My Earlobes Still Feel Fat

Tonight, I lost it. I was supposed to go to a friend's house for dinner (and eat some very comforting Jewish food), and half an hour before I was due at the Caltrain station I made the mistake of getting dressed. Now, it's really cold right now in SF, so I had to put on tights. This doesn't usually concern me too much, but when I put on my go-to pink dress (the one I'm wearing in that photo in the earlier post, about how confident I was), it was tight. And not good tight. I looked disgusting. All of a sudden, when I looked in the mirror, all I could see was fat, rolling and spilling like a lidless latte in an SUV. And so I lost it. I went back to a mentality I do my best to avoid; I was furious, disgusted, and, worse, hopeless. I wanted to break the mirror. I actually wanted to scream, or throw things, or punch a wall. Another part of me just wanted to crawl into bed and give up. Mostly I just cried. The worst part was that I had to cancel on my friends. This

Well, I promised you an update, but don’t come crying to me if it bores you. I have this dress. It’s adorable. I love it to pieces, not least because it has huge pockets and cost 8 pounds (Primark). But there’s a problem with the dress. Well, not with the dress; it’s with me. This dress, like so many of my favorite/hated dresses, is strapless. Now, putting aside for the moment the difficulty of finding a good, comfortable strapless bra, the issue is this: I have wings. Not just wings, but striped wings. Did anybody watch The Real World, Hollywood? If so, did you notice Joey’s fatty stretch marks? That’s what happens when you work out too much or you allow a tiny parasite to invade your uterus: you get silvery lines of ‘oh god WHY’ messages from your skin. Incidentally, it’s also what happens when you gain a ton of weight. And when you lose it, you keep the lines, as a sort of ‘fuck you’ lack of forgiveness from the body’s largest organ. Me, I have these things all over. Actu

watch this space! i promise, as soon as i send out the queries i need to send on monday, i'll update.

To anybody who actually reads this blog (Derek), you have my apologies. I know I haven’t written in forever, because I was waiting to be inspired to humor and wit, but now instead I’ll just be updating the black hole of cyberspace on my life and my angstiness. I left London in mid-August, which sucked because I had to leave my boyfriend behind, but I figured I’d be coming home to a land of a slightly more normal body scale. Women in London seem defined in class by their weight, much like Postal Packages. The thinner you are, the wealthier/better educated/generally classier you are. Or at least that’s how I felt there. The only women above a size 4 (US) were big, apple-shaped messes of fake blonde hair and loud offensive voices. Usually they didn’t live in London. (Of course I’m generalizing. Broadly. But I’m going to continue to do so, hiding behind my secure belief that hardly anyone reads this anyway, and Derek knows I’m not really an asshole!) San Francisco, on the other ha

So I went to the gym today, like a good little chubster, and while I was sweating it out on the bike I tried not to stare at the perky, everslender asses bouncing up and down in front of me on the elliptical. But I couldn’t help it, and here’s why: I have a problem with staring at other people’s bodies, especially tits and ass. I think maybe I’m part frat boy. Or I grew up with a bisexual older sister and a vocal older brother, and was trained from an early age to check out other women (although sadly I get no tingles down below from kissing them or touching their boobs, which is as far as I went with my only girl-fling). But this is not a post about my inappropriate staring. This is a post about thongs. Ok, ok. I get it. I no longer rail for hours against the thong; I no longer state outright that I’ll never wear one, or that it’s better to just go without. Windy days in SF have taught me that they are better than nothing, and I even own about ten, a few of which are favorites

Since I started writing my own novel, I think I’ve read at least ten chick-lit books in the name of 'research,' and what I’ve discovered is that there is no rubrick for character development, plot, or even number of protagonists. It seems that chick-lit, for all the pigeon-holing it falls victim to, is as wide and varied a genre as literary fiction. Well, maybe not literary fiction. But any other genre besides that. Anyway, in the past week I’ve read three very different novels, and had very different reactions to them. So I’ve sort of been walking around (well, loafing around) with book reviews in my head and no-one to share them with, save my poor boyfriend, who’s beginning to roll his eyes a bit too much for my taste. But then I thought about you all, and how long I’ve left you pining for another installment of My Oh-so-fascinating Life, and I figured I could subject you to a bit of book review! The three novels I’ve read most recently have been, in chronological order:

