The F Word

I'm not sure if I've ever really addressed this, but since it's come up a couple of times this weekend in various forms I thought it might be a good time to write about it.

The F word.  Yes, the one that's really considered dirty -- fat.

At book club on Friday night, one of the ladies asked me why I call my blog Inside Heather's Fat instead of something "more positive" (I'm paraphrasing) like Heather's Getting Fit or something.  The truest answer overall is because of  my original blog, which was titled Inside Heather's Head.  I was just trying to spin off of that.

But that's not really all there is to it.  The word fat and fatness in general means something in our society.  You don't just throw the word out there, anymore than you would a racial epithet.  Or would you?  Because in fact we do.  We call ourselves fat, we call other people fat and if we don't say the word we certainly all but imply it.

Prior to my first serious attempt at Weight Watchers (see the history of this fat), I had a co-worker as me if I were pregnant.  But the best part was when I said no, she asked me if I was sure.  Like I would be THAT pregnant and not know it?  I had to gently explain that no, I was just fat.  As hard as that was, it wasn't even the first time in my adult life someone had asked me if I was pregnant, so at least I had lived through the experience once before.

But this Saturday, the young check-out girl at the Harris Teeter just put it all on the table.  She asked me if I thought I was fat.

I am not making this up.  She was very young and luckily I also have a hearing problem, so I didn't understand what she said at first.  Which actually made the situation a bit worse.  What happened was that we were bringing our stuff to check out.  Scott had to go get something so it was just me and Teenie Bop.  She starts going on and on about how great I look in the color I have on.  She says that her mom is about my size and then she holds her hands kind of far about in a fat but curvy kind of way.  NOT flattering.  Then she starts s l o w l y checking out my purchases and still going on and on with what I think she truly believes is flattery.  She's trying to explain how she thinks her mom would look great and the fact that I'm basically this fat person (she has not dropped the f*bomb yet, but it's coming) and willing to be out in public putting it out there is proof.  (I had on an orange v-neck shirt and a pair of white shorts, this is not ground-breaking fat fashion here.)  She then asks me if I think I'm fat?  I can't hear what she says.  She is getting embarrassed and doesn't want to repeat what she says.  She's giggling and saying "oh, this is too personal."  But then eventually asks me the question again.  Well, I still can't quite hear it and give up and just say yes to whatever she's asking.

That's when I realized, based on whatever she's babbling about now that she asked me if I think I'm fat and I answered yes.

I really would have been more mortified if I didn't have the moral superiority that poor dingbat would be a cashier for the rest of her life. 

It didn't cause me to spiral into depression.  But it certainly made me think about the F word a lot.  The usage of it and especially the usage of it as it applies to me.  And that's the real reason behind why I keep the Fat in my blog title.  I know who I am and I know where I came from.  I could get down to the bottom of my target weight range but I will always be a fat girl.  Because I have to know that.  I have to know that it's possible for me to go back to the same mental traps that got me to be a fat girl on the outside.  Because if I deny that part of myself, then it's just as easy to go back.  It's no different than alcoholism -- I can't forget that I have problem ever.  Every day, every step is a choice to go in a different direction.

But at the end of the day, in the ironic spirit of my nod to AA -- my name is Heather and I am a fat girl.

hugs,
Heather