carrie became a valuable part of our family. My nieces claimed her as another aunt. She took the youngest one to Disney World. She was shocked to find that she had gifts waiting for her at her first Christmas at my great-aunt’s. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of that rowdy bunch as we ate a whole lot of food and then played loud cards, but she had fun. It was an early wake-up time for her and that house gave her a headache, but she loved going to Thanksgiving and Christmas there. She mourned my grandpa and great-aunt with the rest of the family just as though she’d known them her whole life, too.

A lover of animals, Carrie devoted time and money to animal causes. As much as she loved her make-up and skincare, she made an effort to switch all of her products to cruelty-free brands, a habit which rubbed off on me. I’m not completely cruelty-free yet, but I’m getting there. Carrie never shamed me for not making the switch, but applauded me whenever I did. She understood the struggle. After all, she had always wanted to go vegetarian, but could never quite achieve it. She did reduce her meat consumption quite a bit, though.

Her love of animals extended to our own, inside and out. I always say that any animal that comes within a block of this house will get spoiled. Our cats, the neighbor’s cats, the neighbors’ dogs, squirrels, possums, raccoons, mice, whatever, Carrie was one of the biggest spoilers. Her big heart made her a soft touch. She was our point person when it came to the vet, taking them for their yearly trips and any other necessary visits. It was a hassle wrangling them into their carriers and driving them to another city, but she was happy to do it. Nothing mattered more than the kitties being well-taken care of. Of course, this translated into her doing nightly squeezies for the Addams Family and spoiling her cat Antoinette (she called her Baby) to the point that she admitted that she created a monster. She wouldn’t have had it any other way, though.

Carrie’s generosity extended to humans, too, especially the ones she lived with. If we needed anything, she’d do what she could to help. She didn’t mind picking up my slack and bailing me out of more than one jam that I’d gotten myself into it. She was unfailing in her support for my writing and once she learned not to push too much (you can tell me twice before my spite kicks in), Carrie was good at nudging me to do better at taking care of myself.

She had an affinity for Tinkerbell, anything with cats, monkeys, apes, or sloths, and the color blue. She loved murder mysteries, Jane Austen, and anything relating to England, particular the Tudor period. We had many common interests and likes, but the royal family wasn’t one of them. We had totally different fashion styles (even if we’d been the same size, we wouldn’t have shared clothes) and rarely read the same kinds of books or watched the same kind of movies. But we never missed an episode of What We Do in the Shadows or Ghosts, and even though I stopped watching General Hospital, she kept me up-to-date on the latest storylines. I’ve listened to more A-ha than I would have thanks to her love of them (“The Sun Always Shines on TV” was her favorite song). She learned more than she ever wanted to know about Hawaii Five-O and The Monkees thanks to me.

Was it all rainbows and unicorn farts? Of course not. We had our spats and disagreements. We buried a yard full of hatchets. We got on each other’s nerves. But family does that.

My biggest regret is that the last couple of months of Carrie’s life was so hard. Despite a recent hand surgery, she was right there to pick up the slack with me as we dealt with my dad’s health problems. Then she fell down the stairs. She had a hard couple of weeks after that, but she was finally beginning to rebound from it.

And then she was gone.

It’s been a difficult adjustment not having her here.

Which is kind of funny when you remember that this was all supposed to be temporary anyway.

You’re playing cards beyond the horizon now, my friend.

Unofficial NaNo 2024 Failure…Or Was It?

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

As I explained at the beginning of the month, I was prepared to do an unofficial NaNo for reasons, using it as an opportunity to put Stateline into its third form. Everything was on track to do the thing.

And then life went pear-shaped.

I’m not talking about the election fallout, though that did dampen my motivation somewhat. I was able to write through it back in 2016, though I admit my final first draft is one hell of a mess that I should revise, but don’t want to wade into because I know how much rewriting awaits me.

Anyway, no, this “make plans and God laughs” insult was leveled at me on a personal level. Eventually, I’ll get to the point where I can recap it, but until then, I need you to accept on blind faith that everything went to hell.

