Quick Intro: Hi, I’m Poppy. I’m a computer technician with a degree in psychology. I’m also a wanna-be freelance writer and photographer in what passes for my free time. Like Alleyrat, I’m cheating – this was originally posted in my cheesy little LiveJournal account a year ago. I regularly post prose and poetry, along with pictures at my ‘home’, Shadowroses, and rants or memes go to LJ.
There’s a jolt that happens, described often as being “snapped back into one’s body”, due to catcalls and street harassment. Walking along, talking to a friend or contemplating your next project, mind freer than a soaring bird, free to contemplate big things. Some oaf yells “Hey, shake that thang!” and it pops like a soap bubble. Suddenly, you’re back in your body, reminded that, think big thoughts though you may, as far as this person is concerned, you’re just a body, conveniently placed on the planet for his aesthetic pleasure. And he’s not the only one. No, not all men are assholes who haven’t grasped the concept that women weren’t placed here solely for their pleasure, but there sure are a lot of them, and they’re always the loudest ones, too. The only way I can explain it in terms that most men might understand is this:
Imagine you’re walking out of a pub after a few beers, arguing with a friend about something that you always debate together, in that friendly way that comes from a lifetime of being expected to have opinions and express them. Maybe you stop for a piss against a wall, and as you’re standing there, a guy somewhere behind you, in a voice that cuts through the buzz and sounds far closer than he really is, says “Nice ass.” You tense. Fight or flight response kicks in. Every fight you’ve ever lost flashes into your head. You’re very aware of how big this stranger could be. But you’re too well trained to show fear. Tucking your now-useless dick back into your pants, you turn around and shout back the first insult you can think of, proving that you won’t take that kind of crap from him. Your friend is nearby, doing exactly the same thing, but you don’t have any attention to spare for him. This is about survival. Congratulations. If you have a good imagination, you’ve just been snapped into your body, just experienced what it feels like to be reminded, suddenly, that you could lose, that you could be hurt. Reminded that no matter what else you can do or how smart you are, your survival comes down to who’s bigger or more intimidating.
To a certain extent, society in the early part of this millennium likes to place the blame on the offendee (I’m avoiding the word victim, which I feel is overused and has lost its original meaning). We have cases of people being pulled over for “driving while black.” During the SARS scare, there were jokes about people “coughing while Asian.” This phenomena of catcalling is just a case of “walking while female.” If you can convincingly put the blame on the female for walking down the street, you can absolve the idiots for hollering at her, because of course it’s not their fault they never learned any manners. Psychology in this case has done us a disservice, teaching us that all we need to do is reconstruct our reactions to a situation, and poof, reality changes. I won’t argue that it works. Since you can’t change how someone else behaves, the best we can do is change how we interpret events. But there is a point where a line needs to be drawn and we need to say “I’m not going to reinterpret this to absolve you from all blame. I’m not going to play that game. I’m not going to excuse you because you’re male and that’s what men do.” Just like there’s times when the line we need to draw is “No, I’m serious, that’s really not cool, and I’m not going to put up with it.” And sometimes it needs to be men who draw that line, because women have been drawing it for years, and we aren’t getting anywhere very quickly.
Not too long ago, I was talking to someone I used to date and, as I expected, he was surprised at the weight I’ve gained since we were together. I was, however, baffled by his easy assumption that my pride would lead me to lose it all and be thin and cute again. And still more baffled when, 2 minutes later, after I pointed out that I’ve stopped taking that kind of pride in my body, preferring to spend it on my mind and intelligence, his response was “it’s about time.” Um, hello? What’s with the “it’s about time”? How the hell am I ever supposed to learn and believe that I am worth something based on what I think instead of what I look like when everyone’s first reaction is to assume that “my pride” will make me decide to lose weight instead of, say, take a class in women’s studies so I can eloquently tell people who think I need to lose weight before I can be wonderful to fuck off. Is it just me, or is there a disconnect here? What’s the message, “You should believe that your brain matters, but the rest of the world will focus on your appearance”? Yeah, that’s healthy. Not.
