I'm Judging You (7 page)

People have built entire comedy careers on making fun of well-built folks. Fat jokes are the discount-rack version of comedy, because everyone can get it but we all know it's not quality goods. They are not particularly clever and are never original. It is lazy, playground, low-hanging-fruit comedy, and folks trot it out when they're fresh out of other things to say. Basically, it means they should write better material, and shut the hell up until they do. When kids are making fun of their larger classmates, we can chalk it up to the foolishness of youth, but not so when grown-ass people do it. But here we are, a bunch of proud fat shamers.

At least some people know they're just being mean dust-canoes when they tell fat jokes. They have some semblance of self-awareness. If there's any credit to give them, here is the only place. Others, who are more insufferable, will claim that they joke about people who are plus-size to motivate them to have better lives. “I'm only making fun of them so they can lose weight and find love!”

First of all, nobody asked you to be Captain Save-a-Self-Esteem! What makes you think the person who happens to have more fluff needs your advice-by-criticism? If you want to do community service, find a soup kitchen instead of bullying burly people. No one believes you're that pressed about how healthy or unhealthy people are, either. You just want to get these jokes off to get cheap laughs. If someone is morbidly obese, I'm pretty sure that you insulting them is not going to be the catalyst for them losing weight. You're just adding to the world's negativity by being an inconsiderate asshat.

What the world needs now is love sweet love, not for people to further shame the plump about their bodies. They get more than enough messages telling them that they aren't beautiful or worthy of love or even worthy of being seen as humans deserving of dignity. Fat phobia is ingrained in every single thing we do or say around beauty and attractiveness. From our fashion industry to the media to children's toys, we are telling people every day that their allure as humans is based almost exclusively on the number on the scale, and it is damaging to our psyches.

Magazines and the fashion industry have been on the fat-shaming front lines for decades. All the models walking down the runways look like a strong gust of wind might render them past-tense. Why? They're wearing clothes that are supposed to be for women who buy clothes, not walking mannequins, so that just makes no sense to me. Being someone who is of a slender body type, these images do not make me want to purchase those clothes. But even as people publicly decry the obvious prejudice in fashion at every turn, it stands strong. It is as if fashion tastemakers are afraid that if women with bodies that aren't extremely thin show off their clothes, they might actually have to start making clothes that fit different body types. MON DIEU! Can you imagine?! What would people want next? Clothes in regular stores that go beyond a size eight? That would be too much to fathom! Let's totally ignore that the average woman is a size fourteen. But what is that, anyway? We wouldn't even know, because with the existence of vanity sizing, there are no standard sizes for clothes. Stores and designers are mis-sizing clothes, usually labeling them smaller than they really are, and everyone is spending money to be lied to.

As a slim woman, I get to take for granted the choices I have when shopping for clothes. For women who are plus-size, they either have to go to the few stores that cater only to them or they get the slim pickings in the tiny section hidden in the back of mainstream stores.

Would it kill labels and retailers to make clothes for women of all shapes and sizes? The afterthought of “curvy” collections at most retailers is insulting; the lines lack inspiration and fit. Style does not have to go on vacation just because designers need to use more material and a modicum of tailoring skill. Sheesh. They do these tiny capsule collections, and people have to celebrate these crumbs. The fact that it is worth celebration to even be thought of shows how overlooked they've been. And does the thought still count when it seems to come with minimal effort in execution? The lookbooks drop and people excitedly click just to find out that they're being offered glorified tents that cover them from neck to ankle. They're all like, “Here's a vaguely dress-shaped sack for you! Are you happy now?! Get off our backs!”

Celebrities who aren't skinny get treated like nuisances, too, dressed in glittery pillowcases for red-carpet appearances. Even the high-end luxury designers cannot seem to create styles that flatter larger women. It is not that these bodies are unable to rock clothes fiercely. They just aren't a consideration. It's unfair, it's harmful, and it needs to be fixed. Can my big-boned sisthrens live fabulously? Why is it so hard, fashion? It is because their beauty comes with an asterisk and is seen as an inconvenience.

