I'm a fatty who used to be thin.  

When I was thin, I wore turtlenecks.  Lots and lots of turtlenecks.  When I was at my thinnest, around age fifteen, one of my favorite pieces of clothing was a sleek, soft, mulberry-colored turtleneck sweater.  I loved the way the ribbed material hugged my incipient curves.  I loved the warm, rich color against my winter-pale skin.  But most of all, I loved how the turtleneck framed my tiny, heart-shaped chin.  

With my turtlenecks, I garnered unsolicited compliments from friends and family.  I've always had questionable fashion sense, and such comments were a rare occurrence.  I was thrilled to have stumbled on a winning look.

And then, I went to college.  Slowly, over the course of three years, I've gained more than twenty pounds.  On my five-foot frame, that looks like a lot.  With those twenty pounds, I've gone from wearing a size "extra small" to an "extra large" in most of my favorite brands.

Most of that gaining took place in California, where I was cavorting in the grass, discovering mathematics, and not wearing turtlenecks.  But this spring, I went shopping with a couple of lady friends.  It was a fun trip, and I nabbed a couple of lucky finds, including something I have nicknamed the "man trap" shirt.  And, on a lark, I picked up a sleeveless turtleneck sweater.

The sweater was cute, I have to say.  It was black knit, with a golden-brown floral pattern reminiscent of Chinese brocade.  The cut seemed flattering enough.  But I didn't take much time to consider the effect, because I knew I looked good in turtle necks.  I always had.  

And then I bought the shirt home, and took it for a test drive.  Any my father, who is a wonderfully supportive parent, told me: "I don't think the high collar is the look for you."  And although I knew he was just trying to give me a bit of parental wisdom, it felt like a slap in the face. I dashed off to look in the mirror.  He was right.

My face had changed since I was a teen-ager.  My chin was now softly rounded, as were my cheeks.  The turtleneck didn't suit me anymore.  It wasn't flattering.  Much as I hate that dress-for-your-figure crap you see in magazines, there are clothes that make me look sensually lovely, and clothes that make me look grotesque.  The turtleneck wasn't quite in "grotesque" territory, but it was close.  

Well, needless to say, I felt awful.  I had lost my teen-age beauty.  I was horrid.  I was disgusting.

And then I took a step back.  I wasn't horrid.  I wasn't disgusting.  I was just different, and that was fine.  As a fattie, I didn't look good in all of my "thin" clothes.  And so what?  A redhead and a brunette won't necessarily look good in all of the same colors, but that doesn't mean one of is superior to the other.

So often, we view the ability to wear a certain look well as some kind of noble achievement.  We struggle to acquire "bikini" bodies, or to fit into tight jeans.  And really, that's a bit absurd.  True beauty isn't a contest, where the object is to look good in as many trendy garments as possible.  Rather, it's about finding a style that suits you, as a individual--your body, your taste, your beliefs and values.

There are fat chicks who look lovely in turtlenecks, or bikinis, or tight jeans.   I actually look hot in tight jeans myself--I just hate the way they feel.  But the fact is, there are clothes that looked good on me when I was thin, and that just don't suit me anymore.  And that's okay.  It doesn't mean I've become less beautiful. It just means I have to be a little creative, and figure out what works for my new body.  Boat necks, for instance, are wonderful on me now, in a way they weren't when I was thinner. 

My body isn't better or worse than it was when I was thin.  But it is different.  The important thing is to honor those changes; to treat my new body with love and respect; to buy sweaters that make me look completely kick-ass.

Resolved: if I'm not going to diet, I need to do an awesome job with HAES. I suppose that on some level, I feel this way because I want to dispel the stereotypes about fatties, and because I feel a need to justify my decisions. I'm allowing myself to be influenced, and defined, by others' perceptions of me and my size. But you know what? I think that's okay.

Here's my health to-do list. I'm not promising to start any of these things tomorrow; these are long-term goals, which I hope will result in improvements in my overall health and vitality. And none of them has to do with calories or weight.

• Try, really try, to get eight hours of sleep a night.
• Spend at least 45 minutes exercising, every single day.
• Do a mixture of aerobic, weight-bearing, and stretching exercises.
• Limit hard-core dairy foods (cheese, ice cream, yoghurt) to about three servings per day.
• Eat more fruits, veggies, and whole grains. Try having fruits or veggies as snacks instead of bread or dairy.
• Practice thinking positively about my body.

