Super Skinny Is Not the Way

One woman's tale of losing entirely too much weight due to the pressures of society.

In Her Words

Dude, Where’s My Bod?

You know that old adage, you can never be too rich or too skinny? The skinny part – not so true.

-The Morrigan, courtesy of Heartless Bitches, International

woman measuring her waistI used to have a glorious ass, but the sight of it lately would bring Sir Mix-a-Lot to the brink of suicide. It’s tragic. My ex-husband was an ass man – he isn’t currently talking to me, and I don’t know why. I suspect my bum is at the root of it, and I can’t say I blame him.

Before this illness kicked my ass, I had a glorious body. Losing it has been really tough. I admit it: I’m vain. God may have afflicted me with every disease under the sun but He sweetened the deal by giving me a body TO DIE FOR. Fifteen pounds ago, this chassis regularly stopped traffic, caused planets to align and brought grown men to tears – nothing on the inside worked, but the outside was smoking hot. All on its own. It just CAME THAT WAY.

And now? Let’s start with the rack.

Odes were written to it. Trust me. It was SPECTACULAR. Now it resembles nothing more than scant handfuls of unthrown pizza dough tossed over the washboard of my ribs. Frightening. I’m thinking of contacting the men who’d seen it in its glory days: I’m sure they’d chip in for a reflecting pool in honor of it – someplace we could all gather to mourn. Such a loss. Talk about tears in heaven.

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

I’m Rexy Fabulous, girls – and I hate it. When I cross my legs, there’s a huge gap.
I had to buy a new pair of jeans because the pair I bought in NINTH GRADE didn’t fit me anymore. I had a hard time finding ones that fit – all the ones that did were emblazoned with Tinkerbell.

Even my face has changed. I’m all eyes and cheekbones. I’m doing everything in my power to change it, but I have to say I’m not having much luck. I can’t eat much because my stomach is the size of a pea, and I’m guzzling Ensure like a bastard – but even consuming one of those is an effort. I’m determined to prevail – and NOT for the sake of vanity (though that would be a bonus).

In all seriousness … this may have started out satirically, but let’s talk about weight as a feminist issue. Because I really think it is. And rarely do skinny chicks weigh in on it (if you’ll pardon the pun). Or at least you never hear from skinny chicks who aren’t glorifying being skinny.

This isn’t cool.

According to popular culture and the images the media sends us, I’m just fine. In fact, I’m PERFECT. I’m well aware of the fact that there are women reading this who would kill to be in my shoes. WAKE UP! We’re women: We’re SUPPOSED to carry body fat. It’s a miracle I’m still menstruating.

At my current weight, my hair is falling out. Who would aspire to THAT? My skin is flaky. My eyes are dull. My gums are bleeding. Sexy, eh? A little junk in the trunk is what the Good Lord intended. We aren’t supposed to look like greyhounds. When I’m naked, I can see my heart beating under my skin. I’m a walking anatomy lesson.

And THIS is the ideal? I can’t even SIT ON CHAIRS anymore. I need pillows because my ass is too bony, and it hurts.

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

This ISN’T cool, and it’s NOT sexy.

WAKE UP!! Why are you buying into this?

Who decides these things? Guys LIKE women with curves. The only men giving me the glad eye these days are morticians and pedophiles.

Fat IS a feminist issue. We’re essentially celebrating starvation. We haven’t 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 mom’s softness when you were a kid? That’s womanhood. That’s femininity. Not bones and angles and sharpness.

Curves.

Breasts.

Hips.

Thighs.

Smoke ‘em if you’ve got ‘em.


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