Skinny Girls Have No Problems and Other F#@&ed Up Observations By Yours Truly

Weight and appearance has been on my mind lately. Lately, as in the last 25 years. I realized recently that I hold a secret belief that skinny girls have no problems--or at least that their problems are visually more attractive than mine. As I write this down, I can see the (ahem) FLAW in this logic, but it's true. I look at all the women I admire or like --the musicians, the artists, the writers (even the BLOGGERS) and they are predominantly STICKS. What GIVES?

I came into my own as a woman in the P.C. 90's, which was all about AWARENESS. I found my feminist voice when I heard Liz Phair, PJ Harvey, and Babes in Toyland for the first time. They weren't the GODDESS power I had been exposed to since I entered college in 1990, they were Grrrrrrl POWER. I didn't want to be like them, because I already felt I WAS them. While Harvey, Phair, and The Babes (and Bikini Kill and Sleater-Kinney, etc. etc.) all screamed about the female experience--they were STILL all skinny. As a result, I still felt that skinny meant power, because as far as I could tell, the packages hadn't changed, even if the messages had. To this day, I keep looking for the women who will represent something different, but even Margaret Cho has become skinny. I want Missy Elliott to go back to how she looked--she got thin and got weird looking.

The first time I realized I was "bigger" was in the seventh grade when we had a go-cart race and my teammates suggested that I push, because I was well, BIGGER than them. When I say "suggest" I am really saying SHAMING ME INTO MUTE SUBMISSION. I look back at the pictures of me then and I think WTF?? I wasn't!

Yet, that pretty much sums up every issue I've ever had. I think something about myself, it stops me from being the metaphorical driver in the metaphorical go-cart race, and then years later I realize with incredulity that the picture wasn't ACCURATE. Still, old habits die hard, and even worse IDEAS about oneself die even HARDER.

I'll admit it, I get mad at women who are literally PETITE and who complain about their big asses and joke about how they need "curvy" jeans. I want to say, honey, if you're curvy, then I must be JOHN CANDY to you. And the reality is, I am not John Candy. I'm not even Anna Nicole Smith before the horrible diet drink. I AM curvy. I am also healthy--so why do I feel at times SO NUTS?

I was in Vermont this weekend, and while the food worry came over me, I felt a little bit more relaxed bout it. Unlike in New York, where the young white women resemble knives in hipster clothing, I didn't walk into the world thinking I had to prove anything with my presence. Like other moments of serenity, I could see clearly how completely coo coo I've been about this--especially lately. If I really LISTEN to the women, who I see as TEENY TINY, complain about their sizes, they are speaking the same language as me. They aren't looking at me--they are only looking inward, to the distorted mirror they built long ago, just as I did. They are relinquishing the right to be the driver of their own metaphorical go-cart in their own metaphorical go-cart race. There are plenty of things I've learned since turning 30 that have been like a great big WAFT of relief to learn, but this one seems to be taking its sweet time.