Big Girl

As I'm writing this hullabaloo I'm 5'5" barefoot (although I lie often and say I'm 5'7", 5'8" in shoes).  I weigh almost 200 pounds, wear a 13 pant (yes I still wear Junior's), an extra large shirt, 40D bra and size 10 shoe.  Of all the stats I just divulged, guess which causes the greatest insecurity: that's right.  The shoe size.

I get it, I'm overweight.  When I sit down my tummy touches my thighs (partly because of posture, mostly because of Pepsi).  When I shop for clothes I feel my bottom lip stick out a bit because the tops and dresses and skirts I really like are in the cute girl section, and I'm over in Floral Print City, hangin' with the other Big Girls buying blousey tops and super-support bras.  But I can handle that.  I was once a healthy weight; no muffin top, no cellulite (I still don't have cellulite, for the record, but it's assumed that I do because I've broken chairs just by sitting in them...true story).  But being a Big Girl isn't something that troubles me, really.  Jonas still follows me into the bedroom when he knows I'm going to be changing clothes.  I still check out my own ass in the mirror at the tanning salon.  I wear my Bigness, it doesn't wear me.

Having said that; the insecurity I've been fighting since puberty is one that isn't often talked about.  I have a vivid memory of Christmas 1996: Titanic was just released at theaters and I went to a local Cinema to see it.  Sitting there, sipping my BFF Pepsi waiting for the previews to end (when the lights are still on) I scanned the spectators around me.  It was the usual bunch; pre-teen DiCapriaddicts, reluctant parents.  Then I spotted them.  A few rows down, just to my right, two feet propped on the chair in front of their owner.  Planted at the end of her athletic legs were two tiny pink and white Nike's, slightly worn.  I studied her feet, and the ratio of length to width.  They were...what's the word...normal.  I looked down at my banana boats and felt that familiar sting of jealousy.

Let me explain; as a Big Girl I have been the subject of some harsh ridicule.  At work I was having a conversation about the wintery weather.  I said, casually "I'm not built for this cold!" to which the vending guy immediately responded "Yeah ya are."  Burn.  As a Big Girl there are clothes I'm not comfortable wearing; tube tops (no one should, BTW), tight-fit button down tops (gaps), anything see-through.  As a Big Girl I pretend not to notice when fellow patrons of the buffet try to beat me to the desert bar in fear that I'll stack everything on my plate and have it eaten before I reach my seat.  And, believe it or not, I can handle all these things.  As they say; I have a pretty personality (hahaha).

As a Big Girl with Big Feet I have literally cried in the middle of Payless.  I walk passed aisles and aisles of size 6, 6 1/2, 7, 7 1/2, 8, 8 1/2.  Stilettos, flats, loafers, sneakers, thongs, Fuck Me Pumps and decks.  Beautiful, funky, chic, elegant, abstract, trendy.  Once you reach the darkened corner at the back of the store there is a half rack with a handwritten sign that reads 9-10.  Back here there are no shiny silver foot measuring thingy's.  There are no cushioned pedestals with built-in mirrors to admire your new wedges.  No eager employee to slide cute sandals over your soft little Cinderella feet.  Nope.  It's just you, 20 boxes of orthopedics and a random sequined platform nightmare.  Just you and the harsh reminder that you're not a worthy demographic.  You're a Big Girl with Big Girl Feet, and toes you can dial a rotary phone with.  You could probably borrow your boyfriend's shoes.  But not his pants, you'll never get them up over your hips.

When females become adults we (hopefully) have developed enough manners to refrain from calling Big Girls out as Big Girls to their face.  I don't think I've ever been ostracized for my girth by another female.  But my feet - my feet are fair game.  "Oh my god, you have like the longest toes ever!"  "I'd let you borrow my heels but you're feet are like 4 sizes bigger than mine."  "I got these at Shoe Department, but I doubt they come in your size."  Had any of these comments been aimed at my waist, instead of my feet, these would be fighting words.  But since it's just feet, I'm supposed to accept this criticism and forget about it.

But I can't.  Here's why: I'm OK with being a Big Girl, in part, because when I decide I want to be a Fit Girl or a Thin Girl, I can lose weight.  I can work out and eat healthy and take supplements and join a gym and pay for Weight Watchers and purchase bell weights and give up my one-true-love Pepsi.  When I decide that I'm no longer OK with being a Big Girl I have the power to change it.  To change myself.

