Breaking hiatus – thanks to Stuff.co.nz

The monitor is still borked, and the partner has still not purchased a new computer (thus bequeathing me his old one with functioning screen), but then I figured hey, I can still get post-fodder on a near-daily basis in the form of Stuff.co.nz’s incessant fat-hating.

I may be exaggerating a little – certainly this article, I don’t feel bad about my body, was a pretty decent one, all round.  All about making conscious choices not to invoke your own internalized body-hatred, some really good tips (many of which I follow) about not weighing yourself if you know the number will get you down (whatever it is), not reading magazines entirely designed to make you hate your own body, etc.

But of course, with any good story on Stuff.co.nz, the comments more than make up the awfulness quota.

The high points are:

• Ew, gross, you’re a size 14, that’s like disgustingly fat
• How dare you love your own body, you’re destroying our healthcare system
• We should all live like cavemen did because it’s natural / people today are so lazy (except of course for the commenters themselves, who are perfect)
• Even though in this article you mentioned going to the gym for fitness you must be spending all day on the couch eating baby-flavoured donuts because (see point 1).

Fatphobia, people:  you can tell you’re swimming in it when a woman this size (disclaimer: also won the genetic lottery in terms of “conventional” beauty standards) can be blasted as representing the end of our civilisation.

The joy of towels

It’s a total cliche, but sometimes it really is the little things that count.  It makes sense, really:  it’s the little niggles and jibes and comments that get me down about my size or make me question my awesome sexiness, so it must also be the little choices I make which can combat the negativity and shrug off the hate.

Which is all a long and flowery way of saying I love my towels.

The partner and I did a bit of a household shopping spree in the Boxing Day Sales last year, and one of the things I was absolutely determined t0 purchase were some new towels.  We had plenty of towels already, sure, but as well as being a little old and tired they were just too small.

That is, they wouldn’t cover all of me post-shower.

It’s a little thing, but it was also a big thing – to be blunt, having a bit of tummy poking out at the world set off a whole big flowery bunch of anxiety issues.  It’s like the airplane seat thing – you can remind yourself firmly that it’s the damn manufacturer’s fault for making the damn seats so damn small, but years of social messaging just keep making you wonder if it isn’t just that you are the wrong size.

Solution, in this non-airplane instance?  Buy bigger towels.  “Spa” sized towels, apparently.  It makes sense, since spas are where you go to feel relaxed and pampered, and swathing oneself in a gigantic fluffy towel makes me feel pretty damn relaxed and pampered.

As you can see from the picture, these are pretty damn big towels – wider than your average household door and about up to nose-height on me, say around the 5-foot mark.  Lovely.

Self-care, people:  it doesn’t have to be big and complex and involved.  It can just be a towel.

Revisit: Columbine stockings

So a while back I ranted fulsomely about four pairs of Columbine stockings which all developed the same laddering-from-the-crotch issue within two wears.

I emailed Columbine on the topic, and they asked if I could send the pairs to them to be analyzed.  I had to apologise to them on that score, for sadly in my frustration I had binned the damn things post-photographing and never wanted to see them again.

Columbine subsequently sent me replacement pairs anyway.  Go Columbine!

I must admit, though, I wasn’t too hopeful of getting any greater service from these pairs.

This post has been a while in coming because of course the brief Wellingtonian summer promptly hit and thus deprived me of stocking-wearing opportunities.

I’d hoped I’d be able to thrash these pairs to death before giving a verdict, but what I can say is that they’ve all lasted more than two wears, which is an improvement!  Still a little baggy in length, but I’m not looking for miracles there.

You’ll note from my previous post that the stockings, albeit the same “Pretty Plus” (vom) brand, had silver packaging, and the replacement pairs are in pink, with a differently-formatted size chart on the back.  I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that the silver ones are an older batch, and some minor change or upgrade since they went to pink has fixed the issue.

They’re not perfect, and I’m not holding out hope that these pairs will last me through the next winter, but stockings never do.  But Columbine did do me a good turn on these, they are performing better than the other pairs, and I will be willing to give them another shot next time I’m buying.

Fat-o-sphere classics: NY Times’ “Bodies of Work”

My personal touchstone for fat acceptance is the weekly reminder I have of the wonderful variety in shape and form of the human body – while watching professional wrestling.

As far as I’m concerned, any species that can produce the Undertaker and Rey Mysterio and Zack Ryder, or Beth Phoenix and Melina and Kharma/Awesome Kong is a species that can quite happily naturally produce my fat ass.

But of course there’s some terrible anti-pro-wrestling stigma out there (specifically of the “but it’s all faaaaaaaake!” variety) so I’ve also always delighted in this rundown of several professional athletes, all at the top of their game, all presumably “eating well” and “exercising regularly” like we’re supposed to because hey, active professional athletes.

But wouldn’t you know it?  They come in all shapes and sizes too.  And shockingly, the “fat” powerlifter eats about as much as the marathon runner … and one would bet neither are particularly obsessed about “getting their best beach body” for summer.