Today I set foot in a plus-size store for the first time since losing the weight seven years ago. As I've previously mentioned, sizing is a bitch over here in the UK, and despite my determination to avoid buying pants (in order to avoid facing the realization that no store here carries pants big enough for my hips), I've recently been on the hunt for a cute pair of shorts for my trip to Rome this week. I first tried the good old department store, M&S. Like Old Navy (my favorite store when I was heavy), they carry a wide range of sizes, and are popular with all ranges of body type, so if someone recognizes the dress you're wearing, you're spared the embarrassment of saying it's from Lane Bryant (although I kind of miss Lane Bryant, bc they have adorable clothes). In fact, a stick-insect might even smile at you and say "I have that!" This is a wondrous feeling. Anyway, sadly, the only shorts I liked at M&S were sold out in my size. So, after cru

This article: http://www.nytimes.com/2008/05/25/magazine/25internet-t.html?pagewanted=1&_r=1&hp is really interesting, but I can't decide if it's a description of everything that's tempting about blogging or everything that's wrong with it. I mean, after all, the experience got the writer a piece in the NY Times magazine! By the way, can I just mention that this girl was 24 when Gawker offered her the position she's writing about, and at that point she was an associate editor at a publishing house and was antsy to be promoted faster. I'm 23 and living in London on a tourist visa, nannying . Kill me now.

I saw Gok Wan on the street today having lunch and I almost fell all over myself. But I decided to let him eat his lunch in peace. So I'll do it here instead: "Gok!! I LOVE you! I love your show and I just think you're so wonderful." Oh, and here's a great interview: part 1: http://youtube.com/watch?v=Fq__xI5fe2U&feature=related part 2: http://youtube.com/watch?v=JGKpSTFqLPU&feature=related love love love love love him.

This is how I look today: No makeup, moderate VPL, okay hair, sunburned nose. But every time I looked in the mirror this morning I felt pretty good. I’m not saying I saw no flaws; I saw a few, and I even identified them aloud to myself. But then I immediately identified the good stuff, and I made sure I ended on that positive note. And, lo and behold, at least half of the men I passed on the way to the park this afternoon took a second look. A few even smiled at me! So maybe I look better than I give myself credit for, but I have a feeling it has more to do with that little extra swing in my hips, and that easy smile on my lips. Maybe confidence really is key. Or maybe it’s just that Frowny McWorryalot is kind of unattractive. Noted, men of London. Thanks for the smiles today. PS For anyone who actually reads these things, let it be known that I have integrated pilates into my workout routine and decided not to be so hard on myself. Fuck sticktoitiveness, I'd rather just b

Yesterday I had a total meltdown. Deep into week three of my workout program, I was starting the third and most difficult video after two days of extreme-cramp-related slacking. I got through five minutes before I wanted to throw the television across the room. I made it another twenty-five before I gave up and went to take an incredibly frustrated bath. Once clean, and somewhat calmed (repressed), I did the what-to-wear dance, battle number two. After my boyfriend chose an outfit and convinced me to leave the bedroom battlefield, strewn with the casualties of my fray with myself, I went to deal with my hair. A bit of battle history now: my hair was my best feature when I was fat. It was thick and lush and curly/wavy/versatile, and it was generally easy to deal with. When I lost a hundred pounds I also lost half my hair. It became wispy and difficult and generally looks best short. In the past seven years I’ve spent way too much time and money trying to make it do what I want it to do,

I hate London right now. As if I didn’t feel shitty enough about my body most days in the states, London is interminable. UK sizing is about 2 sizes above US. So if, like me, you usually wear a size 12 dress and size 16 jeans (yes, I am pear-shaped), then here you’d wear a size 16 dress (plus-size in the US) and size 20 (!!!) jeans. And if, like me, you had multiple surgeries and angsted for years in order to leave the twenties of sizing behind, you probably wouldn’t appreciate this. In fact, you might find yourself standing in the workout gear section of Marks and Spencer, crying as you tried to make yourself pick up said size 20 so you can do your workouts and try to feel better about yourself without having to always hitch up your old ragged Target pants. I scared my boyfriend, who keeps thinking his words will help and telling me how much he loves my body (as if it were his opinion that mattered), and I depressed myself, and am now hovering in limbo between two desires: starve m

Oh my god I am SO pathetic. I think I might be in worse shape than I was when I was heavy. Four minutes into my first attempt at what is admittedly a tough workout video (but not this tough) my arms felt like they were going to fall off. Another ten minutes and we were into squats. Well, they were. I was “marching it out” because my thighs were having seizures as a result of the few squats I managed. Luckily they recovered for plie time, but still! I have no idea how this happened. Probably the car my parents gave me for my 22nd bday, mixed with moving to the flat land of London. Yeah, I’m thinking that’s the combo. When I’m here I walk all the time, but it’s flat. When I’m home in SF it’s hilly and I try to walk a good bit but it’s nothing compared to when I used to have to take the bus/ walk everywhere. Gah! Anyway, day one is over, and although I dread the pain of tomorrow I’m also looking forward to feeling buff again. Stupid maintenance-requiring muscles. In case I