I have an 8 year old daughter.  I've told her through-out her life that she needs to understand the difference between the things about herself she can change, and the things she cannot, and she can change her attitude toward the things that she cannot change about herself.  For instance:  she cannot change the fact that she has freckles.  She can change how frustrated she is that they keep popping up everywhere by choosing to accept and celebrate them as tiny reminders of her heritage.

I'm reminded of this lesson as I stare at my ski feet, dreading the impending Spring and, with it, all the occasions I will inevitably be barefoot in front of others.  I cannot change the size of my Yeti feet.  I can change my attitude about them.  My dad use to tell me "big feet are a strong foundation."  It makes me smile to remember how keen he was to my insecurities.  So as the Earth spins us predictably towards the Sun, and temperatures flirt with with the upper end of the thermostat, this Big Girl is going to make an honest effort to put on her Big Girl panties and take off her 9-13 socks.

Frenching

The first time I frenched a boy was in the sixth grade.  I would have been 11 or so.  Having typed that I suddenly find my stomach full of stinging bile because my daughter is only 2.5 years away from that very same age.  Ugh.  Anyway, I was 'going out' with a cutie patootie we'll call Jack.  'Going out' in the sixth grade consisted of holding hands in the hallway and writing love-struck notes that said things like 'you are really cute today in your blue shirt.'  Jack and I were obviously destined to be together for.ev.er.  Jack was not my first ever kiss, but he was my first ever French.  If you don't know what a French kiss is you aren't old enough to read this post.  Go brush your teeth, wash your face and get ready for bed.

My most distinct memory of my first ever French was that my heart was on a crusade to violently ram its way through my sternum to kiss Jack itself.  I knew the French was coming because we had given awkward little pecks before every single class for like a whole week straight.  Let me set the scene: just that morning before homeroom I kind of forgot to close my mouth all the way when Jack leaned in to lay a juicy one on me.  Since my mouth was slightly open the peck was extra juicy in the worst possible way.  Jack pulled back quickly, staring at me with a fear I can only equate to the look men get when you tell them you're pregnant.  Don't worry, I didn't figure that out until years later.  In my preteen insecurity I scrambled to save face and attempted a quick recovery by blurting out, "what?!  You never Frenched a girl before?  Geez!"  He blushed severely and then promptly ran away.  Full speed.  Smooth.

I sat through homeroom in sheer terror at what I had done and said.  I can't FREAKIN believe I didn't close my mouth.  Did it feel like when a baby tries to kiss you?  All toothless and slobery?  Did I taste like the cigarette I snuck while my mom warmed up the car?  Would he ever want to kiss me again?  The bell rang for first period so I shuffled into the hallway to search the perimeter.  No Jack.  I walked quickly to his locker.  No Jack.  The weight of rejection pressed down on me.  By third period I was convinced of my destiny to die an old maid, unloved, alone with my plants, when one of my besties passed me a note.  Inside she had written, 

You slut! 

You totally made out with Jack, 

every body knows!!  

luv u    

4 ur eyes only

I left class to find Jack, and seemingly every other person in the Western hemisphere, standing outside the door.  His cheeks had regained a normal color, I had regained my unjustified confidence.  I walked up brazenly and stopped within inches of his face, as though I was daring him to live up to my false pretenses.  I smiled, "Hey babe!" and lunged at him like a crocodile after a gazelle (which was fitting, considering he was really thin and I had gator grill).  Before I knew it our tongues were in each other's face holes and our audience sounded like a Saved By The Bell audience. "oooOOOoooOOO!" was the soundtrack to my first ever French.  And it was epic.

Jack obviously isn't the only boy I've ever Frenched.  I've had some really great kisses, some complete fails.  One guy I dated in college had a habit of impaling my uvula with his tongue like the Dark Lord trying to extract my soul.  After our first French I remember he pulled back, looked me dead in the eyes and said "You taste like a meal I could eat every day."  Like, legit.  So gross.  One long-term boyfriend had an interesting technique; he would almost lick the inside of my top teeth with the very tip of his tongue.  This was incredibly awkward because in order for him to accomplish this I had to maintain a 'dental chair' pose, so as not to pierce his tongue with my snaggletooth.  And then there were the total douche bags that capitalized on the opportunity to showcase their prowess in the hopes that I would realize their, ughmm, oral potential, if you will.  Newsflash dudes, it's not a skills assessment, calm the fuck down.  