My initial reaction was to flail, to find a way to keep my word count up at all costs, forgo sleep and run myself into the ground to make it happen. That’s what good writers do. They persevere no matter what.

Blessedly, in the nick of time I remembered I’m not a good writer.

I also took a critical look at my motivations and circumstances. I had to ask myself why I was so intent on winning an unofficial NaNo, especially when I had nothing left to prove. I’d done twenty NaNos prior to this and won most of them. Without bragging, I can honestly say that I know how to write 50,000 words in a month and that I can do it. What do I gain by making myself write all of those words during an incredibly stressful period of my existence? More stress? When I already have too much? No thank you.

This led to a surprisingly mature and intelligent decision from myself. I know. I was shocked, too.

I decided that I was not going to write 1,700 words a day in order to ensure I wrote 50,000 words this month. Instead, I decided that I was going to write a manageable number of words every day this month. I thought it was going to be 500 words a day, and I managed that for a week, but then ended up reducing that to a minimum of 100 words a day. If I could write more than that, great. Otherwise, I wasn’t going to be beat myself up for slow progress.

So, I may not get 50,000 words written this month, but I will at least finish thirty days with some words written and I need to learn how to be happy with that when life decides to take it sideways.

In a curious, unexpected twist, there was also a poem-a-day challenge going on this month, which I decided to participate in because it would be easy to catch up if I missed a day or two. Once everything went tits up, I found that writing a poem to fit the day’s theme was a bright spot in all of the stress. It was something I looked forward to and made writing my words a lot easier.

It turns out that the challenges of November weren’t really of the writing kind at all.

I’m Not Expressing Myself Well

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

“That sounded better in my head.”

I’d wager that just about everyone has thought this or said it out loud. We all have those moments when we’re trying to get an idea across and the words are just not wording well. You know exactly what you’re trying to say, but you just ain’t saying it.

Man, I really hate that.

I think it’s because as someone with anxiety and as a person who tends to ruminate, I have a lot of imaginary conversations and arguments in my head, and sometimes out loud. I don’t necessarily want to have all of these conversations. Most likely, I will never have most of them. I’m either preparing for a war that I won’t have to fight or I’m reliving a battle that I already lost, saying all of the things that I didn’t in the moment because I wasn’t prepared. Or I was, but the words weren’t there when I needed them.

I don’t express myself well. Not often when I need to. Not often in the heat of the moment.

As someone who is fascinated by languages, who writes, who podcasts, who does a whole lot of communicating in her job, you would think that I would be better at this, that it would come naturally to me. You’d think I’d gotten the hang of it by now.

Alas alack, live moments don’t have edit buttons and my mouth has no backspace key.

In the unending rehearsals of rumination, I can workshop my words until I’ve got the right ones selected. I’ve got the right motivation, the right tone, the right expression. I’ve nailed the part. In the live improv that is life, I’m building sentences on the fly, influenced by my reactions and emotions and the fullness of the moon. Sometimes, the words come flying out of my mouth and leave the idea and intention behind in my brain.

These leftover intentions and ideas don’t simply disappear. They don’t fade now that the moment and the conversation has passed. No! They’re left in my grey matter to ferment and fester until I expel them in an imaginary conversation of what I should have said, a too late performance in the play I should have staged. A useless exercise because I learn nothing from it. My inner critic makes sure to point that out.

It frustrates me unnecessarily. Sure, people don’t want misunderstandings, and I’m not often misunderstood. I just don’t get my point across as effectively or efficiently as I think I should. Especially when emotion is involved. I don’t like that I lose my ability to word well when I’m irritated or agitated or caught off guard. Is this normal? Do other people experience this? Am I being unnecessarily hard on myself and getting frustrated over something that’s not really worth it? Yes, of course, to all of the above. That’s the glorious way I brain.

When I write, I have the opportunity to go back and fix my words, fix the way they’re presented, to express myself as best as I can.

I wish my mouth was afforded the same opportunity.