I've witnessed firsthand some of our distorted perceptions of weight on red carpets I've been on. I've met many celebrities who are considered big
—
or, to use the code word, “curvy”
—
and I am here to say it's all hogwash and we are being lied to. Some of our favorite bootylicious icons are average-sized at best when you see them standing amongst people who don't make a living being judged for every extra ounce on their bodies. I saw a woman whose booty and shape is considered iconic and had to do a double take. I was expecting a Jessica Rabbit clone who was voluptuous and had ample everything. Her body was great, of course, but it was no bigger than a size four or six. That's right: your favorite “curvy” actress is probably a size four in real life, folks. Do not be fooled. It has to suck to be in an industry that is basically a funhouse-mirror land of what everyday people look like. Of course you seem fat at 140 pounds when everyone else weighs 105. It's an evil magic trick.

Male celebrities aren't as they appear, either. The ones you think are tall are five feet six inches on a good day and with their shoe lifts in. They've been standing around other short people so that you think because they have those guys beat by two inches, they're living tall. NOPE. The Hollywood house is nothing but four walls of distortion. Unfortunately, that fallacy compound is dictating to people what they should think about themselves, and that is problematic.

The TV and movie industries are certainly complicit in the incessant disparaging of my not-skinny boos. They have upheld the “fat isn't cute” crap for way too long, particularly against women. I notice that these standards do not apply as stringently to men, and that is an extra layer of bullshit in the GTFOH lasagna. Women's desirability is based on how small the number on the scale is. But men don't get the message that to be desirable or worthy of love they have to be in amazing shape, have awesome hair, and smell like roses even after a workout (and they don't even necessarily need to work out either). Onscreen, men can be burly and hairy and have no sense of style, but they will always snag the trophy girl (or boy). It's a tale as old as time and a formula as played as Yo-Yo Ma's cello.

We see this play out when chunky male characters who think they're Fabio are paired with hot wives who are dating way down, looks-wise. This is why Homer Simpson could pull Marge. It ain't like Homer had swag, either. He was a dimwit. Still, he snagged Marjorie.

Look across television for the last six decades and this type of physical pairing is evident in many portrayals of couples where the guy is big but his wife is skinny.
See
:
The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air
,
The Honeymooners
,
The Flintstones
,
The Simpsons
,
Married … with Children
,
The King of Queens
—
ANY SITCOM. Literally just pick one randomly—you'll probably see it. We don't see the inverse too often. It goes too much against the grain to see a plus-size woman with a skinny or muscular dude. It ain't right.

In movies, you see the same dynamic: romantic comedies starring men who are not classically attractive, but the women they go after (and win) are usually stunning, svelte chicks. They check every box on the “You Must Have This Characteristic to Be Pretty” list, but they're with a dude who is average at best but happens to be smitten with them. The juxtaposition of a woman who is a total package still ending up with a partner who didn't even try, and looks like he might not have showered that day, is proof that we need to tell men they're cute less often. It is also proof of the unfair standards of beauty that women have to adhere to. Meanwhile, dudes just gotta show up.

Let's imagine, for a moment, a world where a plus-size woman carries a romantic comedy. Just think about that for a second.

Okay, moment's over.

You probably just thought about that longer than most Hollywood execs ever have. It's as if it is unthinkable that anyone would lust after a woman with extra meat on her bones. Let us completely ignore the fact that most of the adult population isn't under 120 pounds. If our entertainment is supposed to reflect our reality in some way, then Hollywood has created a bubble of distortion so airtight that it's spawned a new reality of its own. This Hollywood reality says stuff like, “Why would a love story be based around your plumpness? Why would men fall all over themselves? That's only for people who have thigh gaps! You will be the funny and goofy sidekick instead, because your beauty is better on the periphery. We wouldn't want to offend audiences by suggesting that plus-size women get courted and lusted over.” We might have gotten
Bridget Jones's Diary
, but the premise of that movie was that the main character was big and messy but she was lusted after IN SPITE of her messy bigness. (And she wasn't even that big. I mean,
come on
.)

