How To Be Fat But Act Like a Regular Human: Wedding Edition

I think being engaged is basic-ing me up a bit.

I think it does this to most of us. I’ve dedicated a non-insignificant portion of my life to rallying against the supposition that I have to be married to be whole, good enough, normal. But as I begin planning our wedding, I have said the following things to my partner (and meant them):  ⇐ accidental punctuation frown that fits

  • We can get married in a church. Yes, I know we don’t want to. But we can. Maybe we should?
  • I want to grow out my hair.
  • I should quit my job in reproductive health. Yes, I know they’re wrong and I’m right, but wouldn’t it be easier?
  • Baby, we’ve discussed this. Wedding dress. Taco bar. Wedding Dress. Taco bar. [[shakes head]]
  • and not to my partner, but many times to myself: I should go on a diet.

Now, I can admit that this is all ridiculous. But as I told my person with tears in my eyes, it wasn’t easy for them coming out in a conservative family in the south, and now I want us to be unquestionably appropriate. I want them all to stop and think hey, they’re just like us, and what a happy perfect couple, maybe I’ve been an ass. These are people who are kind to me, so it’s not about evening my own score. I want vindication for the memory of the heartbroken seventeen-year-old version of my partner who lived through that.

All wrapped up in this, as in most everything about me, is my fat identity. If I’m thinner, won’t I love myself more? If I’m thinner, won’t I be more appropriate and less objectionable? Won’t I fit into small spaces and polite society? Won’t I make my partner proud? Won’t I be beautiful?

I’ve kept traditional body expectations at bay in part by keeping traditional roles at arm’s length. So here I am, face to face with one of the most conventional roles women can experience, and it scares the shit out of me. I don’t know how to begin to frame the word “bride” as a part of who I am, and when I think about how to align that with fatness, I get overwhelmed and stop trying.

I have this image in my mind of a slightly poofy white dress with pink accents, an updo with pink streaks, and my new pink glitter rainbow Doc Martens. Punk princess fat bride style with a huge grin. It’s a great fantasy, but I don’t know how I could possibly be strong enough to make it through an appointment at some [[shudder]] bridal store. I can’t conceive of coming out with my self-esteem in one piece after they put too-small dresses around my fat body, pillowing out where my small breasts are, held up with binder clips, and tied together in the back with elastic for the parts that won’t fit over my wide, round tummy. I’ll be in tatters.

The message will be clear: I am not normal. Fatness is not normal, and within fatness, my shape is not normal. I do not fit.

Where are the fat feminist discount bridal boutiques? Can you point toward the queer part of Pinterest? Who has written a guidebook for manners and behavior with the given understanding that gender is a social construct? How can I build a social event to celebrate in our communities, but also nurture the private and sacred nature of our love? And how will I ever, ever, ever go dress shopping?

Instead, I stay focused on the idea that I get to marry the greatest person I’ve ever known. They’re perfect. (Objectively true, and on the internet, so proven fact.) I’ve thrown myself into venue research. I’m making appointments, tracking prices and policies, building an aesthetic and a budget and a dream of something that we’ll call ours. But I can feel a panic on the edges of my body, pushing in past my soft edges. Being a bride is for the beautiful, it says, and fat women are not beautiful.

This, I know, is bullshit and yet I feel it in my bones. This is poison, yet I drop it in my morning coffee.

Excuse me, I have to go make some spreadsheets.


Like most fat women, I have quantified my body — and especially the food I put in it — endlessly. I have hated and loved the numbers, signing my power over to a broken math.






As I type these words, I feel them in the depths of me, like a soft chant.  poundscaloriespointsstepssizes poundscaloriespointsstepssizes … They whisper a promise to release me from their power, unraveling a spell that’s bound with sweat, blood, vomit, and decades of trying to be less.

It began in adolescence. The first time I joined the well-known healthy eating plan, I went to the classrooms above my youth group church and learned to count starch servings (these were the food pyramid days). I was surrounded by older women, and I was afraid to speak about it in school. We had cardboard guides and small binders. 2 milk, 3 fruit, 1 protein. It’s much more complex now, powered by research and metadata, but somehow I’m still the girl who is too fat too young, too broke, and too ashamed to be here.








