|"Wonder what it would feel like to be both fat and a piece of art"|
I am a hypocrite.
Relatively Overweight (http://www.kisahjika.com/2013/08/relatively-overweight-new-york-and.html), a comparison of the differing perspective of weight in New York and Jakarta might be one of the most, if not the most, popular piece on kisahjika.com. Who would have known that a combination of cultural observation and a hot topic could spark such heavy traffic? And yet, minutes after the post became cemented on the internet and gone through the habitual process of minimal marketing, I could not help but, hypothetically, attach a string to a board, paint the word Hypocrite on it, and tie it around my neck.
In reality, it took me much longer to somewhat face the facts that I may have past the point of no return (cue Andrew Lloyd Webber's Phantom of the Opera's Point of No Return). It took several responses, both of applause and anger, as well as standing in the changing room of a U.K. high street brand, which compelled me to peruse a Korean plastic surgery website, to really face the uglier truth. Yes, I have weight issues, or perceive others to have issue with my weight, which compelled me to perceive myself as having weight issues, but I am a hypocrite, which, at this moment in time, seems much bleaker.
I am torn.
On one side, I believe that no one should be defined by their body, including the number on the scale that stares at them blankly, as if saying "I told you to lay off the infinitely delicious profiteroles" (oh! I know that voice all too well, especially after failing to fit into an "all size" dress). I often have red, burn scented fumes coming out of ears and nostrils when a friend comments on another's eating habits and weight, or see a boy lead his girlfriend to a slimming clinic. And I can't help but clench my own fist when I catch myself eye a round figured lady.
Even so, I tally the consequences against the benefits of a piece of pan seared foie gras. Forget about that bodycon dress or this cropped top. Forget about stopping that boy's heart beat, just by wearing shorts and bending over the billiard table. And yet, as I type, I feel bile creeping up the pipeline. I am human, one who adapts, much like everyone else naturally would, to survive.
I am (somewhat) a defeatist.
I hate settling, whether it is for a pair of Chuck Taylors that are half a size too small or for an undercooked salmon. Even so, my brain plans on finding other ways to survive, whatever it may be. Whether it is to work my ass off, hoping to forget other fantasies. Or to start looking at adoption procedures. Then my body refuses to exit the loving envelopes of my blanket.
I am an excuse maker.
As I descend into this valley and feel my limbs squeeze into the tiny gap that may not want to release me after a sudden, un-calculated slip, I enter a bout of paranoia, and fall into the tendency to somewhat announce this newfound characteristic at the sight of a pair of rolling eyes. Conveniently, I attach myself to the long standing perception that women are crazy, hoping that my "craziness" would excuse the flab on my belly or the inability to attract a suitable member of the opposite sex. Blame the crazy hormones and the arrival of my monthly friend for the inability to defecate, in hopes of losing a few meaningful pounds, to prepare for the ball. Finally, blame something, other than myself, whatever it is, for the insecurities that flood in and out on a sporadic, yet reliable pace.
And so, with this piece, that I have laid out in response to a variety of social encounters, as well as the numerous resulting conversations, I do wonder what I have left behind. Yes, one part of it is not to let others define you, especially based on your appearance and weight. However, this may not prove universally efficient to the entire human population. If we're lucky, it might work for some of us. It is a fact, but it might never necessarily heal you or help you deal with your reality.
|This watermelon was really to die for, especially under the Florida sun|
Before I ventilate or dwell on defeatism, I do need to say that there are other, perhaps more or less useful, ideas out there to hear. Fingers cross they may heal you or stop you from viewing yourself as less than a wonderful, fabulous person.
Tim Minchin, the genius (I do not take this term lightly, but really this ginge (sorry Tim, but I said it!) is really a GENIUS) is the composer of the award winning new musical, Matilda. In addition, he sings and composes wonderful other (funny) works of art. Mr. Minchin, believes that things are "not perfect, but it's mine". Ownership, according to Mr. Minchin, is more important than perfection.
I spend so much time hating it/ But it never says a bad word about me/ This is my body/ And it's fine/ It's where I spend a vast majority of my time/ It's not perfect, but it's mine
Ms. Robyn, the devil's advocate: Mr. Minchin, as marvelous as he is, may not have it 100 percent correct. He has a couple of good points. But just because my body doesn't, or rather can't, say anything bad back to me, it does age, it does have bad metabolism, and maybe my decisions are part of the equation, yet if my body is a saint it should work in a certain, near to perfect way.
As I peruse the net, or speak to friends, I'm sure I will encounter other remedies. Ones that may sound fantastic at face value, however, nevertheless disappoints me. Or another that may not appear to be such a good idea, such as ordering a glass of Lychee Martini or going to the theatre on the onset of Hurricane Sandy, but ends up your best decision of the week. Of course, do leave a quick message or holler with your suggestions. Both good and bad will be posted, as long as it is rather enticing to yours truly (yes, yes, I know that it is absolutely subjective).
If all else fails, then maybe I might just have to settle for a lesser man or pursue a job behind a desk, or continue to peruse the net for plastic alternatives.
P.S. This is a rather depressing piece, so maybe I should place a warning upfront, but I have an inkling that you are all big boys and girls (no pun intended).
|To settle or not to settle...|
(Sent by a lovely friend, with a great sense of humor)
*The first three photos presents the author, who also owns the rights