It’s Not Easy Socializing with a Brain Like Mine

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

Lately, I’ve been flirting with the idea of being more social. It’s a challenge for my introverted self. It takes energy that I don’t always have or want to expend. I’ve neglected that part of my life for too long and I don’t want to do that anymore. I want to leave my house more. It doesn’t have to be anything much. Once a month, go out with a friend, maybe for lunch or dinner or something. Socialize with someone outside of my house and the library. I need to make more of an effort to connect with the friends I have in my meatspace and this would be an easy, low pressure way to do that.

Right?

Well, my brain hasn’t met a good idea that it couldn’t turn bad. Or at least make seem impossible. Anxiety is fun like that.

The friends that currently occupy my immediate physical reality took a different path in life than I did. They got married, had kids, have full-time jobs in which they’ve been employed for years. You know. They all became functioning adults. Meanwhile, I’m over here avoiding adulthood like I’m dodging bullets in the Matrix. My point is that their lives are already very full. They’ve got a lot going on. Better things to do, as it were. My brain gleefully informs me that I do not need to be bothering these friends. They put effort into their lives. They’ve got their social circles. There’s no room for you anymore.

I do have some friends that didn’t entirely go the full-tilt adult route, didn’t get married and/or have kids. They would theoretically have more available time in their life to spend an hour eating food, drinking drinks, and talking about things and stuff with me. However, I still can’t find a way to justify that I’m not bothering them by asking them to hang out with me for a short while. I can’t imagine it being anything other than an inconvenience to them for me to ask, especially if they have to make an excuse because they don’t want to go.

My brain enjoys telling me that everybody hates me and I should go eat worms.

My brain also enjoys projection. My first reaction to someone asking me to socialize is usually a reflexive “no”. It’s too much work to get in the right brain space, I’ll be too anxious. Even if my immediate reaction is a “yes” or a “maybe”, I more than likely won’t feel the same way when the time comes to leave the house. Most often, if I commit to an outing, I will follow through because I know I’ll be fine (or close enough to fine) when I get there. It takes an incredible amount of mental gymnastics sometimes just to convince myself to go out. Why wouldn’t other people go through the same thing when I ask them?

Well, maybe because they have normal, more reasonable brains.

I’m not giving up on this idea that I can have a small social life. After all, I used to have one. It’s just a matter of ignoring the worst of my brain and sending that first text message.

It’ll be fine when I get there.

I’m Reacquainting Myself with the Sun

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

Since it’s almost the end of meteorological summer, I think I should talk about something I started doing at the beginning of it.

I’ve never had the best relationship with the sun. Probably because I’m pale and that fiery orb finds it offensive.

My parents and my sister all tan. My mother was a professional tanner in our youth, laying out in the backyard, listening to Cubs games on the radio in the summer and keeping regular tanning bed appointments in the other seasons. My father sported a lop-sided farmer’s tan from driving around on patrol for twelve hours a day with his left arm hanging out the window, the skin that arm getting darker than on the right, dark enough to make my mother jealous. My sister is the kind of person who might get a sunburn and it might last for a day or two, but it would eventually fade into a tan. And once she tanned, well, the chances of her getting another sunburn that summer plummeted.

Me? I go from white to red to white with no other stops on the color wheel. And I didn’t just sunburn as a kid. I burnt. It took no time for me to go from a little pink to deep red to blistered. Growing up, my mom would apply the sunscreen, but it was in the reapplications (infrequent and ill-timed) that I would end up toast. My sunscreen skills didn’t really improve as I got older either. It was a hassle. So, instead of exposing myself to the sun, I gradually retreated from it.

The results were predictable. Sure, I haven’t had a sunburn in years, but I’ve also achieved a paleness not even seen on a sickly Victorian child, which at one point was exacerbated by a bout of anemia. It’s not a pristine, delicate paleness, either. I didn’t get out of those childhood sunburns without a few battle scars. A whole lot of them actually. I’m covered in freckles. It’s the only melanin I have.