Today I start my 6-month intensive workout regimen. It's called Slim in Six, and it worked for me a few summers ago, in that I lost like 10 pounds and 13% of my body fat. Although, I was still the same pants/dress size I am today, and have been since about a year after the GB, cosmetic procedures notwithstanding. Anyway I'll be working out every day except Sundays (or, in this case, Tuesdays, because I'm supposed to start on a Monday but I figured procrastination=bad), without fail. Seriously. I'll be enlisting my boyfriend to put himself in the direct line of fire by reminding me every day, and kicking me in the butt if necessary. It will be necessary. So next time I write I should at least be smug, if not slender. I've decided that smugness and general strength (and flexibility; since I stopped working out I can't even reach my ankles!!!) will just have to suffice for the time being. If nothing else, working out regularly has always made me feel better

My dad’s cousin is in town, and she hasn’t really seen me since the gastric bypass and the other surgeries. I mean, she saw me once, but it was pre-plastic and only for a second. So I’m suddenly acutely aware of how much I’ve changed again. And also of how I’m supposed to be, in others’ eyes. For example, I know that gastric bypass means I should never eat sweets and I should only eat half-sized portions of everything. But it’s been like 7 years. I’ve learned how to eat sweets (unfortunately) without getting sick, and my stomach has stretched a little. I still don’t eat that much, but some days I can even eat a whole sandwich and chips. But when I tell people about the surgery, or when people have heard about it and then meet me for the first time, I feel like I need to be extra careful to conform to their idea of how I should be. I also feel like they might be confused as to why I’m a) not that skinny and b) not happy with my body. Sometimes people look at me quizzically, as

I’ve been so unhappy with my body recently. I can’t really figure it out. I’m eating fairly well, I haven’t gained any weight, my clothes still fit me…but for some reason every time I look in the mirror I look thick. And I don’t mean sexy black girl thick. I mean linebacker thick. Or just fat girl thick. And it’s not even just that I feel fat. Today I forwent my usual padded push-up bra for my favorite lace underwire, which, although it doesn’t make my breasts look particularly large, makes them feel huge and fantastic. But today they just looked tiny, and flat, and then the rest of my torso as a result looked flabby and large. I’m still wearing the bra, but I feel awful. And it’s not just my upper body. I mean, my hips and thighs have always been the biggest part of me, but usually I think they’re curvaceous and lately I think they’re just gargantuan. Somehow the subtle flow of their form, which used to be feminine and sexy, is now just heavy and cumbersome. There's real

I spent all morning cruising the internet for publishing jobs, newspaper opportunities, and magazine internships. I was so excited to really sink my teeth into writing, and specifically I decided I was going to apply (when I’m back in the US) for any and all openings at Cosmo, Marie Claire, Glamour, what have you. But just now I was reading Marie Claire, and all I could think was how I couldn’t afford the beautiful clothes in the pages, and how sickening it is that one article of clothing can even cost that much in the first place. And of course, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about how I’d never fit into them anyway. Worse, when I tried to talk to my boyfriend about it, when I thought I was opening up about how sick my mind is, how I used to (and sometimes still do) wish I could be anorexic instead of fat, I realized he wasn’t listening. And he doesn’t see how it’s hurtful, because he doesn’t understand that I was talking about something so important. Because he wasn’t list

Okay, so this blog is supposed to be about fat and such, but since I'm covered under the term "Body Issues," I want to talk about freak hairs. Now, my hair (from my head), is always falling out and tickling the bare skin on my chest/shoulders. I don't mean this in a stress-clump way, but rather a single straggler way. I'm fairly certain that I am not alone here. I'm also pretty sure that I'm not the only girl who's ever found a longer-than-it-should-be hair growing from somewhere other than her head, which is what just happened to me. I felt what I thought was a straggler on my collarbone, but when I picked it off I found it was attached . I was horrified. Of course, when I pulled it, I found out it was so blond it was almost white, and I'm sure nobody else could have noticed it. But still. Ew. So what's the deal with the freak hairs? Other girls in my life have found them too, some of them on their faces, and my lovely brother was ki

Just a quickie: As a rule, I try not to blame society for all my self-loathing and such, because 'society' is such an undefinable, intangible entity, and plus I don't want to be a cliche. But the fact that I've spent the past 5 years HATING Ugg boots and the last 5 weeks cruising for them online tells me that something is leaking into my brain through the cracks between lobes and INFILTRATING. It's sick. For the record, I refuse to spend $300 on a pair of heinous sheepskin sacks. So I bought the £15 knockoffs.