More thoughts on New Year’s resolutions

A few far more kickass bloggers than I have posted their thoughts on New Year’s resolutions, particularly as they relate to pressure to lose weight/go on diets/generally screw your health up in the quest for impossible anatomical change:

sleepydumpling at Fat Heffalump is making 2012 the Year of Living Fatly:

However, after stumbling across some douchecanoe on Twitter whining about being offended by seeing “fat, lazy people”, I’ve decided that I have a goal for 2012.  Are you ready for it?

Here it is…

I am going to be willfully fat this year.  Offensively, obnoxiously fat.  All over the damn place.  In fact, I’m fatting at all of you right now.

s.e. smith at This Ain’t Living is talking about how Fat Hatred Kills:

Every January, people, especially women, hit the gym and cut out sweets and drop pounds. Maybe they keep it up for a few weeks or months. Then those pounds come back on and they return to the starting point. Maybe they repeat the process in the next year, feeling guilty about their failure or pressured into it by someone else, like a ‘friend’ who insists on having a weight loss buddy. This is known as yo-yo dieting, for the constant bouncing up and down between weight points.

And, it turns out, it’s not very good for the body.

Go forth and read!

Quelle terrible!

Spotted on stuff.co.nz earlier this week:

[Description: a screenshot from a news website; two fat white people sitting in a pool drinking a bubbly alcoholic breakfast with the headline A GROWING NATION / KIWIS OVERWEIGHT CIDER-LOVERS / New Zealand getting heavier: Only 35 per cent of Kiwis fall within a healthy weight range, according to a new report.]

My immediate reaction? MY GODS, STUFF.CO.NZ IS SPYING ON ME because “overweight cider-lover” is totally how I’m going to introduce myself in future.

In answer to the usual questions, yes, “healthy weight range” was based on BMI, and yes, not just BMI but self-reported height and weight figures, and yes, they just randomly picked two of the stats from the study and conflated them into a WE’RE ALL FAT ALKIES headline.

We’re also more likely to eat Indian food, so I can only wonder why they didn’t go for the much-more-believable headline, CIDER TASTES AWESOME WITH CURRY.

Oh, right, because that wouldn’t add to the OBESITY EPIDEMIC BOOGA BOOGA BOOGA meme.  (H/T Marianne Kirby and Kate Harding; buy the book!)

Berry berry nice … dress!

My one regret about purchasing this most excellent dress from City Chic is that I lacked the funds to also get it in blue.  And then in leopard print.  And then in the third colour they released it in which has totally slipped my mind (what can I say, it’s nearly Christmas!)

The colour is amazing, the shape is lovely, the top is a nice basic black stretch fabric.  Although it can be a little transparent, I live in Wellington, so adding a singlet or short-sleeved top under it is par for the course anyway.

And above all, the height of clothing awesomeness as far as I’m concerned:  dress.  With.  Pockets.  At some point I should try to isolate why I find that such a gold star for clothing – initial hunches go to a combination of adding texture, adding utility, and breaking down stupid gender barriers.

It’s also a pretty casual dress, but fortunately I work in an office where casual/edgy looks are fine as long as they’re not sloppy, and it’s very easy to make it look more business-appropriate-but-obviously-still-bright-fuchsia.

First look:  with newly-cut straightened hair, which does frankly always make people read you as more “professional” or “put-together” (no racist/class assumptions here, no sir.)  But it was casual Friday, so I made it fun with the stripes and comfortable with my still-barely-hanging-in-there black Kumfs boots.

At this point, I’d sell baby-flavoured donuts for good boots.  And by “good” I do indeed mean “boots which perfectly fulfil my requirements regarding style and price.”

The fabric tie around the belly came with the dress, but I swap it out whenever a more formal look is called for (see below) or I feel the need for a little tension around my waist.

Thus to my second look, another product of that flash of inspiration I had about my wardrobe finally being in a somewhat-versatile state.  The fuchsia cowl-neck top I got from Staxs donkey’s years ago isn’t quite the same shade as the skirt, but I figured I could get all crafty.  And by “crafty” I mean “I figured I was wearing dark berry glasses anyway, so let’s just throw everything pinky-purple I own at this and see how it goes.”

I think it went well.

The belt this time came off a Jacqui E dress and looked frankly awesome as long as I checked it every now and then to check it was still nicely lined up and holding together – it’s entirely ornamental, so no buckles, no studs, the whole thing stays “belted” through the sheer friction of plastic on plastic.  Which is not much friction at all.

Long sleeves are another good way to fake office-wear-formality and the cowl neck simultaneously hides and draws attention to the potential for cleavage.  Cleavage =/= office wear, apparently, and I base that on a masochistic reading of far too many Stuff comments.

My stance, forged in the fires of working retail and facing borderline sexual harassment since these puppies showed up at the age of 11?  There is no hiding my boobs.  Sometimes they get squished together.  If their presence and the evidence of their squishedness is what makes me “look trashy” then I am condemned to looking “trashy” whether I’m in my pyjamas or a raincoat.

