POV of the Skinny Shamed

A lot of people have taken this to arms lately over women being perfect exactly the way they are. I think it's an indicator of how desperate we all are for validation in our habits and also our tendencies to be offended easily and irretrievably. We, as a society, have become like the grasshopper in the old fable who cockily sang, 'The world owes me a living.' And it really doesn't. In the scheme of things, you are a small creature, of less importance than a cockroach to the continuation of the planet's ecosystem. It can exist without us, as evidenced by various natural habitats, and our continual encroachment upon the resources of the planet make us more virus-like than any other creature.

But that is not the topic of discussion today. I noticed when I came home a frightening trend in my younger sisters (of which there are 4) a trend towards the impossible beauty ideal known as 'skinny'. As a pre-teen, I was fascinated and repulsed by this idol and reacted by gaining weight steadily until I weighed upwards of 200 lbs. The only thing that changed me was when I learned a professional wrestler (light-weight division) weighed 2 pounds less than I did. I did not develop an eating disorder because I didn't know what those were. I knew dieting meant depriving yourself of food, but at 15 years old, I didn't have the self-control necessary to deny myself of all food and the idea of forced vomiting never entered into my mind and when it was introduced to me several years later, I felt as repulsed as I do now since vomiting isn't a pleasant experience for me, nor has it ever been. I feel relief at the end, yes, but the ends do not justify the means.

So I took 1/2 of what I'd normally eat of meat and breads, double of what I'd normally get of vegetables, and 1/4 of all desserts. I ran for 2 hours while watching TV; mainly running during commercials and walking as fast as I could during the program. I lost 50 lbs and considered myself a success.

After I came home and noticed the before-mentioned fixation of my siblings, I was determined to change their point of view. I have a naturally slender waist and every time one of my siblings would mention how 'skinny' I was, I'd correct them and say, 'Not skinny, healthy.' I'm trying to implement better eating habits, 'Eating a ton of breaded chicken isn't healthy; try the salad.' or 'Just eating apples isn't healthy, you need to have different vitamins and minerals' along with showing them that I exercise, even while playing video games.

But compared to the vacuum of junk food that is my family, I appear anorexic. My sisters comment on how little I eat and if I overeat (yes, it's possible for thin people to overeat) I am not allowed to comment on it or I'm shot down, viciously, by my overweight sisters who claim there is 'no such thing.' While I'd like to reply, 'Just because the bounds of my stomach don't reach the breadth of yours...' I smile and shake it off.

When I gain weight, it is also laughed at because I am not as bounteous as they. I can't show off my hard work (such as newly developed arm muscle, leg muscle, or developing abs) because it offends my sisters who don't work out, eat right, or really do anything to change their figures besides complaining how fat they are. They all have low self-esteem and my dropping pant size only serves to remind them how 'terrible' they are and how much they need to kill themselves. All their problems turn from a confidence issues into a 'our-older-sister-is-smaller-than-us-so-instead-of-doing-something-about-it-we're-going-to-complain-and-whine-how-it's-all-her-fault' problem. Somehow their neuroses are pinned on me because I want to run a marathon.

I'm sick of it! I want to tell them to change their lives, to change their habits, to tell them how unhealthy they're living. Eating a bag of chips in an hour is not healthy! Complaining because you have to get out of a car to walk inside a store is not healthy! Spending your ever waking moment obsessed with your next meal (when the cupboards are fully stocked) is not healthy! I don't care about losing weight, or fitting into a size 0. I want to be healthy. I want to be able to run without panting after three feet, or jump and play, to do the things I've been afraid to do all my life because the physical state of my family kept me afraid. And yes, it's hard to be the healthy one, to continually attempt to point the others in the right direction and call me 'high and mighty' but when did self-care turn into a crime? When did exercise become offensive? It was probably when the first self-esteem stricken unhealthy person pointed the finger of mockery and scorn at the people in the gyms, when wanting to look your best became a contest and others decided their lack of motivation came from other people looking better than they did. Our problems are our own. How many books and movies have to pass through your mind before you realize abuse in the past isn't anything more than a handicap? People without legs can swim, people who have been in broken relationships have triumphed and there are still people in the world blaming their outsides for their insides not working.