Some HAES practitioners might feel a little uncomfortable with the work-out goals. What can I say? I'm not a purist.  I don't think physical activity needs to always be for pleasure, or that formal exercise is necessarily emotionally destructive.  For some people, that may be true.  If they choose to avoid the gym, and take up swing dancing, that's a reasonable and healthy choice.  

But for me, developing a strong, fit body is just like any other goal.  it requires patience, practice, and heard work.  When I played the piano, I got used to practicing scales for hours.  It wasn't fun, it wasn't terribly stimulating, but it brought undeniable rewards.  For me, exercise is the whole-body equivalent of practicing scales.  I may not always love it, but I understand that it's beneficial, and sometimes, it can be very satisfying.  The key, for me, is to look at exercise in a positive way, even when it isn't much fun.  I try to view it as a gift I'm giving my body, not as a punishment for being the "wrong" size and shape.  

In a similar vein, if I'm going to be plus-sized, I want to be a fabulous plus-sized diva! Here are some beauty goals. While my health goals are contingent only on my willpower and time-management skills, some of my beauty needs will have to wait until I have a bit more money.

• Apply light make-up (lipstick and eyeshadow) every day, unless there's a compelling reason not to.
• Find a cleanser that really, really works for my face.
• Moisturize my face and body.
• Wash my hair in cold water. It does wonders for the texture!
• Learn to blow-dry and style my hair.
• Acquire a wardrobe of flattering, comfortable clothes. Create a personal style that's all my own.
• Buy bras that come close to fitting.
• Acquire some cute, girly shoes, and a couple of sexy jackets.

I'm not beautiful or glamorous in a conventional way, and I'm okay with that. But I have my own particular brand of cute, and I want to accentuate that, as much as I possibly can.

 My goodness!  More than a month and no posts.  So much has happened since last time I wrote, and I'm not sure where to begin.

I've been practicing body positivity for almost four months now, and my quality of life has improved tremendously.  Maybe some people can fix their lives with dieting.  But for me, accepting my body has definitely been the right choice.  It's freed me from so much fear, anxiety, and shame.  I feel more confident in social situations, and better able to make decisions about relationships and friendships.  Before the end of the semester, I went shopping with a couple friends, and I actually enjoyed it.  I can't begin to express what a milestone that was for me.  

That being said, I still have a long way to go.  I'm not yet totally comfortable with my body.  I'm not practicing HAES as well as I could be, nor have I completely mastered that art of plus-sized shopping.  And while I know intellectually that fat acceptance is one of the best things that ever happened to me, I still have feelings of doubt.  I question my choice not to diet, and wonder if my surrender to flab means I'm weak and incompetent. 

Feeling insecure about my body is, of course, no fun. But worse, it makes it harder for me to be supportive of other people's decisions regarding their own bodies.  When one of my friends starts to diet, or begins exercising, or drops a few pounds, I feel threatened.  I worry that they will judge me because I can't, or won't, do what they've done.  I worry about losing my place in some imagined social hierarchy.  And I worry that their experience, their "success," invalidates my belief that weight loss isn't a reasonably goal for most people, myself included.  If my friends and relatives can lose weight, I wonder, why can't I?

Recently, my friend K. confided that she "needs" to lose about twenty pounds; she feels that it's important for her achieve a  "healthy" weight.  By her own admission, her motives are far more complex than a simple desire to be healthy.  But she genuinely believes that losing weight would improve her health, vitality, and quality of life.  She's lost almost thirty pounds over the past two years, and claims that her life has improved in many ways.  But she also admitted to feeling conflicted about her desire to lose weight; she worried about selling out on her feminist principles.  

Hearing K.'s confession, I felt a rush of conflicting emotions.  I tried hard to be supportive and kind, while gently injecting a bit of fat acceptance into the conversation.  But in the end, I just felt irritated and hurt, and those feelings interfered with my ability to be a good friend to K.  We had a very calm, civil conversation, but I wasn't as warm and empathic as perhaps I could have been.  And I know that she felt hurt and disappointed by how the conversation had gone.

I'm not sure what I should have done.  I wish I could have handled the situation in a more positive way.  And I think the only way I could have done that is if I had felt more secure in my own choices, my own path.  I need to cultivate my so much self-confidence that I no longer feel resentment when someone else succeeds--or when they choose to define success in a profoundly different way.  

