I want to write about being fat. About how people bristle when I describe myself as fat. Well, not bristle, but rush to assure me that no, I am not fat, because fat is bad and I am not bad. I want write that I did not stop eating sugar to lose weight. I have not tried to lose weight for decades. I have defiantly not tried to lose weight. But then, when I stopped eating sugar for a few months I did lose weight. People noticed. People commented on how good I looked. People assumed I'd been trying to accomplish this thing they were praising me for. It was both weird and satisfying. I thrive on praise—for good or ill. I glowed under this positive scrutiny. But I am also disturbed by it. I'm endlessly outraged that women's bodies are always considered an appropriate subject for public commentary. That my body, the shape of it, how it is or isn't pleasing to others is something that my family, my colleagues*, etc. think is fair game for scrutiny and discussion not initiated by me, the owner of said body. If I were fatter and/or lived in a more populous place, strangers would also have their say.
It's been this way since I was a tween and there was much speculation around the neighborhood on what my boobs would look like when they came in, this transformation of my body into something public, something that was for others.
I just want my body to be mine. Who would have thought that would be such a radical notion?
*My family and colleagues are lovely. They are just doing what's expected. I don't blame them. Too much.
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