See what I mean? Bizarro World.

I'd love to see Melissa McCarthy cast in a role where a man professes his love for her and writes poems in her honor. Can we have that? Instead, she is always considered the underdog of love, or the person who presumably doesn't even need love because, since she's big, her snacks will keep her company at night. It's offensive.

No wonder eating disorders are out of control. People are seeing their weight represented as a liability and a hurdle to get past in order to be loved. Girls are growing up aware that their bodies are under constant scrutiny and feeling worthless because theirs don't come in Barbie's shape. No one's does, because they would have no room in their torsos for internal organs and their necks would not be able to support their heads. That nefarious programming starts early for us, though. Seeing yourself in the things around you sometimes helps you understand, even legitimize, your existence.

We are laughing and slandering something that a large (no pun intended) segment of the population is, and we gotta do better.

And while we ridicule people for being fat, we also turn around and say, “Real women have curves.” Those curves, of course, are only valid as long as they don't go beyond some arbitrary point. That statement grinds my gears for many reasons. What about those of us who aren't curvy? Are the rest of us Pinocchio? I get the intent—to empower people who are bigger and frequently degraded—but it degrades others in order to do it. “Real women breathe.” How about that? Don't tell me that because I'm shaped like a twelve-year-old prepubescent boy I'm not a real woman. Screw that.

It seems that we are never good enough. Everyone needs to be skinny, but not too skinny. You need to be thick, but not fat. We're pretty much the pits, and I can't help but judge us, because nothing weight-related comes with anything but scorn. Being skinny comes with its own problems. You might have just rolled your eyes at that. Well, shush. You will sit here and read about my struggles, because they are real. Of course the grass is always greener on the other side, but this is my book and I'll whine if I want to.

So, me. I've always been skinny. I've never weighed more than 120 pounds, and even that was probably with a bit of water retention. I totally celebrated not needing a belt that one time. Go, me! I've been the same size since high school, and if I still rocked Tommy Hilfiger like I owned shares in the company, I could still fit into all my old clothes. My metabolism is faster than Usain Bolt with the wind at his back, and no matter what I eat, I do not gain weight. Did you just rip this book up? STAHP! I mean it. These are struggles, for real.

When I hit puberty and everyone around me was sprouting boobs and ass, I barely needed a training bra. I remember one of my aunts walking up to me and pinching my nipples as a joke. Folks never shied away from telling me how skinny I was, as if it was brand-new information they just had to let me in on. I know I'm thin. You ain't gotta declare it like some PSA. I grew really self-conscious about my body and got a complex where I previously did not have one. What stuck with me, in particular, was how people focused on my skinny legs. I am basically Olive Oyl. My archnemeses are Timberland boots, because they're heavy and my skankles (skinny ankles) be on struggle mode when I rock them. I still do, though, because I'm shallow and I like the look. But good GAWDT. I wore them one day while in New York, and you know they walk
everywhere
there. These shoes are really not meant for those of us who are ankle-deficient, because by the end of walking those raggedy streets in some boy's size five wheat Timbs, and carrying that construction-boot weight with my ankles, I needed an Icy Hot patch. My lesson learned: wear thicker socks so your feet won't slide around in your cute boots. Also, ask a New Yorker for
exact
distance because they play too much. You ask how far y'all are walking, and they say, “Around the corner.” Lies. I should have called Lyft.

I hated wearing shorts because of my aforementioned sticks for legs. In summer, I'd be in jeans the entire time
—
rain, sleet, 100 degrees, it didn't matter. At the beach, I'd wear long linen pants, and then when it was time to swim, I'd throw them off in a hurry and run into the water, all so people wouldn't see my legs and have the chance to point them out. And dresses? NEVER. Well, besides prom, and that was a gown so it covered my legs. It was a REAL insecurity. I carried this with me through my twenties, from which very few pictures of me in shorts exist. I don't know when I had my “I no longer give a damb” moment about my legs and my body, but one day, I put on a dress and looked amazing in it and decided that if people didn't like my toothpick legs, they'd just have to deal.