There are moments in a girls life that are defined by a kiss; sometimes its a French kiss.  When you lose the big V, for example.  Sidebar, this is where it gets real.  Somewhere along the way society decided that putting your still-attached tongue into the mouth of another human is the universal precursor to sex.  Not every time, but often.  Its like you're pantomiming a permission slip for your partner to head to the next base.  Maybe it's a little under-the-sweater action.

Young people, primarily pre-teens and teenagers, use Frenching as a public expression of status.  Let me explain; from sixth grade through eighth, Skate World was the place to be.  Whether you liked to roller skate or not, you were there with your besties every weekend watching boys pretend not to notice your white bra glowing through your grey T-shirt, thanks to some strategically placed black lights.  And peppered through-out the rink were couples in semi-dark corners leaned against the railing, eating each other's faces off.  They didn't hide behind the Pac Man game, or sneak around the back of the building where us smokers liked to dwell.  Nope, they were front and center, making sure each one of the other patrons were an unwilling spectator to their premature PDA.

Young adults tend to be more illusive with their affection.  I once hosted a party in the apartment I shared with my then-boyfriend, and two of our guests were a newly married couple.  At some point during the festivities I opened my coat closet to find them half-way to third base, between the Christmas decorations and my snow vest.  All I could do was roll my eyes, shut the door, and break the news to Stu that he would just have to hold on to his jacket for a bit.

Parents and couples who've been together more than a couple years are an entirely different breed of kissers.  You don't always get butterflies when you lock lips with your significant other.  Sometimes you're so pressed for time you forgo the previews and skip right to the feature film (if you know what I mean).  Even little pecks on the lips become rehearsed and reflexive.  That doesn't always mean the romance is gone; its probably just because you learn, over time, that there are far sexier things you can do as a couple.  Like finish the month with money left over, or eat from the same pint of ice cream.  That's one of the best things about monogamy.  Hollywood and Cher would have us believe that the only way to know if you've met your soul mate is by sharing an intense French while the Philharmonic suspends time with Bach.  According to Sheril Kirshenbaum, Special to CNN in an article for cnn.com, 

A passionate kiss acts like a drug, causing us to crave the other person thanks to a neurotransmitter called dopamine. This is the same substance involved in taking illegal substances such as cocaine, which is why the novelty of a new romance can feel so addictive.

If this is true, would a kick-ass French help amp up an existing romance?  Probably.  If Jonas (that's the boyfriend) cornered me in the kitchen, scooped me in his arms and passionately planted one on me, I would probably get those familiar butterflies.  But I'm not in the business of lying to people so I gotta say; my breath would most likely be a sinister combination of Marlboros, Doritos, some form of chocolate, Pepsi and cold coffee.  His breath would be laced with Vienna sausages, Slim Jims, Nutella and a protein shake.  If I'm in the kitchen it's because I'm cooking something so he would probably set fire to the hair on his arms and the counter would dig into the small of my back like a katana blade.  He's a foot taller than me (exactly) so he would have to contort his body like a giant Quasimodo and would inevitably squish what he affectionately calls my "Pug Nose".  One or both of our kids would spot us from the living room and immediately react they same way they did when we saw the hippo at the zoo take a shit in its own wading pool.  Jonas would playfully yell "Shut it" and I would be fanning away the smoke from the cigarette I would most definitely be smoking.

I know, I know, my life reads like a Danielle Steele novel, right?

I give Jonas a ton of crap for not romancing me like a movie couple.  So I'm going to recant some of the uber romantic gestures we do in place of Frenching:  

• Jonas cleans the make up and cheek oil off my phone before he puts a new case on it
• I scratch Jonas's gigantic back because his gigantic arms don't bend that way
• Jonas always cleans the toilet after Taco Bell devastates his intestinal track
• I yell our order across Jonas in the drive through because he thinks no one but me can understand him when he speaks
• Jonas always checks my nose holes for nuggets before we walk into any public place
• I let Jonas know when his facial man-scaping is uneven
• Jonas always opens doors for me
• I always smile, run my hand along the arm holding the door, and say thank you

I know what his tongue tastes like.  I know he will always lift heavy items.  I know any night of the week he will tackle a burglar butt-ass naked.  And I know he loves me to little bitty pieces, so I don't need a French to feel frisky.