Bloginatrix

This essay deals explicitly with eating disorders and body dysmorphia, so please consider your own experiences and triggers before reading.

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I don’t mean to be in the way. I really don’t.

When you take your seat on the subway, or in an airplane, I don’t want to crowd you. I don’t want to press my body against yours, to force contact, to ooze into your space.

I don’t want to feel the hot insistent pressure of your thigh against mine, or the jostle of your shoulder as you fumble with your newspaper, your iPod, your purse. I don’t want to feel your elbow dig into my belly as you jockey for space.

I don’t want to be in your way. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I don’t want to TAKE UP SPACE.

Do you know how terrified fat people are of taking up space? Of moving, slow and huge, like glaciers, through a crowd of nimble forest animals? Of bumping someone with our “monstrous” asses? Of being wedged, uncomfortably, into too-small movie theatre seats and after that, having to clamp our thighs together and cross our arms over our chests for two hours to avoid encroaching upon our neighbor’s space?

I guess I can’t really can’t speak for all fat people. But I can speak for me. I am terrified of taking up space.

That’s why I don’t sit on the subway when there’s one seat (three quarters of a seat!) wedged between two normal or even small-sized people. That’s why I stop and let you pass, the two of you chatting arm in arm, hogging the sidewalk at twice my width and then glancing pityingly sideways when you see I’ve waited for you to go by. That’s why I request a window seat on the airplane… so that I can lean away from you, so that I won’t offend you with my bulk (or be noticed by a cranky flight attendant who’s just dying to power-trip and happens to hate fat people.)

And I’m sorry. I am sorry that I take up extra space.

But. Read more…

8pm. Raging headache. I am glaring at the clock with one hand pressed over my eye, dreading my 10, 11 and 12 shows.

“Do you have to go?” asks J., glancing up from his computer. I nod. It’s way too late to cancel, and I know that once I get there, I won’t have time to worry about my head anyway.

I fret over what acts to pack. The Slipper Room crowd is notoriously distracted, but I still want to give them a good show. My headachey displeasure oozes over my perception of everything, and tonight, none of my acts seem any good at all. After I’ve worked myself halfway to tears rejecting everything in my repertoire, J. calls helpfully from the living room “Take the bug! Everyone loves the bug!”.

He’s right. The lightning bug act is consistently a crowd favorite. I’ve been waffling on because the costume is heavy and awkward to carry. But It’s one of my favorite acts to perform, and I decide to bring it, hoping it’ll lift my mood. Factoring in the blazing head pain and the fact that I only have one set of arms, my Caravan number is the obvious choice for my second act. One big, sparkly number with a pain-in-the-ass costume and one pretty, classic number with a sheer, sexy costume I could carry in a lunch box. Read more…

So. These blog entries are a lot of fun to post when I get to be the sassy, indignant, righteous fat lady spreading the gospel of body love.

But sometimes… I’m not that lady.

Sometimes I’m just me, and sometimes me is too tired to engage people on body issues. Sometimes I’m having a bad body day and feeling sheepish and weak.  Sometimes, I buy other people’s body lies. I let their doubts and criticisms permeate my hard, glittering, jerk-repellant “I’m Glamorous” shell, and in those moments, I see me the way they see me. It’s almost never good.

But you know what? I’m not perfect. No one is. And if there’s one reason I write these entries, it’s that I believe that women HAVE to take back our relationships with our bodies. We have to create space to talk about the good, the bad, and the ugly… the ambivalent body days and the stone-sure confident ones. The creepy-crawly under the rock moments and the triumphant victories.

This isn’t a victory story, but I’m going to tell it anyway, because the low moments are every bit as important and valid and real as the high.

So we begin… Read more…

In the wake of the unveiling of Whole Foods’ new employee health incentivization program, I’d like to extend a hearty “thank you and fuck you” to John Mackey, CEO of Whole Foods.

Mr. Mackey:

Thank you for taking an active interest in your employees’ health. You don’t have to do that, and the fact that you do rocks.

Fuck you for doing it in an unnecessarily complicated, invasive, judgmental way.

Thank you for encouraging your overweight or health-endangered workers to make conscious decisions about their habits.

Fuck you for attempting to shame them into making those changes by separating them from the “ideal” workers and punishing them for not already being healthy. Read more…

You move to New York, for any one of a million reasons.

You move because you have a feeling in your gut that you just have to.

You move to New York because you saw Fame when you were five.

Or you move to New York so you don’t end up married to your high school boyfriend, who is the kindest person you have ever known, and who bores you to tears.

You move to New York so you don’t have to spend the rest of your life watching him be a great husband, a great father, a great everything you never wanted and couldn’t tell anyone, anyone, or anyone.

You move to New York because your pigshit greasehaired dad has called you a faggot for the last time.

You move to New York because it worked out okay for a friend, or because you’ve got a job there, or because it’s the only place you can do the thing you most love to do.

Or you move to New York because your spine can’t shake the drag of that class ring across your cheek. Because you can get a good job and wear the right clothes and buy a cool car, but to them, you’ll still be weird or ugly or fat or loose.

You move to New York because it feels like the fucking apocalypse is coming, and, even in this nerfed-out post-Giuliani playground for tit-sucking rich kids, you know you’re better off here than anywhere else in an apocalpyse, because beneath the organic food stores and RayBans there is still a coat of dirt slicking everything and i mean everything, because beneath the air-controlled condominium surface, at its crust, this city still has a heartbeat, and it isn’t afraid of the apocalypse because, hell, it’s BEEN the apocalypse. We’re even on good terms with the roaches. Read more…

My performance in last week’s Revealed was reviewed in Cultural Capitol this week. When I saw the review, I thought “Awesome, I’d love to see what they thought of my bitter Macy’s employee act.”  But then I read it and realized that the review didn’t have anything to do with my performance.