I don't advocate unhealthy habits on any level: if you're obese, you need to get into shape; if you're anorexic (insert name of eating disorder here) you need to eat healthier. Some people are naturally large despite their best efforts. I knew a girl who weighed in at 180 and could run for miles. Every inch of her was muscle, but she hated herself because of the skinny culture; I also know a woman who struggles to keep her weight under 100 despite having birthed 5 children because of the skinny culture. Health comes in all shapes and sizes, but unhealthy does as well.

It's always wonderful when someone notices your hard work to keep yourself in shape. I appreciate the comments of 'Wow, you're so skinny!' because it's a superficial acknowledgement of my achievements. I'd rather they comment on my ability to run a mile, but opportunities like that don't present themselves very often.

 I've watched my little brother go from couch potato to semi-active couch potato. He works out; I'm working on the others :)

 I'm a fighter for healthy living. I don't believe in making people feel bad for how they look, but I believe in not being afraid to say, "I've worked hard for this," despite what other people will say. I know it's hard to stand strong, but the longer you stand, the more people stand with you.

Pokemon and Comedy (Not necessarily the same thing)

My first Pokemon game was Sapphire.

Well, to be completely technically honest, my first Pokemon game was the Pokemon trading card game for GameBoy a friend gave to me, but never having watched an episode of Pokemon or played the actual thing, I had no idea what was going on and eventually threw it away (I believe).

So, Sapphire.

It was the newest game in the series and I exploded in happiness on its arrival (3 weeks before my birthday thanks to a wonderful half-sister) and not barred by usual protocols of waiting, I went downstairs and played it for about 2 weeks straight. I lived and breathed Pokemon; here was my chance to be like other kids and see what all the fuss was about! Someone had generously donated a used Pokemon 'Red' walk-through manual, but never having played the game, it read more like a story than something you followed to unlock the secrets of your game.

So I knew next to nothing about Pokemon. I remember my friend bringing it to school one day and watching over her shoulder (along with 5 other kids because I happened to be friends with the most popular girl on the playground) and not understanding what was going on since you could only play those kinds of games before the bell rang, obviously limited to 15 minutes outside the playground on a chilly February morning, and the sunlight glare from the screen straight into myopic eyes...

I finally watched a few of the episodes at her house, and (this just goes to show my inferior knowledge of Pokemon) tried to play it with the next-door neighbors who knew all about it and had binders full of cards to prove it. I thought Jigglypuff was a girl, always, and Pikachu was a boy, always, and they had to get together because the only episode of Pokemon I watched involved a Pikachu and a Jigglypuff and I was at the age where everything had to be married so... yes. I wasn't sure what Pikachu did because I identified with Jigglypuff (being a female) and gave her this entire backstory where she would puff up and pound things into mats and decorate her house with them. When they started to reinflate (most of the drama of our games came from reinflating super-villains) she would pound them back into mats and continue sewing or whatever Jigglypuffs did.

So Sapphire was my wake-up call! No longer did I skulk in the shadows of nerd, I was a member of the club! And I owned it!

Being poor does weird things to your self-esteem; you can poke fun at how little money your family has and even act a bit apologetic about it, but when someone else glosses over it, the person is 20% more offensive and a duel of wits is demanded for your honor... which you more than likely lose because you don't have access to cable television where people spend their time swapping witty retorts.

Being poor, I claimed odd things about Pokemon while simultaneously blaming my upbringing for my lack of knowledge. Needless to say, nobody bought it and eventually I stopped talking. Even now, I'm a huge Pokemon nerd and I blame it on my late start into the game. In a world where being into childish things is cool, I was always into childish things because I didn't have enough money to appreciate them when they first came out. Consequently, my first purchases over the Internet (of any note) consisted of an old GameBoy and the original Red and Blue games. I didn't realize how hard it was to get around without Running Shoes! Hats off to the original gamers who gamed, not knowing if Running Shoes would ever come!

On the points of generations... since I started so late, I'm inclined to love everybody but most of my knowledge consists of the 3rd generation (my stomping ground) although I can name, at the drop of a hat (give me 10 minutes or so) 149 of the 151 Pokemon. I accept the 4th because it was the next logical step, and I haven't had a lot of interaction with the 5th generation, but I think designing a Pokemon after an ice cream cone is pushing luck a bit. Then again, Pikachu and Marill are elemental cousins.