When I'm feeling down, regardless of the cause, I invariably start feeling ugly.  It's strange.  Feelings of disgust about my looks, and especially my weight, are often the first indication I have that something is troubling me.  Sometime, I whine a little to my friends.  Sometimes I talk to L, one of my suite mates. L is a wonderful, compassionate young woman who's studying to be a clinical psychologist, and she seems to have made it her personal goal to raise my self-esteem.  There are times when just being told I'm beautiful makes me feel alright again.  Maybe it's because I really am just feeling ugly, and I need the reality check.  Or maybe it's that I need a little kindness, a little attention, at that moment, and soliciting compliments is my way of asking for it.

When I was in high school, I was incredibly insecure about my intellectual abilities.  I still am, now and then.  But for the most part, I am confident in my smarts, and comfortable with my own limitations. I am a mathematician undeniable but very minor talent.  I am an artist and a writer of great skill, but I have little drive to create.  And all of that is perfectly fine.

Throughout high school, I hated math.  I couldn't stand it.  I struggled endlessly to master algebra and trigonometry.  The whole thing made me feel inadequate and stupid.  And yet, even during those years there were times when I felt differently.  Times when I worked problems for fun with a mathematician friend, or spent hours manipulating one of those Chinese puzzles with the interlocking rings--which I have never been able to solve.  

Looking back, it's clear that I had mathematical talent.  Other people saw it: teachers, parents, friends.  And I had the kind of personality that leads me to find math enjoyable and fulfilling.  I am earnest, playful, and a bit obsessive.  I am relentlessly logical, an abstract thinker.  I should have loved math, and excelled in it.  But I didn't.  Why?

The answer is simple, yet complex.  At some point, I decided that math was an acceptable locus for all my doubts and fears.  Or rather, for those doubts that related to my intellect, my potential, my ability to succeed.  It was easier to focus my anxiety on one specific area--my difficulties in math--than to confront the underlying issues: my uncontrollable temper, my fears for the future, my sometimes crippling lack of self-esteem.  I needed a nucleation site for all these free-floating emotions.  And math was there: it was something lots of young people--especially young women--hated and feared.  Math anxiety was a form of insecurity that seemed normal and acceptable.  And so for years, I loathed and detested math.  

And then something changed.  In college, I slowly began to come into my own as a intellectual.  And as I did, I realized that I didn't hate math; that I enjoyed it, and that I was pretty good at it, too.  

But while I gained confidence in my mind, in my intellect, I remained insecure about my body.  And now I worry about my appearance, just as I once worried my smarts.  Channeling negative feelings into body dysmorphia is a way for me to experience those emotions, without having to think about them too much.  Body dissatisfaction, like math anxiety, is common among young women.  Directing my angst toward body issues helps me feel safe; it gives me a sense that my feelings, my problems, are normal.  It's useful to me, in a way.  

But it also hurts me.  It keeps me from paying attention to my own internal cues, and understanding my own emotions.  More and more, I feel that my body worries aren't really about hating my body, any more than my math anxiety was about hating math.  They're about masking other emotions, dealing with them indirectly.  

I wish I'd been able to love math in high school.  I wish I'd experienced then the intellectual fulfillment of writing a beautiful proof.  And I wish now, more than anything, that I was able to love my body.  Because I know that deep down, I have no reason not to.

Clothes.  It's all about clothes.

If I could wake up every morning, and have a wardrobe of cute, comfortable clothes that flattered my physique, and if these clothes could magically conform to all of my body's changes, then I would never diet again.  I wouldn't feel bad about my weight.

If I could wear yoga pants every day, I would be comfortable in my skin.

Alas, that isn't possible--even for a mathematician.  But I'm considering investing in a some clothes that would easily accommodate possible changes in size: wrap dresses, elastic-waist skirts, some new, un-stretched yoga pants.  

For me, there's something devastating about rolling out of bed in the morning, and discovering that my favorite jeans feel tight.  It's like a punch in the solar plexus.  I don't know why.  I don't know why something so trivial has such an impact on my emotional well-being.  But it does, and I can't get around it. I recently turned down an offer to go shopping with my best friend, because I knew I'd be a lousy companion; by the end of the day, I would be an emotional wreck.

I want so much to stop caring about all this.  I want to be happy with my flab.  I want to start working out again, without having to worry about my compulsive tendencies flaring up.  But more than anything, I want to be able to go into a store, and try on a pair of my favorite curvy jeans.  And have them be too tight.  And not cry.