So … I’m going to dress how I like, and sometimes that will mean throwing a bone or two to the haters in order to decrease some of the stress in my life.

I’m also going to laugh myself silly/roll my eyes at the contradictions, as shown above:  yeah, hiding my bust by draping bright pink fabric over it, that’ll work.

The chief accessory was my beloved Diva’s Championship necklace, a gift from my bestie last Christmas and not-very-subtle signal to any other WWE fans out there that I am one of their kind.

Lipgloss is a pretty ancient Sephora purchase, annoyingly sticky yet the best purple shade I’ve managed to find.

Shoes?  My beloved checkerboards from Molly N, the one true way to take attention away from my cleavage.  Or my messy hair.  Or anything, really.  I could probably be wearing hot pink capris and a t-shirt saying “Fornicate the Constabulary” and no one would notice if I were in these heels.

Outfit 1: dress and shrug – City Chic
Boots – Kumfs

Outfit 2: dress – City Chic
Top – Staxs
Shoes – Molly N
Necklace – wweshop.com

Fat-o-sphere classics: How we’ve come to believe that overeating causes obesity

Junkfood Science is an amazing blog, peeps.  And this post, which goes into the Minnesota starvation study of the 1940s and which you may not have heard about because it’s a little inconvenient for the weight loss industry, is an amazing post.

The 40 young male participants were carefully selected among hundreds of volunteers for being especially psychologically and socially well-adjusted, good-humored, motivated, well-educated, active and healthy. They were put on calorie-restrictive diets of about 1,600 calorie/day, meant to reflect that experienced in war-torn regions, for 3 months. They dieted to lose 2.5 pounds a week to lose 25% of their natural body weight. The calories were more generous than many weight loss diets prescribe today!

I hate to spoil the ending for anyone, but it follows the old tune: diets don’t work, people seem to have a natural genetic setpoint for weight, and that whole overeating => obesity equation is bollocks.

Fat-o-sphere classics: BMI Project

After seeing one too many OBESITY EPIDEMIC OMG articles focused on that most wonderfully pseudoscientific measurements of “health”, the Body Mass Index, the awesome Kate Harding, in her former haunt at Shapely Prose, created the BMI Project to illustrate (a) how ridiculous the whole BMI concept is and (b) how little you can tell, even about a person’s BMI (which is meant to be the holy of holy measures of Disgusting Fatness, right?), from looking at them.

I highly recommend the full Flickr photoset, for both blowing your mind on the topic of BMI and injecting some much-needed images of the diversity and hotness of all different kinds of human forms into my life.

Big props go to those who have submitted their photos and vital statistics, and many, many thanks to Ms Harding for leaving SP as a fantastic repository of fat acceptance work.

(My own BMI is quite solidly in the “obese” category.  Guess how many fucks I do not give?)

Continued stocking angst: Lyric

So after the previous stocking annoyance, which struck Columbine off the list of brands I’ll pay money to have disappoint me, I thought I’d return to a brand which has normally been good to me: Lyric.

Where “good” means “they fit!  Just sacrifice a few oxen to ensure Farmers bothers to stock a single M/L among the three dozen S/M pairs on the rack.”

Paying careful attention to that above sentence, you’ll note I said M/L.  Yep, for years I’ve worn an M/L in these tights, no problem, usually favouring the more fishnetty varieties.

So I’m feeling pretty self-righteous that when I went for a more opaque pair, and saw the strange and little-seen beast – a size XL – on the rack, I assumed they’d, you know, fit.

And of course the size chart on the back was no help at all.

That’s right, in comparison to Columbine’s top stats of 6’0 and 94kg, Lyric goes for the niche 6’2″ 89kg fattie-market.

I defer to the Rock on this one.

Quick googling of fairly dubious Internet sources informs me that the perfect person to fit these vital statistics, at 6’3″ and 83kg, is …

Irene van Dyk, professional netballer and woman you do not want to try to take a ball away from.

Now, Irene deserves well-fitting stockings too.  And it would be great if Columbine or Lyric wanted to mark some sizes or styles as “for very tall muscular athletes”.

But it would also be nice if they could remember that there are plenty of women shorter and fatter than Irene van Dyk who also want to buy stockings.  And we’re pretty used to getting the items marked with big scary Xs and euphemisms like “plus” which everyone is well aware means “too fat to be a normal woman”.

So when stocking brands use those labels and then limit their official sizing (which I think I’ve also pointed out is rubbish, because I fit Lyric M/Ls pretty perfectly in more netty styles and still own just-slightly-too-small pairs of the “straight” Columbine styles – and which makes no allowances for different muscle/fat distribctuions/body shapes) to someone who looks like Irene van Dyk … yeah, I’m going to feel pretty ripped off.

Next up: will crap grocery-store brand stockings hold the key?  At the very least, it’s less money down the drain …