It’s weird. My scars haven’t even faded yet, except in miraculously transparent patches, and I’m already forgetting they exist. Now, when I raise my arms to tie up my hair (something I would never have done in public just a year ago) and the man at the next table looks at me a little too long, I feel an urge to make sure I’ve shaved my armpits. It’s only when I not-so-slyly slide my fingers into my shirt that I feel the abnormally smooth stripe of skin and realize what the man was staring at. And I’m so much less strict about hiding them. Last week at work I wore a sleeveless dress and one of the nurses asked about my scars, and I realized I hadn’t told anyone there about my weight loss and all my surgeries. Even the other receptionist, to whom I feel fairly close. And so I told the nurse, because I’ve always maintained that if I hide my history with surgery then I don’t deserve the benefits of the procedures. I promised myself that I wouldn’t be ashamed of my plastic surgery, a

Tonight my boyfriend said he loved my stomach, and I couldn’t help telling him I’d let my doctor know. Then, when he looked me in the eyes and told me that if we’d met before my surgeries he’d still have loved me, I couldn’t believe him. And I told him that. I couldn’t just say “aw thanks, honey,” I had to go on about how he would have liked me as a friend, thought I was funny, a funny fat girl, but he would never have been attracted to me. Which, in all fairness, is unfair to him. He probably is the kind of guy who would have loved me anyway, but I never wanted to be loved in spite of the way I looked. Being fat was a catch-22 for any guy who might have loved me (not that anyone did, to my knowledge): if you love me for my personality, you must think I’m disgusting and are just looking past my looks, which makes you shallow. On the other hand, if you love the way I look, you are obviously deranged because I’m disgusting, and therefore you’re completely un-datable as a result of

I found this written in one of my many random notebooks when I was cleaning the apartment today. I wrote it back in September when I had just moved to London: I saw a beautiful thing the other night. I was kneeling on the bed, leaning down on my elbows in a pathetic attempt to ease my stomach ache, when I happened to glance down my body. There, where my upper thighs have always met, for as long as I can remember, was a beautiful, shining triangle of light, a beacon of the life I’d always wished for and had never had. I lay there like that, on my elbows and knees, stomach-ache completely forgotten, and stared at that triangle of light, willing it to stay. Eventually, when I felt more confident that it wouldn’t just vanish unexpectedly, I began to test my triangle. I made sure my knees were pressed tightly together and shifted my hips, putting my weight first on one knee and then the other. My triangle twinkled cheerfully back at me. of course it was around this time that my boyf

Raggedy Anne: Secrets of a Parts-Jumble Princess (This is the original, from which "Ongoing Process" was created) My brother’s name is Andrew. We never really called him Andy, and the coincidence was unintentional, or so my parents claim, but I’m sure we must have cleaned out the KB Toys stock of Raggedy Sibling dolls by the time we reached puberty. Puberty, incidentally, is about the point at which my weight became a problem, “a concern” to me, my family, and random strangers on the street. Unlike most fat kids, I was pretty popular. I was even the object of a crush every now and again. Of course I had my moments of miserable reality-check, but generally I was pretty happy, shockingly carefree. Most of the time. I grew up in a small suburb of LA, where I lived a sheltered enough life that my only tormentor was my brother, and even he wasn’t half as bad as he could have been, in retrospect. When I was ten, and just getting past ‘chubby,’ my parents moved us to San Fran

This is an experiment. For 2 years now I've been writing essays about body image, and more specifically about my own relationship with my body after 4 surgeries and multiple other changes. I'm posting those pieces of writing here and I'll be adding on whenever I have a somewhat original or new thought about things. There's no denying it's self-indulgent, but I figured since I'm mildly obsessed with reading about other people's body issues, maybe someone will be interested in reading about mine. Maybe I can even help someone feel like less of a freak. That is, unless no one else feels the same things I do, which would make me the freak, I guess... Oh well, here goes! Note: The first piece was written in late 2006, so things have changed a little. Bear with me as I try to put these in chronological order. And if there are repeated ideas or even phrases, I apologize; some of the pieces were born as revisions of others, so sometimes I get overlap.