So, I would be the first to admit that being fat can have some disadvantages.  I'm a pear-shaped person, and I carry my weight on my hips, thighs, and booty.  At this point, I have enough flesh on my lower half to cause some minor inconveniences.  There's chafing, of course.  There are times when my belly interferes with movement--though usually only when I'm trying to adopt some truly bizarre, curled-up position.  And this year, I've noticed something new: the fat on my bottom bounces painfully when I run.  

Now, running is not something I particularly enjoy, so that's not usually a problem.  If I wanted to take up jogging, I could always invest in a pair of compression shorts.  

But still, there's nothing that makes me want to give up on FA, and head straight for the nearest Weight Watcher's center, like being in pain because of bouncing flesh.  There are times when I can't help feeling that my fat is truly compromising me, that my body is sordid and wrong.  No matter that, as I wrote in my last post, diets are not the answer for most people--even people who would benefit from weight loss.  My extra flesh is causing problems, and I want it gone!

All this got me thinking, though, about the social construction of the good body.  Yes, there are minor physical challenges for me associated with being overweight.  But I also faced physical challenges when I was thin. Why is it that the fat-related issues cause me guilt and shame, whereas the problems caused by thinness never did?

When I was thin, I couldn't lie on my stomach, because it put pressure on my protruding hip bones.  It was impossible to find clothes to fit my tiny frame.  I felt fragile.  I was always cold.  But I bore these troubles with a martyr's pride.  I was thin--almost too thin--and it was wonderful.  

The problems I experience as a fatty are no more severe than those I experienced as a thin woman.  The only reason they bother me so much is that I've been trained to believe that fat is inherently bad.  I live in a culture that tells me, over and over again, that being fat will make me miserable, and so I'm miserable about being fat.  If I'd grown up in a culture where zaftig was the ideal, the troubles associated with being skinny would have made me frantic; my bouncing booty would be a mark of pride.

I'm two days into my eating-from-hunger experiment.  What do I have to report?

First off, I haven't been doing what I said I would.  Not even close.  Because it's true: if I wait for hunger pangs, I will hardly ever eat.  And when I do, I'll have half an orange, and then be done.  Clearly, that's no way to live.

I have, however, been paying a lot more attention to my body's hunger signals.  I've done less mindless snacking than I usually do, and probably consumed slightly few calories.  (Just an observation; I'm not a fan of caloric restriction for its own sake.)  Over the next few days, I will keep striving to avoid eating til I'm physically hungry, and to be aware of my reasons for wanting to eat. 

This experiment has gotten me thinking about the feeling of hunger itself.  How do I know my body needs food?  Around 5:00 PM yesterday, I had a sudden, fierce desire for food.  I tried distracting myself with a book, reasoning that I should wait to eat until my stomach told me it was empty.  But the feeling didn't go away, and after about half an hour, I decided it was dinner time.  The question is: was I genuinely hungry?  It had been hours since I'd eaten; I'd had a long walk to build up my appetite.  I wanted food.  But my stomach wasn't growling.  Are there other, legitimate hunger signals besides pangs in my stomach?  If so, how can I learn to understand and honor those signals?  How can I distinguish them from other cravings, which may be less healthy?  I have no idea.

Now, some HAES-related miscellany.

The prevalence of "overweight" and "obesity" varies tremendously across the United States.  I grew up in Massachusetts, a relatively skinny state.  When I'm back home, I can't shake the feeling that my mildly "overweight" body sticks out like a sore thumb.  Right now, I live in California, on a campus with students from all across the country.  I'm certainly one of the chubby girls in my crowd, but I rarely feel like a freak.  And in Nebraska, where my mother's family lives, I'm considered practically anorexic.

My grandmother passed away this week, and I did a two-day jaunt to the midwest to attend the funeral.  I visited with family I hadn't seen in a while.  And I was faced with fact that most of my extended family is "obese," and a few of my relatives are extremely so.  And while I understand that fat doesn't always mean unhealthy, there are people in my family who have serious healthy issues which are probably weight-related.  My "morbidly obese" aunt suffers from diabetes and hypertension, and has had triple-bypass surgery.  That's just plain scary.

When you come down to it, maybe I'm not a pure fat acceptance advocate.  I do believe that "obesity" can be a health problem, and that slow, safe, sustainable weight loss can be beneficial.  I stand with most of the FA community--and against most of the American medical establishment--in asserting that fat is not always unhealthy, that one cannot judge a person's health status based on weight alone.  Surely, the dangers of fat have been greatly exaggerated. Both the media and the doctors are blinded by prejudice, which prevents a nuanced discussion of obesity issues. But it's hard to ignore the evidence that for many people, obesity presents real dangers.