Over the years, I’ve attempted to get more sun. However, those attempts were often thwarted by my own laziness and hang-ups. I told myself that I couldn’t go outside on the days I worked because I had to work. I could go outside after work on Saturdays, but I’d sit in the very shaded backyard and not get much sun exposure. I could lay out all day on Friday or Sunday if I wanted to, but it seemed like I could never get out of the house early enough to catch the good sun. It was halfhearted and hopeless.

Then, this past spring, I revamped my morning routine and suddenly everything became possible.

I had noticed that when I took my laptop out in the backyard to write on occasional Saturdays after work or sometimes on my Fridays off, I seemed to be more productive. Why couldn’t I do that every day? I have a perfectly good patio table on a perfectly serviceable patio. I could sit at the table in the mornings, drink my coffee, write, AND get the sun I felt myself craving. Could it be that easy?

Friends, it has been that easy.

Not only do I write more and write it easier when I’m outside soaking up the sun, but I’ve also been getting on better terms with that harsh god. Our relationship has definitely improved with reasonable boundaries. I’m liberal with the sunscreen before going outside, I’m only sitting out there for about 30-45 minutes, and I’m not out there every day. I’m either actively taking a break from the sun or it’s too hot for me to realistically sit outside in direct sunlight in a black chair at a black table. I can only tolerate so much direct exposure and boob sweat.

Spending time outside this summer -as structured yet irregular as it has been thanks to heat waves- has boosted my mood, my creativity, and I’m a healthy shade of pale. In fact, I’m enjoying my mornings of sun, coffee, and writing so much that I don’t plan to give them up so easily come autumn. Or winter, for that matter. I live in the Midwest. Random warm winter days won’t go wasted.

After all, if I’m going to keep this relationship between me and the sun healthy, I’m going to have to work at it.

I Got a Bright Idea

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I’ve been pondering the notion of self-publishing chapbooks or collections of my poetry. It would be easy to do since I already have plenty of experience self-publishing novels and novellas and short story collections. I know how to put a book together and I’ve made plenty of my own covers. I could do a print and an ebook version. No problem. Yeah, I’d have to do some research on the the difference between a poetry chapbook and a poetry collection and which would be the one to do. And, yeah, my poetry isn’t great and not really worthy of either of those incarnations. But that doesn’t matter. It’s a bright idea.

That’s the thing about me. I get a lot of bright ideas. Ideas that would probably be brilliant if they were executed by others. Ideas that fall significantly short of expectations because they are executed by me. It turns out that I am the lethal injection of bright ideas.

The problem with me and my bright ideas is two-fold: Once I get an idea I want it done yesterday; and I do not have what it takes to make my bright idea successful.

See, I have a very Field of Dreams attitude towards my bright ideas. If I build it, they will come. Only they don’t. Because I didn’t build it so great. And I don’t really have that kind of draw anyway.

I’ll give you an example. Patreon.

I got the bright idea to make a Patreon. I thought I knew what I was doing, thought I knew how I was going to do it, and went ahead and did it. I was just sure that I was going to attract patrons in no time at all. With what? I don’t know. My charm, I guess. Must have forgot that I have less of that than I have talent. I digress. The first incarnation of my Patreon was a disaster because I really didn’t develop my idea much past the initial sparkle. The second version –The Murderville novellas- was better because I actually had a plan in place and was able to execute it. It took a lot more work than the first version. Imagine that.

The current version of my Patreon, with the four tiers and multiple projects, is probably the best version of my bright idea. And it only took me more years than I wish to count. However, it’s still not the Iowa cornfield ballpark I was hoping for because a) I don’t put out nearly enough free content to attract potential patrons and b) it’s MY content. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my years of writing is that I do not write what people want to read. Sure, my self-promotion game also isn’t the greatest (I feel like I’m annoying people), but if what I was promoting was even slightly appealing, I think it would make up for it.

This isn’t to say that I don’t appreciate the people who have become patrons. Yes, I question their decision-making skills, but I’m also grateful that they choose to continue to invest in my work. Knowing I have this little, core audience keeps my ego inflated. I’m just saying that I have a way of dimming my bright ideas so they don’t quite shine like they should.

