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The Goddess of battle, strife, and destruction explains it all for you

Fat is a Feminist Issue


Sep 15, 2008


I heard a comedian the other day who really summed up my situation.He said that when you live at home past a certain age, you really are a loser and your only choice is to hang on until your parents hit 90:at that point you automatically become a hero.


How does it go?Iím not only an unemployed lawyer Ė Iím also a stay at home daughter.


OMFG, this is gruesome.

It puts me in mind of all those Jimmy Cagney movies where the camera pans back on surly convicts in dirty undershirts rattling their tin cups back and forth against the bars of their cells.


Yeah.Thatíd be me.


Iíve GOT to get out of here.Everybody drives pick up trucks and has Billy Ray Cyrus Achy Breaky Heart haircuts.


Iím not direly ill anymore but Iím not healthy either.I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror today as I stepped out of the shower and I was absolutely horrified.


I used to have a glorious ass:the sight of it now would bring Sir Mix-a-Lot to the brink of suicide.Itís tragic.My ex-husband was an ass man Ė he isnít currently talking to me and I donít know why.I suspect this is at the root of it and I canít say I blame him.


Oh I admit it:Iím vain.I used to have a gorgeous body and this is really tough on me.But nothing will be gained by avoiding the grim truth, so letís get to it.


God may have afflicted me with every disease under the sun but He sweetened the deal by giving me a body To Die For.I ainít lying.Fifteen or twenty pounds ago, this chassis regularly stopped traffic, caused planets to align and brought grown men to tears Ė nothing on the inside worked, but the outside was smoking hot.All on its own. It just CAME THAT WAY.


And now?Sweet Lord Almighty.


Letís start with the rack.


Odes were written to it. Trust me.It was Spectacular.Now, however, it resembles nothing more than scant handfuls of unthrown pizza dough tossed negligently over the Value Village washboard of my ribs.Frightening.Iím thinking of contacting the men whoíd seen it in itís glory days:Iím sure theyíd chip in for a reflecting pool in honour of it Ė someplace we could all gather to mourn.Such a loss.Talk about tears in heaven.


I used to have an ass too.Itís gone.Entirely.Instead, there is a straight line from my spine all the way down to my toes Ė and itís a bumpy line at that.In fact, Iím kind of bumpy all over.I look like nothing more than a skeleton with a few sheets of phyllo pastry flung haphazardly over it.


Iím Rexy Fabulous, girls Ė and I hate it.When I cross my legs, thereís a huge gap.


I had to buy a new pair of jeans because the pair I bought in Grade 9 were falling off me.I had a hard time finding ones that fit Ė all the ones that did were emblazoned with Tinkerbell.


Even my face looks different.Iím all eyes and cheekbones.Iím doing everything in my power to change it, but I have to say Iím not having much luck.I wasnít kidding when I said that I thought I might have buggered up my metabolism.I canít eat much because my stomach is the size of a pea, but Iím guzzling Ensure like a bastard Ė but even consuming one of those is an effort.Iím determined to prevail Ė and NOT for the sake of vanity (though that would be a bonus).


In all seriousnessÖthis may have started out satirically, but letís talk about weight as a feminist issue.Because I really think it is.And rarely do skinny chicks weigh in on it (if youíll pardon the pun).Or at least you rarely hear from skinny chicks who arenít all delighted and smug about being emaciated.


This isnít cool.I am this way because I got sick.This was not a choice.


But according to popular culture and the images the media bombards us with, Iím just fine.In fact, Iím perfect.Iím well aware of the fact that there are women reading this column who would kill to be in my shoes.Ay carumba!Weíre women:weíre supposed to carry body fat.Itís a miracle Iím still menstruating.


Iíve never aspired to be a bone rack.I think women should look like women.That, to me, means curves.Iím not advocating unhealthy.†† Iím really small boned, so Iím comfortable at 115-120 Ė and at 5í5Ē, my doctor tells me thatís STILL a good 20 pounds less than the average woman but at that weight, Iím healthy.I have energy to get through my day.Everything works.Itís genetic Ėnothing you can do about it Ė on my momís side, I get the birdlike bones and the tiny waist. From my dadís side, I get the hooters. This is how God made me.But just me.


You probably have a larger frame.You may be 5í5Ē and be perfect at 140.Or 165.Nobody gets to decide but you and your DNA.Donít let yourself be poisoned by the images of popular culture.And certainly donít be beating yourself up because you think you donít measure up to some impossible ideal.


Itís bullshit.


At this weight, my hair is falling out by the handful. Iím malnourished.My skin is flaky.My eyes are dull.My gums are bleeding.The ketonic stench of my breath could knock birds from the sky.


Sexy, eh?


Wake the fuck up, girls.A little junk in the trunk is what the Good Lord intended.We arenít supposed to look like greyhounds.When Iím naked, I can see my heart beating under my skin. Iím a walking anatomy lesson.It is DISGUSTING.


And THIS is the ideal?WTF?!?I canít even SIT ON CHAIRS anymore.I need pillows because my ass is too bony and it hurts.


And yet Ė and yet Ė women and young girls have come up to me and complimented me on my body.For real. ďI wish I had your figure.ĒOMFG!Why?Because you have a love of geometry?!


This ISNíT cool and itís NOT sexy.


Why are women buying into this shit?Why are we (collectively) starving ourselves to look like we belong in a photograph of the liberation of the Death Camps?


And who decided this was hot?Not straight men, thatís for sure.Guys LIKE women with curves.Are you kidding me?The only men giving me the glad eye these days are necrophiles.A few cadaver dogs are getting friendly too.A man would be afraid of snapping me in two just by hugging me (thereís no danger of that, but go with me on this just for the sake of argument, mkay?)Thereís more meat on Ivan.


Fat IS a feminist issue.Especially for women whoíve had children.This is what our bodies were designed to do.We should GLORY in that Ė think about this for a minute.


Weíre effectively celebrating starvation.


We havenít quite Taken Back the Night (and that breaks my heart) but we might want to turn our minds to Taking Back Our Own Bodies.


The essence of womanhood is fecundity.


Remember the consolation of your momís softness when you were a kid?How pillowy she felt?What comfort there was in that?


Thatís womanhood.Thatís femininity.Not bones and angles and sharpness.










Smoke Ďem if youíve got Ďem.


Till next time.






Copyright© the Morrigan & Heartless Bitches International ( 2008
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