Sometimes I like being fat.
That statement makes me cringe too. As soon as I say it, I get ready for the pseudo-health statements to roll in as people charge the batteries on their formulaic lectures of the dangers of “fat.” Fat being the description of all they find unappealing about a large person, and fat being the physical padding strapped around my plush body.
How could I like being fat? I like being lazy? Or locked out of sexy clothing? Or being a hotdog-distance away from a heart attack? Or deserving of verbal and physical abuse during dates and sporadic relationships with men who fetishize my body?
Well, no. But for the record, I’m not any of those things.
I sometimes like being fat because sometimes it makes me feel proud, and sometimes it makes me feel pretty. Sometimes I feel strong, and sometimes I feel full. Soul-full. Not stomach-full. Though, to be honest, sometimes also stomach-full. It’s summer and the farmer’s market has incredible deals of fresh fruit.
I started lifting weights three years ago,and since then, I’ve accomplished things I didn’t think I’d ever accomplish. I fell into the trap of fat = bad and I wasn’t letting go. I thought I wasn’t strong until I was skinny, and I thought that as long as my thighs jiggled, I wasn’t squatting heavy enough. My trainer insisted I was getting stronger, but I would literally bunch up all my stomach fat…