I’ve done it with self-publishing, traditional publishing, podcasting, self-employment, .you name it. My creative endeavor bright ideas suffer in my hands. I don’t plan and construct them correctly because I’m in a hurry to get to that gain -money, attention, applause, advancement, whatever. I want the result. And the result is too often disappointing.

So for now, my bright idea of self-publishing my poetry will remain just that. A bright idea.

Schrodinger’s Fatphobe: Fashion Edition

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

“I’m all for body positivity, but…”

“I think people should wear what they want, but…”

I’ve heard or read these sorts of statements frequently, particularly in the warmer months of the year (gee, I wonder why), and let me tell you, the “but” is where folks show their ass. That “but” is guaranteed to be followed by some hateful, judgy shit that stinks up the entire statement. This Grade F manure isn’t restricted to just fat women, or fat folks. That “but” can be applied to folks of a certain age, gender presentation, sexuality, or color, too. But for the purpose of this post, I’m going to focus on my fat femme presenters because I am a fat femme presenter.

Folks really tend to feel some kind of way about the fashion of fat women. They’ve got a real hang-up when it comes to the way they adorn themselves. They’re all about body positivity, you know, think everyone should wear what they want, but if you’re fat, well, you shouldn’t wear that.

In my experience, “that” can be shorts, crop tops, tank tops, two-piece bathing suits, skirts, dresses that show any leg, arm, or cleavage, sandals, spandex, lycra, anything deemed too tight, anything that shows rolls, anything that shows too much skin.

Because they’re body positive and they believe everyone should wear what they want, but they don’t want to see you wear what you want. Could you please be comfortable and stylish and fat elsewhere? Thanks.

They say it with such authority, too! Like because my cellulite offends their delicate sensibilities, I shouldn’t wear shorts. Well, Sandra, it’s 90 degrees and the humidity has it feeling like 100. I’m afraid you’re going to have to endure my bat wings and fat rolls along with the heat wave.

“If you weigh over X amount, you shouldn’t wear…”

First of all, no two people wear their weight alike. 220 pounds on me looks a lot different than it does on my sister. (No, I don’t currently weigh 220 pounds and I have no idea what my sister weighs. I just remember that at one point in time, the two of us both weighed about 220 and no one would have guessed we weighed the same because of how we carried the weight.) Second of all, there aren’t weight limits on clothes. Nowhere on the tag does it say that I can’t wear yoga pants or a crop top because I exceed the maximum weight limit. The clothes are in my size, I’m going to wear them. That’s how clothing works.

And before someone trips over themselves to point out the people who wear clothes they think are too small, well, that’s the size they want to wear. I suggest you make peace with that for the sake of your blood pressure.

I’m not saying that I don’t judge people’s fashion choices. I admit to being a judgy person. I think I could place respectably in the Judgmental Olympics. However, I’m less likely to be too het up on judging the superficial. I may see somebody wearing something that I find questionable, and I may think to myself, “That is certainly a choice”, and I may question the motives behind the style choice, but as long as they’re comfortable, happy, and feeling good, rock on then. I don’t feel the need to blast my judgy opinion about some stranger’s garb on social media. I definitely don’t feel the need to say it to their face. Remember what I said about other people’s opinions not being my problem? Same goes for me. My opinions are not other people’s problem, either.

Now, if I know the person, if we’re friends or family, if I love them and we have the kind of relationship that allows me to voice my opinions, I may say, “Are you good with your cheeks hanging out of your shorts like that? It seems like an invitation to an awkward sunburn.” And if they’re like, “Yeah, I feel good. I look good. I want to wear these shorts,” then, baby, I will put the sunblock on their booty dimples myself. Because I am body positive. I’m positive you can dress your body the way you want (within legal limits, of course; the only cops we want involved in fashion belong to the Village People), even if it’s not what I would choose, and especially if it’s not what society would have you do.

No buts about it.