Why I don’t want to die when Thai women grab my stomach & laugh

It’s always been easy for me to be accepting of my thick thighs, my stubby sausage toes, even the nuggets of squish protruding between my arms & my tits. Whenever I’ve awkwardly squeezed my hips into a too small seat, I’ve been able to laugh it off. These were things I felt I was given a break on. It was ok to have a fat (phat) ass or these round childbearing hips. An hourglass shape is beautiful, Reubenesque. The shape of an upright bass plucked in a basement jazz club, the soft red hills of distant desert sand dunes. The hourglass is inherently feminine, some kind of ancient beauty and strength in the symbol of fertility. These curves keep the species going, mother fucker.
But a stomach, the nefarious tummy. This affront on what is desirable. This bit of flesh we women have been waging war against — burning stubborn belly fat, blasting your muffin top. This is the wrong curve. This is the wrong kind of fat. I am not allowed to look this way.

In a bathing suit or bodycon dress, there is a hyper awareness of my shape that surrounds me like a thick fog. Neurotically weighing my options, to sit in a position that is comfortable or contort my body in such a way that is more flattering. I would rationalize — you know, lots of women with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome carry extra weight in their bellies. Is my body ok if I have a health condition? I would self soothe with excuses to provide in the event that I am confronted about my weight. This omnipresent pressure from the gaze of others transcends body type, I know, and is felt by women of all shapes. It is heartbreaking and feels suffocating to know that we feel inherently more aware of how others perceive our flesh than we are in touch with the real heady stuff on the inside of us — hopes, dreams, our voices, whatever.
To be in the company of others is to be constantly evaluating what they see and making the appropriate adjustments. If I pull up these jeans will they flatten my tummy? Is this shirt too short? Does this empire waist make me look pregnant? Ah yes, the moment that someone mistakes me for being pregnant. The ultimate cringe moment of doom. Now I am tasked with confronting both their nosy ass assumption and what’s worse, my own shame. No, this extra skin, fat, flesh is just mine. This is usually followed by a combo of their embarrassment and judgement which I’m then meant to carry. How dare I be fat and make you uncomfortable for how wrong my body is. I absolutely assume responsibility for having this shape that might confuse you and threaten the very core of what you believe to be good and desirable, since my body, after all, is only meant for consumption.
The United States has it out for the tummy more than anywhere I’ve traveled abroad. There wasn’t anything threatening about being called gordita affectionately in Latin America. My shape was an identifying feature of my person but not any indication of my worth as a person. A nickname not a dig. I was chubby the same way I was blonde (or brunette or purple, depending.) In Thailand, where I currently hang my hat, when one of the ladies lingering in front of their massage parlors squeezes my belly and giggles, I’m not mortified. It’s because my tummy, like the rest of me, is other. It’s no different than my Instagramming four Thai ladies squeezed onto one motorbike. Novelty.
The liberation from my tum tum perception problem began while I was working with homeless women in downtown Los Angeles, a demographic rife with mental health challenges and often lacking in tact. One of the residents in our permanent supportive housing asked me if I was pregnant about three times a week. It was like aversion therapy for my heinous internal dialogue. It got a little easier each time and has evolved into a casual, light hearted response of, “oh no, I’m just a little bit fat,” followed by a genuine smile. When the Thai ladies ask, “Baby? Baby?” while pointing at my belly, I giggle with them and point out that my stomach is just little plump as if someone was asking if a prominent birth mark was a scar. No, that’s just the way my body is. And the miracle is, after these exchanges, it’s over for me. My instinct is no longer to evaluate myself in excruciating detail.
Ultimately it doesn’t fucking matter whose lens is accepting of my body. It’s my narrative that matters. It’s more than vague concepts of self love or deeply knowing my own worth, it’s about whether I want to associate a part of my physical body with shame. If I notice the profile of my stomach as I walk past a window, am I going to play a script of hate on repeat in my head? Am I going to reinforce the idea that there’s something wrong with me? There’s nothing wrong with me. There is plenty wrong in the world but my tummy, this little mound of soft flesh, is inconsequential. I won’t be distracted by a carousel of negativity. Those thoughts are exhausting and take up precious mental real estate. Both my relationship with this bag of bones and how I incorporate wellness into my world is constantly evolving. But I will no longer abide by the disassociating waves of self loathing or cower inwards when someone has an opinion about one of the thousands of parts of my body. I am much more than one of my parts.