Since then, I’ve explored being overweight (I refuse to say fat. Fat is bad. Overweight just is.) and how I feel about it. To an extent, it’s a disguise against opinions like the one expressed by my friend above. It’s a disguise against wondering if that freaky guy staring at my legs is gonna follow me home or just hit on me clumsily. It’s a disguise against all of the possible reactions the freaky guy might have when I tell him no, I’m not interested. Once you’re truly overweight (and I am talking here about more than just 1-2 inches and my favorite jeans are a little bit snug. I’m talking about replacing entire wardrobes because nothing fits anymore kind of overweight), you’re less likely to be seen as a potential sex object and more likely to be seen as a competent person. More likely to be given a chance to prove that you can think or do something useful and not just written off as “too attractive to be smart.” It’s camouflage, and it can be useful. When you waltz into a male-heavy office and expect to earn your place among the cluefull, it helps to be able to convince your colleagues that you’re not just there looking for a date. Even at 5’5” and 180 pounds, dressed in the same t-shirt and jeans as everyone else, I still had to push about 6-8 months before I convinced most people that I really was “just one of the guys” who worked there and not a man-hungry homewrecker.
Maybe if I thought it would make me deliriously happy, I might consider losing weight just for that. But I’ve tried dieting, once, I’ve tried replacing a meal with a “meal replacement shake.” And let me tell you, one of those things doesn’t even replace a snack. You’re still hungry afterwards, only you can’t eat anything now, because you just drank a whole meal’s worth of calories, and anything else you eat will make the whole thing pointless. So you suck it up and deal with the grumble in your stomach distracting you from entering data into the spreadsheet you’re working on or calling clients to arrange meetings or keeping the kids from killing each other. And, come lunchtime, you’re still hungry, so you eat twice as much lunch and feel guilty about it. I even tried exercise. I had a gym membership that I never used because it was inconvenient and too far to go. I tried walking around the block, but I got down to the corner and the problems with my ankles that no doctor has been able to find make me limp until I can’t walk any further. And, lets be honest, if the foremost thought in my head is “I’m 40 pounds overweight, so I need to walk up the stairs instead of taking the elevator and I need to eat celery instead of a sandwich,” I’m not thinking about anything else, like “That was an interesting book, but I’m not sure I agree with her point about…” Dieting becomes a way of life if you let pride in your appearance drive it. And that’s unhealthy by itself – constant weight fluctuations are more unhealthy than just carrying extra weight around, and that’s saying a lot.
So, rather than lose myself to self-absorbed navel shrinking, I would rather carry my camouflage around, give myself the leeway to do other things that I want to do. If it protects me from idiots who think that I’m only here for their visual pleasure, so much the better. Besides, I haven’t seen any proof that meeting the beauty ideal truly makes anyone happy. I have a friend who is tall and thin, and has hair light enough to pass for blonde in the summer. Meets all of the requirements, right? Tall, thin, blonde and attractive. She’s been hurt as much as I have in my short dumpy brunette life. Her happiness comes from the same place mine does – reading, keeping creative hobbies, having good friends around to laugh with.
So excuuuse me if I choose not to buy into your beauty myth. I don’t like the rules of this game, so I’m making my own. I choose to be the smart girl that I am, and to be proud of it. I choose to be unconcerned with my appearance and more concerned with my health, both mental and physical. I choose to take pride in what I can do and the way I think and the fact that I actively ponder things like why I’d rather be overweight, and I say “F*%# YOU” to anyone who thinks that I should care about being thin and attractive. You’ve missed the point, and I’m sorry you can’t see it.
2005 Update: The original entry produced a few comments, with people weighing in (no pun intended) on having themselves gained weight intentionally when leaving the “dating game” or different experiences as a woman who had lost a dramatic amount of weight. Going off of anecdotal evidence, weight-as-camoflauge certainly isn’t specific to me. Nor is accepting and living with ones body and all of its flaws.
Oh, and thanks, Lauren, for hosting the Open Mic Guest Day.