So where does that leave me?  I am a conflicted fat acceptance warrior; I believe in much of what the movement stands for, but I don't buy the whole party line.  I don't think weight loss is a panacea, but I'm open to the idea that it can be a boon to some, especially when it's the result of adopting a healthier lifestyle. 

My reaction to my fat family members makes me realize that I'm not as firm in my FA convictions as I'd thought.  These people are my family; we have similar genes.  While I know it's irrational, I couldn't avoid seeing their bodies as a warning: "this could happen to you"--the sort of reaction we're supposed to have to images of "headless fatties" in the news.  Spending time with my family, eating rich, Midwestern food, I was plagued by the knee-jerk urge to diet, set weight loss goals, start a food diary.  I could feel myself slipping back into the diet craziness and disordered eating that I've been working so hard to overcome.

Finally, I forced myself to take a step back, review what I know, and examine the issue critically.

Maybe it's true that I and and my family are putting ourselves at risk by being fat.  Maybe.  And so what?  That doesn't mean that losing weight will magically reverse the risk, or provide significant health benefits.  And medical science has yet to find a safe, effective way to make fat people thin.  

The research is clear: when it comes to improving one's health, a Healthy at Every Size (HAES) approach is more effective than any known weight-loss program.  It may not lead to weight loss (and neither do most diets), but it can do wonders for a person's well-being.  And here's the clincher: even if a person suffers health problems because of their weight, even if they would genuinely benefit from losing a few pounds, they would probably be better served by HAES than by a traditional weight-loss regimen.  

So yes, my folks are fat, and so am I.  Some of that is probably a matter of genetics, and some of lifestyle choices.  Yes, many people in my family have health issues that are probably weight related.  It may even be true that some of us would be healthier if we could wake up tomorrow twenty pounds lighter--or fifty pounds lighter, or one hundred.  

But that doesn't mean any of us need to diet.  HAES is still the most powerful tool we have for improving our health and well-being.

 For most of my life, I've struggled to find a way of eating that feels healthy for me.  It isn't just a matter of getting my vitamins, fiber and such.  I need to find a way of eating that allows me to maintain my body's natural weight, while getting the nutrients I need.  But I also need to be able to indulge in the foods I love--even if only occasionally, and in limited amounts.  I need to be able to enjoy eating as a social experience.  And I need to be able to get through the day without obsessing about food and weight.  

I've played with a number of approaches (more on this later).  And now, I've decided to try something new.  

For the next six days (until the end of my spring break), I'm not going to eat unless I am physically hungry.  I won't deny myself food once I start feeling hunger; that's almost always counterproductive.  But I'm not going to eat because of the clock, or to procrastinate, or because I'm bored.

Actually, that's not quite true: I'm worried that since I'm a bit under the weather, and since I've become so disconnected from my body's internal signals, I may actually eat dangerously little for a couple of days if I wait for hunger.  So I'm going to make sure I've eaten a small meal (some protein and some starch) before noon, another before 2:00 pm, and another before 8:00 pm.  As things progress, I'll re-evaluate whether I need even that much of a schedule.

I'm a student Scripps, a women's college in Southern California.  It's a small school, with about nine hundred students in all.  But we're part of a five-college consortium which includes a total of over 5,000 students.  The other schools are all Co-ed, so I see men in my classes, in the dining halls, and occasionally even in the dorms.  Scripps, in essence, is women's college lite.  It provides a strong, supportive community of women, without the benefits or the drawbacks of a single-sex environment.

When I came to Scripps, I expected to find a strong, vocal feminist community.  My Scripps friends are, in fact, staunchly feminist in many ways. Whether of not they actively espouse feminist beliefs, they are empowered, strong women who take no stuff.  However, I was surprised by the apparent lack of feminist engagement on the Scripps campus.  We have our yearly performance of the Vagina Monologues, a few Model Mugging workshops, and some superficially body-positive literature in the gym, but that's about it.  There's a "feminist majority" chapter here, and a pro-choice club, but both have only a handful of members.  