Speaking of type, have you seen Jezebel Express lately?  I know, most of you men out there are too fucking proud to admit what you really like—that middle-school era bullshit wherein you only admit to being hot for the girls that everyone else you know has already said—out loud, in the cafeteria—“she’s hot.”  And most of you women are too kindly—and/or fearful of judgment—to admit when someone is NOT hot.  Unless she’s bangin’ the boy you want, dig.  So let’s be honest:  Jezebel is a Whole Lotta Rosie, and she’s not making any apologies.  But she’s totally, totally hot.  I’d love to test my theory—show of hands versus secret ballot: men, would you like to roll around with Jezebel?  Discuss.  BTW, J.E. pulled a simple high-concept holiday strip: wrapping presents, she wrapped her own clothes.

I don’t consider this a negative review. It’s obviously meant to be complimentary. But I see this pattern over and over… people use my performance as a springboard for talking about size issues, and never get back around to talking or thinking about what I actually DO.

On the one hand, I’m glad that the reviewer points out that our cultural attitudes toward fat are really damaged. On the other hand, I’m disappointed that the review, ostensibly of my performance and the show, devolves into a discussion about whether people will secretly admit to wanting to fuck me. Read more…

Today, I love the curve of my hip.

The way his wrist felt heavy on my hipbone while we watched noir movies last night felt good, too. My big, soft body on the big soft bed – I felt solid, present, here.

I do not feel bad about my body today.

***

Last week, I stood up in front of twelve women of all ages, shapes and sizes. Women who’d shown up at a beginning burlesque class, who blinked nervously and asked “Do I wear high heels or sneakers?”. Women who smiled tentatively when I introduced myself as the instructor, and then more openly when I took off my coat to reveal my form-fitting dance clothes… maybe because I have hips, or because I remind them of their best friend, or because the fact that I’m standing there looking pretty damn sexy gives them permission to imagine that, even though they’re not stick-thin glamour girls, they might be sexy as well.

I stood in front of twelve women, and I taught them something about the art form that I love. (Someone in class is always surprised to learn that bump and grind isn’t just an R. Kelly song.) I gave them feather boas and demanded that they jiggle their butts. We laughed a lot.

And I told them some things I wish someone had told me.

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Backstage, at a bowling alley in New Jersey, I start to wonder if this was a good idea.

It’s 10pm on a Friday night, and when I say that I’m about to perform a burlesque show IN a bowling alley, that’s exactly what I mean. The good people at Asbury Lanes have permanently pulled the pins from lanes 7-11 and erected a large, sturdy stage over them. It’s a popular performance venue for local bands, and the owners bring burlesque performers down from New York from time to time. Attendance is hit or miss, though striptease usually draws an enthusiastic crowd. A thick navy blue velvet curtain hangs floor-to-ceiling behind the raised stage, and through a slit on the side, we enter the backstage area, which sits over the back half of the shut-down lanes.

The first thing I notice is the amazing early-70s furniture strewn about carelessly. Mustard yellow loveseats, cheap laquered wood-look tables, and low-slung white pleather chairs cover the backstage area. In the corner, there is an ornate carousel horse, head still held high in a whinny as though awaiting her next ride.

The second thing I notice is that rather than renovating the floor, they’ve used long, patchwork strips of carpet to cover the bowling lanes. In the back of the alley, you can see the wood peek out from under the carpet and run into the black void of the pin deck. The gutters are still there, too, left uncovered so that people can see and avoid the small, slippery dips.

The third thing I notice is that there’s nobody there to see the show.

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So I’m backstage getting ready at a show, or  maybe I’m at the movies with friends, or at the Sideshow at Coney. I could be anywhere. And I’ve really overdone it on something… popcorn, or fizzy Cherry Coke, or those amazing Nathan’s hot dogs. I’m overfull, and feel vaguely gross (or maybe I’m just PMSing and struggling with the body dysmorphia that accompanies PMS for me). Whatever the reason, I feel like an orca. And I put my hand on my stomach and, with a sigh, I say “Ugh, I feel kind of fat today.”

You know what happens when I say that? People freak out. I am not exaggerating when I say that I’ve seen every single person in earshot visibly freeze when I drop the F-bomb. Nervous glances are exchanged, hair is fiddled with. And then?

People jump into action. They scramble, frantic,  for something to say. And they always come up with the same thing. People begin blurting out reassuring aphorisms, often speaking on top of one another, everyone eager to share the good news: “You’re not fat, you’re beautiful!”

So, I know girls do this to one another. I’ve heard it said to skinny girls as well (though in those cases, it seems the more common response is “Oh, me TOO. I ate so much today.”). And I understand that this reaction is at least in part a knee-jerk designed to combat skewed body image,  and to discourage women from beating ourselves up over our appearances.

But here’s the problem: I AM fat. And I’m also beautiful. And, dammit, I may not be your idea of “normal”, but I have my own “normal”, and when I gain ten pounds, I face the same problems as you. My costumes don’t fit right. I have a weird blob of fat where I didn’t before. And, yeah, sometimes I feel like crap about it. I don’t like what’s implied in the way this conversation goes (and it has gone that way, without fail, every time I have had it). I find myself continually frustrated people feel like it’s appropriate to reject out-of-hand my expressions of displeasure with my body.

Obviously, a Public Service Announcement is needed. Are you ready? Here it comes.

Fat people are allowed to have fat days. Read more…