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.

I Got Your Bitch

Don't flinch at the title.  Also, for the record: if spelled phonetically as I speak it, it should read "I gotchur Bitch."  It's a South End thing.

Jonas and I have been living together for a year now.  And, since I'm in a reflective mood, I've been thinking back over the past 12 months of co-habitation.  They were, if I'm being honest, the Longest. Twelve. Months. EVER.  Um, duh, I love Jonas, he's my penguin, my bestie, my boo.  But seriously, longest ever.  Ever.

Many moons ago a beautiful soul named Gator told me that if a couple can make it through their first year of marriage and come out smiling, they're good to go.  I'm going to assume that his prediction applies to couples living in sin.  I was married before and I came out of the first year with packed suit cases and squashed credit.  Jonas was married before and it lasted damn near a decade, so who the hell knows.

Jonas and I fought from day 1.  We fought over furniture placement, for cryin' out loud.  We fought over who was responsible for what, what time my alarm should go off, why I don't wake up with my alarm, who should get the bathroom first, how we should parent, or not parent, each others' kids, house guests, money, TV time, nail clippings, detergent brands.  The laughter diminished as swear words and animosity moved in and took up all the empty space between the ill-placed furniture.  I tried every approach to "talk" to him about it.  I tried active listening, lectures, texting, metaphors, crying, ignoring, reverse psychology, an actual psychologist and even some ugly ultimatums.  Every single time his response was the same: "Stop being such a bitch."  

I got your Bitch!

How frustrating is that?!  He has spent months blaming me for all our problems.  As though if some Bitch Fairy waved a magic wand that zapped all my bitchiness out, we would be just fine.  What a douche!  Some days it was so depressing and disheartening I wondered if I had made a huge mistake.  How could I live with a man who was so infuriating and inconsiderate?  How could I spend the rest of my life with a man who claimed I was "being such a bitch?"  

I got your Bitch!

But I stuck it out.  I kept thinking he would change, be better, nicer, more helpful, more considerate.  Every single day I came home from work and had to be the house (wait for it....) bitch.  Cook dinner, set the table, fix drinks, serve the food.  Grrrrr!  And he just sat there (like a douche) waiting to be...well, waited on.  Geez.

Then something REALLY infuriating happened.  It was late, my kid was asleep, Jonas was (of course) resting.  I went into the kitchen to get some Pepsi and realized there were no clean cups.  I was INSTANTLY pissed!  I scanned the counter, of course finding dirty dishes in the freakin sink and on the freakin counter.  Why the FUCK don't I have ONE CLEAN FREAKIN GLASS for my Pepsi???  

Then I had it.  My Oprah "ah-ha" moment.  I was pissed about the dirty dishes, because Jonas always washes them.  Always.  Twelve months, I had never noticed.  Never even thought about it.  Probably because I was busy packing for the all expense paid guilt trip he was about to take for never cooking.  

It really got me thinking.  What else hadn't I noticed?  The oil in my car.  Always changed.  My car insurance.  Always paid.  My alarm, wailing for at least 45 minutes every morning while I snored like a grown man, all right next to him.  My daughter.  He throws her onto her bed every night, sometimes like she's on a roller coaster, and she laughs hysterically and falls asleep smiling.

I got your Bitch.

The mail is always on the table when I come in.  I don't even know how many times I have sighed audibly and smacked it down on the DAMN counter to get it off the DAMN table so I can fix your DAMN dinner and serve you like a DAMN private chef.  How many times I've literally KICKED his shoes into a corner because they were in front of the door, maybe because he had just walked the trash to the corner and picked litter out of our yard.

I got your Bitch.

How many times have I fired a hurtful "your big ass coat doesn't go on the back of my chair"?  All the while, my clothes don't even leave room for oxygen in the closet.

Yeah.
I got your Bitch.


And its me.

I hate it that he's right.  Not because it means I'm wrong.  But because it means that for the longest twelve months of my life I was the antagonist.  The bad guy.  Not every single time, he's a flawed human like everyone else.  But all the horrible things I suffered were a product of my own ego.  All the while I was waiting for him to change, all I had to do was take his sincere advice, and stop being such a bitch.  So it took about three glasses of Flat Rock Red, a half a pack of Marlboro Special Blends and some real-shit soul searching to really admit to myself that the one who needs to change, is me.  This time, I gave myself an ultimatum.  I was either going to start focusing on all the fantastic benefits of our relationship, or set that poor boy free.  Because he's fucking awesome.  Like, legit.  And I don't ever want try to recover from losing him.  But more than that, I love him so purely that I couldn't stand the thought of him being stuck with a bitch out of loyalty.

Is it perfect now?  Don't make me laugh.  Do I still get frustrated?  Absolutely.  Do we still fight?  To the fucking death dude.

But not everyday, and certainly not over furniture.