So why did I pick “fatty” as my number one descriptor? Simply because it’s the most obvious thing about me. And, truly, my fat has shaped my personality and outlook far more than it has shaped my body.

I minored in journalism in college, so I like to start with the who, what, when, where, why, and how of it all. Of course, the who is a given, so let’s start with the what. What is a fatty? A fatty is a fat person who is comfortable with being fat, who doesn’t constantly feel bad about herself because she doesn’t conform to society’s standard of beauty. The first sign of a true fatty is that he can call himself fat instead of some euphemism like “fluffy” or “pleasantly plump.” There’s nothing wrong with euphemisms – some like “curvy” are body-affirming, and I love that. But they can also be something you hide behind, and I generally don’t think that hiding is a good thing, especially not when you are hiding from yourself. And to call yourself fat also takes the power away from those who would do it to hurt you. To quote Fat Amy from Pitch Perfect, I call myself fat so “twig bitches . . . don’t do it behind my back.”

On a recent episode of Louie (which, surprisingly I don’t regularly watch though I’m a huge fan – pun intended – of his stand-up), a woman Louie is out on a date with delivers what some have called an “epic” rant about being a fat girl. You can read a transcript of it here and even scroll down and watch the scene.

The monologue was praised for being so relatable, and I certainly do relate with the way she begins: ” . . . you know what the meanest thing is you can say to a fat girl? ‘You’re not fat.’ I mean, come on, buddy . . .”  You’re not being kind to anyone by denying the obvious. In fact, it’s kind of insulting. Imagine if your reaction to a black person owning his blackness was to say, “Oh, you’re not black . . .” The insinuation is that there is something wrong with being black or fat or whatever it is you’re supposedly not.

But THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH BEING FAT. I know the first instinct of some people will be to argue the health risks with me. Don’t waste your breath. First of all, we fatties hear that shit all the time. Don’t you realize we can recite it all just as well as you because we are bombarded with it constantly? Secondly, I could link to articles and studies that show the relationship between fat and disease has been grossly overstated. That is not to say there is no relationship between fat and health. But it’s not as simple as fat = unhealthy and thin = healthy. There are thin people with diabetes, heart disease, cancer, etc., and fat people who are disease free. So what is the real issue with fat people? As the character, Vanessa, asks, “Why do you hate us so much?” After all, I don’t think it is concern for my health that causes complete strangers to yell “fat ass” at me from their car windows.

Like everything else, it comes down to sex. Fatties are the great unfuckable. (Round buttocks, large breasts, mounds of soft, warm flesh . . . who would want to fuck that?!) And if you can’t fuck us, what good are we? 

If you can’t answer that question, I certainly can’t answer it for you.

The problem from the fatty side of things is that all too common conflation of sex and love and love and self-worth. It’s so easy when society constantly tells you you’re unattractive to feel unfuckable and when you feel unfuckable to feel unlovable and when you feel unlovable to feel worthless. Vanessa bemoans that “the basics of human happiness, feeling attractive, feeling loved, having guys chase after us, [is] just not in the cards for us,” but as someone who feels attractive and loved, I know it is in the cards. And if you haven’t been dealt that winning hand yet, maybe you need to try your luck with a different dealer.

But I remember the early days of my fattitude. I started gaining weight at puberty.  I had recently moved hours away from my sister/best friend with my neglectful mother and abusive stepfather, and I was miserable. I was too young to drive, but the mall was just across the street from our apartment. For my $20/week allowance, I could buy a 1/2 lb of mini chocolate chip cookies and a bag of Jolly Ranchers to throw into my purse then head to the movies for buttery popcorn, a large drink, and back-to-back matinees. When we moved again, the only thing nearby was a 7-Eleven, and my entire allowance when to Entenmann’s and Hawaiian Punch and whatever other junk I could buy. I drowned my sorrows in sugar. Combine that with a complete and total lack of exercise, and you have the recipe for obesity.

But it’s not like I went from barely 100 to the almost 300 I am now overnight. At first, it was all tits and ass, and that didn’t feel like a bad thing. As a gopher for a property management office one summer, 14-year-old me would walk down the streets of Bethesda in my black mini-skirt and low-cut blouse to catcalls and lustful ogles from grown men, the archetypal construction worker and dark-suited businessman alike.  It was flattering and exhilarating and . . . terrifying too. Especially getting those same looks from my stepfather. So as the fat began adding layers to my belly and my thighs and the stares began dwindling away, I felt sad yet . . .  free. My fat became my protection. Ironically, the larger I became, the less visible I was. To men. For females and teenage boys, though, it was an open invitation for ridicule. You know how it goes. We are all participants in the fat-shaming game, whether shamed or shamer and possibly both. So when Vanessa on Louie goes on to say that “It sucks to be a fat girl,” yeah, I can relate. All fat girls can.

My fat had gone from my friend and protector to my burden and oppressor, and it evolved again as I became a woman. I began to see my fat as a useful tool for weeding out those shallow people I wouldn’t want anything to do with anyway and as a powerful weapon in the feminist war against the patriarchal and misogynistic standard of beauty for women in our culture.  I am deeply saddened by the time, energy, and money women spend trying to achieve these arbitrary and often unnatural standards of beauty. How much power we give to those who might seek to keep us in line! My size (especially combined with my lack of make-up and hair products) is a clear symbol of my unwillingness to conform and be controlled.

Does that mean I’ll never lose weight? Well, never say never, but I know myself well enough to know that I could not – would not want – to do it without some sort of surgical intervention. But even if I lost my fat, I could never lose the way my fat has shaped me. To paraphrase Fat Amy, even if I got pretty thin, I’d still have a fat heart, and that’s what matters.