In my opinion, this lack of feminist activity is less reflective of Scripps students' feelings about women's issues than of our general disinterest in political activism.  Most Scripps students, myself emphatically included, aren't out to change the world, at least not yet.  We come to Scripps hoping to better ourselves, to develop our talents and our intellect.  We ready, write, study, solve problems, and create, often late into the night. This doesn't leave us much time to march in the streets--or even attend a club meeting.  And honestly, I think that's okay.

All the same, it warms my heart to see evidence of a feminist presence at Scripps.  I had one such happy moment today.

The wonderful RA's in my dorm had put up a brightly-colored poster in the lobby, an area where people often gather to socialize, with the heading "We Are Not What We Eat."  The poster itself features grainy print-outs of beauty icons through the centuries, from Reubens' women to Twiggy, to illustrate the arbitrary nature of Western body ideals.  Take that, evolutionary psychology!  In addition, there were some statistics about the prevalence of eating disorders, and a list of common-sense tips on building a more positive body image.  I can't say the poster taught me anything new, but it's nice to be greeted by a burst of sunny body acceptance every time I walk into my dorm.  Thank-you, RA's! 

When I tell you that I'm fat, what pictures form in your head. How do you imagine me?

Chances are, in your mind's eye, you saw a soft apple belly, pendulous breasts. You saw one of those pictures that accompany articles on the "obesity epidemic," pictures that show supersized* people in unflattering clothes. Those pictures are terrible, of course: often headless, always dehumanizing, they deny the inherent beauty and dignity of fat bodies. In addition, these images depict extremely "overweight" people, who make up only a few percent of the population. And while there's nothing wrong with being supersized, the media's insistence on portraying the fattest as emblems of the "obesity crises" gives the public a distorted and alarmist view of what "overweight" and "obese" look like.

I am "overweight." I am not "obese." If you met me in person, you would probably be surprised. Perhaps even a bit disappointed. Because really, I'm not that fat.

I'm what's often referred to in the size-acceptance community as an "in-betweenie." The category includes people who are mildly to moderately "overweight:" people who are just fat enough to suffer social penalties for their size.

I am not as fat as the typical "obesity crises" poster child. But I've seen pictures of bodies like mine used to illustrate the fattening of America. I have the body of a "before" picture in a slimfast ad: fat enough to make my need for slimming snake-oil apparent, but thin enough so that the average "Woman's Day" reader--who is, in all likelihood, fatter than I am--can identify with my body without discomfort.

When I write about fat acceptance, I write from an "in-betweenie" vantage point. I know that I face some unique challenges as an in-betweenie: I'm too thin for most plus-size stores, but often too fat for standard sizes.

I also know that I have enjoyed my share of privilege for being relatively thin. I understand that my ability to empathize with the very fat is necessarily limited. I don't pretend to speak for anyone else's experience. But I do know what it's like to be marginalized for my body. I know what's it's like to struggle with poor self-image. The ideas of fat acceptance have helped me in so many ways. And I believe that in-betweenies like me have a place within the movement.

But wait a second. If I'm not all that fat, what was up with that very first post? Why do I define myself as fat, and bear the term so proudly?

The answer is a little complicated. First, I really am "overweight." I am soft. I jiggle. I have cellulite on my thighs. The thought of living in a body like mine would horrify many a slender woman, and I'm keenly aware of that. And of all the words I could use to describe my body--plump, thick, voluptuous--fat seems the most frank, the most objective. It's not a euphemism; it's a simple, physical descriptor, no cutesy connotations attached.

The second reason is that fat is socially constructed. Whether or not I'm fat by medical standards, I've often felt pressed into the social role of the fat chick. I grew up in Massachusetts, one of the slimmest states, and I've often had the experience of being the fattest girl in the room. I've been mocked for my weight. I've spent years trying to diet. And though my body is only slightly "overweight," being viewed as a fatty has had a profound effect of my self-image and my identity. My fat has become a part of who I am.

The third reason I embrace the word "fat" is that being being called fat was, for so long, one of my greatest fears.  For most of the last decade, the slightest reference to my fat was enough to reduce me to a puddle on the floor. By calling myself fat, I am reclaiming that word, and robbing it of its power to hurt me. Yes, I have big Jewish thighs. Yes, I'm fat. And so what?

I have met the enemy, and she is I, and she looks hot in a little red dress.

*As rude as it might seem, "supersized" is a common way to describe "morbidly obese" bodies in the fat acceptance community; it's usually considered to be a respectful, positive term, and that's the way I'm using it here. If you know a better word, let me know!