And comedy! I've been told I should do stand-up though any attempt of mine to standardize my jokes turns to dust. I wouldn't be funny on stage; I'm more funny in a small group of people where I can throw in a sarcastic comment every now and then. I suppose if you gathered all my sarcastic comments... you'd still have a mess of a show since they'd be out of context and any attempts of mine to justify them would fall flat on their faces.

But I love watching comedy! I love comedians like Eddy Izzard, Jim Gaffigan, Brian Regan, Fluffy... used to like Jeff Dunham a little, but my roommates in college watched a little too much Peanut. Oh well. My loss, I suppose. Less Internet traffic for the rest of you, right?

I appreciate clean comedy, which seems to be less and less nowadays. I like comedy you can laugh at without covering your kid's ears and it depends on the comedy special, but I have to do that a few times with all of my favorites. They have 10-15 minute stretches at least, most of them can go for 30-40 minutes, but the lure of an easy laugh comes and they make a dirty joke. It's ok, I understand you're stressed on stage and fear is logical in any person, so I get why you made that joke; it's a long laugh and you can rethink the rest of your material. But just because I understand where it's coming from doesn't make it ok. I feel the same way about a lot of things in politics and people who get wronged. Just because I understand your need to kill 50 people to work through the death of your girlfriend in a freak train accident doesn't mean it's ok.

But that's where we're headed! 'Oh, he watched something horrible, he's mentally scarred so he's not fit to go to prison.' There are logical and reasonable consequences for breaking the law that everybody should understand as it's well-publicized. If they're in prison, it's obvious they're not mentally equipped to function in normal society. And don't get your knickers in a twist over the word 'normal'.

'Everybody's special and nobody's the same'... but lobby for individual race rights and religion rights and political rights! Let's separate everyone into as small a group as possible to keep them from socializing and overcoming differences. Let's keep bringing up differences and forcing them to go head to head!

Honestly, you can love someone and not approve of their choices; every parent knows this. Every sibling should have been taught this on the playground. Just because your brother is playing tag with your worst enemy doesn't mean you hate them; it just means you don't hang out with them when they're around that friend. You still hug, still stand next to them in the family picture and try to do bunny ears and occasionally steal their frosting when no one is looking, but you're family. We're all humans, part of a huge human family and we're each different because of our thoughts-

-Not our sexual orientation, color of our skin, place of birth, place of ancestors' births pr political motivations.

And I think that's why I love comedy so much: Comedy is the one place you can make fun of everyone for being idiotic and they'll laugh with you. Comedy is where you can tell gay rights people you don't approve of their trashing a Chick-Fil-A, or go after people from your preschool days, and everybody is fine with it. Sure, a few super-sensitive people looking to sue everything offensive (being offended is a mindset, not a predisposition) will be the ones frowning and criticizing your talent on every social media sphere... but if you can make them laugh, they're on your side. You can't be angry and amused as my Dad demonstrated many times growing up. He'd work his girl-magic on the drama-stricken teenager and everybody would be friends before Mom volun-told a few of us to wash the dishes... usually me because I was the oldest and therefore most talented with hand-eye coordination.

It's sad how most people's reactions nowadays are more along the lines of 8( rather than XD. When did we stop laughing? Probably when college tuition and books went up and we needed a quick way to smooth our way to financial success so we could smooth our kids into financial success... or something of that nature.

Oh, Those Times!

My life at this moment is a little surreal.

If you would have asked me, on my mission, what I would be doing when I got home, this wouldn't have been it. I had idealistic dreams of getting right into the job field, finding something to do with love and zeal, something to wake up for. I had an idea of going to school with honors, early, and graduating. No romance, no love, nothing in that... stream of conscious thought.

What happened when I came home?

Jobs were not as plentiful as previously expected, especially in my tiny town. I had a few interviews, but my eventual withdrawal to pursue further education proved to be more of a negative point rather than motivation to keep me busy, as I had hoped. Siblings surrounded me and sucked my life force, along with my patience, away. It's easy to get discouraged, to want to sit down and quit. My writing ceased to amuse or project my thoughts; my characters seemed boring and even reading seemed more of a menial habit to take up because I'd once enjoyed it rather than my first talent. I was a lost woman, completely at the mercy of her whims, of which there were many, and neglected her responsibilities (which were few).

Until, one day, I breathed: purely in a metaphoric sense, mind you, but I felt as if some fire had been kindled beneath me. Flavors seemed the same, I still enjoyed music, and yet somehow my heart beat to a new drum.