What would happen if I made the rules? +3 KatePoints for walking the dog in the sunshine. +1 KatePoint for eating a pear. +4 KatePoints for asking for help. +3 for potato salad that tastes fresh and filling. No points for self-doubt. +5 for writing. +1 for rubbing my feet. +2 for rubbing theirs. I’ve been humming a thought in my mind today, a sweet melody of freedom.

I want to quantify my kindness, my wholesome, nurtured self. I want to remind myself a hundred times a day that it’s alright to take up space. I want to be weightless.

I’m going to count my fucking blessings.

Just Worried About You, and Other Poisons

Recently I went to the doctor, and despite my protestations he spoke with me for a few minutes about a well-known healthy eating plan that could help me lose weight. Today, my thumb seems to have some sort of stress injury and my stomach is… well if the internet can be trusted, I have a bleeding stomach ulcer, but I haven’t been back to the doctor. I’m a grown woman (and kind of a badass) so when I tell you that it’s nearly impossible to overcome fat bias and fear to discuss my body with strangers, please take me at my word.

In 2013, I joined that very same well-known healthy eating program. I lost 83 lb of fat from my body, without starving or depriving myself, but eventually I gained it back. The ghost of that time lives in my bones now. It wraps itself around my ankles and tugs at me until it bruises my flesh. It’s on my mind every minute. I’m quick to anger when I can’t keep up or when my knees ache. I sweat profusely when others seem dewey and comfortable, and it makes me want to scream.

The size 10 version of me got to see the world as a “normal” person sees it, and I’m here to tell you, y’all are fucked up. The way we perceive fat bodies — and make fat bodies our business — is criminal.

Fat women are told what to do constantly. We are made to feel inconsequential and also too large to fit in the room. We are taught that we are disgusting, undesirable, and weak. We are reviled and ridiculed, often through third party sources like ad campaigns and “jokes.” We are told — if not every day then every week — that others are just concerned for us. They’re just worried about us and our unhealthy habits. They just want us to be happy, while wielding the weaponry of our unhappiness. If we were truly worried about fat women and our habits, we would react the same way when thin women eat french fries in public, dare to wear form-fitting clothing, or visit the doctor for any reason. I must say this, because somehow we still don’t believe fat women, and somehow this still needs to be said.

The most startling difference in my size 10 life was that men looked at me. On the street, in the workplace, and everywhere I went, men looked at me. It was like shedding an invisibility cloak and stepping out into the sunshine. It wasn’t always sexual, but it was this gift of notice that drew me in. I was also afraid. In every glance I felt a looming threat to my safety, because I was reminded of all of the times when men had encroached upon my body. I had less natural physical strength, and the spotlight of non-invisibility meant I could no longer hide in plain sight.

I won’t tell you that people stopped feeling emboldened to comment on my body. As men started to see me, women started to engage with me differently. Some women, especially queer women, automatically rejected me as other. I remember wondering about my place on the Kinsey scale (a solid 3 for a long time, I made the happy choice to own the term lesbian years ago, and now feel like more of a 5). The male gaze is intoxicating, even while it debases us. I was single at the time, and I found myself asking hairdressers to make me “look more gay” and wearing large rainbow accessories to try and fill the perception gap my traditional body shape caused.

Other women, especially straight women, reacted as if to a threat, responding to a primal drive that tells us the male gaze is a finite resource to be rationed. As I shed sizes 24, 22, 20, and 18, my acquaintances were proud of me. But when my body became smaller than theirs, they objected; they stopped me in my tracks to tell me now maybe I was too thin, I should quit losing weight, they’re just worried about me. To be clear, I wasn’t, I didn’t need to, and they thought they were.

Women’s bodily autonomy is not guaranteed. We have to fight for what is given to men. We do this every day and we do it whether we share my views or disagree with them. We do battle for the right to choose our food, our clothing, and of course, our reproductive futures. We attack the concept of beauty as pale, blonde, and thin, but with every blast, we only chip away at it. It’s worth noting that my struggle, which sometimes threatens to swallow me whole, is nothing compared to the challenges faced by People of Color, trans people, non-binary people, and people with disabilities.

I believe that the first step is to own my story. Everything I write has been written before, but today is my turn. When I put language to the crimes laid upon my bodily autonomy in the name of compassion, I take some power back from those who would rob me of mine.

I do what I want.