I'd fallen in love. I don't pretend to know why my heart acts one way and never ceases its stubbornness/defiance to my brain's explicit orders. One day, I hated all men; the next, I hated all but him.

I'm picky; those who have followed this blog from its predecessor know I am not easily pleased when it comes to the male race. I've been called: cold, casual, cruel, a tease, coy, a flirt, bossy, a nag, impossible and unrealistic. So what if I am? Men are allowed to create fictional physical attributes of their dream woman, am I not allowed the same courtesy simply because I am one? I will admit the physicality means nothing to me; my main concern is with their personality which will extend past their brain function (though exceedingly desirable) and looks (which are the italics on the words of personality).

He was hand-picked in a way I never would have suspected. Honestly, it was the only way it could have happened and while I'm happy it happened, I'm also terrified. You see, he doesn't know me.

It started out casually, a search for a keyword, not looking for anyone in particular, I just happened to come across his profile. Astonished would be an understatement to describe my feelings upon the realization we had almost everything in common. We liked most of the same things. I'd never met someone like him before, or even heard of a boy resembling me in the slightest.

However, time whisked him from my thoughts, only to return him on a sleepless night when my thoughts happened to be lost and without a purpose. With a resurgence of energy only classified as 'miraculous' I managed to find him again, despite the many months separation. He'd updated a few things and linked it to another one of his profiles saturated with news of him. Disgusted by my curiosity and shamed by my need, I refrained for a Herculean 45 seconds before collapse of mental facilities.

I read, I watched, I followed and researched everything about his online presence. Life and responsibilities called so the pursuit stretched to a week in the full recovery, but I emerged, triumphant, and also completely filled with self-loathing.

For the new ones, I had sworn off men. There is a black list about 10 feet long filled with the ruined relationships of my past. I don't, as a rule, lie. There are better things to do with my time than churn out filthy stories to cover up what I shouldn't be ashamed to admit; I am human!; and remembering them is 75% of the hassle. My personal standards haven't been mirrored in my choice of companions. I haven't had a single relationship with a man end favorably. All my male friends eventually get a crush on me (I have no idea what they're attracted to... other than pity) which is not reciprocated and they either turn creepy or fizzle out (or both). If we end up dating, he invariably cheats on and abuses me. After long talks with myself, many poems and songs, I've determined I have horrible taste in men, or at least attract those who mean me the most harm. I can't trust myself or those who like me. We're all at fault.

The idea of a library filled with my works as I taught younger students how to let their own dragons emerge, their own stories and villains to fight their battles on a metaphorical plane appealed to my inner spinster. With careful cultivation, my thoughts became a veritable garden of progress and plans. There would be a house, a cat, a dog, a me, and five jobs to keep me occupied. 2 goats for those strange questions at work and to curb any male appetites which seems to happen despite my best efforts to remain untouched.

Back to him; the lonely life was perfect for me and I looked forward to full enjoyment of never sharing. He entered my cyber life and all bets were off. All I found out about him helped the tiny crush inside to swell. I wanted to meet him, get to know him, talk to him, find out if he's as good IRL as online.

And thus it ends. You are now up to date. I hope this relationship goes somewhere and we become the odd gamer-writer couple nobody expects to make it, but we're so similar it just makes sense. There's a certain... luster to a hand-picked suitor.

On the downside, I'm a pessimist by virtue of being an author and the possibility of my motto changing from 'I love love!' to 'Down with love!' increases almost infinitely if we don't work out; the numbers for us actually communicating are almost as low as our odds of going anywhere past online acquaintances.

Do I want to remain a spinster and fulfill my childhood dreams or will I have to be stabbed in the back first? What are the chances of 'us'? Why am I neurotic?

In the end I am, as are we all, afraid of rejection. I bounce back, but it's traditionally with a harder shell than before I fell in the first place. There will be no diving into the heart of depression when he tells me to bugger off, but there will be bitterness and a certain, 'I-told-you-so' speech from my brain; My brain is the true pessimist, after all. 

You don't hear about people this perfect every day; and I know he has his faults (I don't know which ones, but by virtue of his being full-blooded human, he has them) but he's perfect for me. It's a terrible cliche and overused in excess but true in this case; at least if we follow the online profile, he is. Whether or not we'll meet in person and opportunity will arise to conduct a thorough exploration of his personality is yet to be seen, but I have hope.

For once.