The Stinging Irony of “You’re Not Fat, You’re Beautiful”

Being fat and being desirable are not mutually exclusive

It’s no secret that I am fat. Just how fat I look may depend on what picture you’re looking at, the clothes I’m wearing, the position I’m sitting in, or what angle you see me from. How fat you perceive me to be depends on your experience with fat people, your size, your background, and your preconceived notions about bodies.

I know the perfect selfie angle for chin minimization (up and to the left, if you’re curious). If someone else is holding the camera, I sometimes remind them to hold it higher than they need to. I know to stand with one leg in front of the other to put my body at a more pleasing angle.

Like most fat people, I have struggled a lot with my weight over the years. It’s almost impossible not to fight your existence when by all indications, the world doesn’t want you or value you.

I have gained weight and lost weight. At my thinnest, I weighed 145 lbs, right after I got back from London, 18 years old. I was a size 14 with what used to be called birthin’ hips and thought I was fat. Now, at my heaviest, I weigh around 291 lbs. I have spent years of my life uncomfortable in my own skin, spent decades disliking almost every photo taken of me. More than once, I’ve lost 50 or more pounds and gotten down nearly to 210 and thought I’d finally get below 200, only to regain the weight. I didn’t know my chances of keeping it off were less than 5%.

Online dating is a minefield of red flags and the learning curve is wide. I quickly found that the best way to minimize abrupt ends to my conversations was to include a full-body shot in my profile. I included mostly selfies taken from that just-right angle, but made sure to include one or two wider views. It seemed easier to make sure my level of fatness was communicated immediately, that “curvy” and “a little extra” weren’t just self-deprecation. Being told you’re pretty and then suddenly “not someone’s type” when they find out you’re actually fat is disheartening at best.

Once I became righteously indignant about my ability to exist as both a fat woman and someone who enjoyed sex and dating, I added the following to the text of my profile:

I am fat and sexy. If you don’t think that is possible, you should probably stop reading now and move on. I am sensitive, sensual, and physically delightful.

This resulted in more than one message like this one: “I love your pony tails. How are you doing this morning and I don’t think you’re fat I think you’re beautiful.” Did you just hear a slide whistle? I did when I read it.

I am obviously fat. This is not my opinion, it’s a stone-cold fact. In the years before now, it has been a source of a lot of heartache and pain, eaten up a lot of my time, and propagated a lot of growth. It took me decades to overcome my focus on numbers on a scale and think about goals, resolutions, and life in terms of more than pounds and pants size. I have more fat on my body than a lot of people consider “normal” or “acceptable.”

When you say I am not fat, you are beginning our conversation with a needless lie. It serves only to discount my experiences and negate the confidence and self-love I have worked hard for. I am not an exception to the unwritten but ingrained rule that fat and attractive are mutually exclusive. When you say “not fat, beautiful,” you are reminding me that fat and beautiful cannot exist in the same sentence or the same body. Ironically, your attempt at a compliment has reaffirmed what society has told me for years, that those who find me desirable are the exception and not the rule.

Despite the fact that I can’t buy clothes at most readily accessible stores, that I have to ask for a seat belt extender when I fly, that I can’t fit into some of the booths at McDonald’s (oh, the irony!), I am more comfortable in my own skin right now, at this very moment, than I have ever been. I have found confidence and carelessness that I didn’t think was possible. I am more comfortable this summer leaving my house in a tank top and shorts than I have been since I was 18. I know that I am pretty, that I can be sexy, and that neither of those things is dependent on level of thin-ness. I have filled my life with people who have helped me see that beauty is about so much more than a body.

Several years ago, a friend passed on a piece of wisdom that struck in a hard, lasting way. “It’s just a shape some people have.” It is just a shape. The phrase became a mantra, a soothing affirmation I offer myself repeatedly and liberally.

My shape is not thin. My hips curve out from my waist then slip into wide, womanly thighs. My belly hangs in rolling pillows. My breasts used to be small, and though fat has filled them they still are not round, and when I lie down they shift and migrate leaving hills instead of mountains. My topography is a cartographer’s dream, I have dips and valleys, curves and rolls.

I also have a mind that is active and smart. I have a sarcastic, sometimes juvenile, sometimes witty sense of humor and a heart that is so big and lovely and open that sometimes it wants to beat right out of my chest. I have a capacity for love and happiness with a depth that still shocks me some days. I carry confidence earned through tears and self-worth borne of battles fought in darkness.

If you want to know me, don’t tell me that I’m not fat, I’m beautiful. Take me as I am, not as a shape but as a complex and glowing woman with more to offer than you ever imagined. If you think I am beautiful, tell me so. Fall into my eyes and swim in the depths of my soul. If you think I am sexy, whisper into my ear about all of the corners of me you want to map and explore. If you dream of falling asleep at night with a warm, living pillow made of comfy curves, tell me so.

I am not asking much, only to be taken as I am. Talk to me like a person, a multi-faceted, perfect-in-imperfection woman. Connect with all of the parts of me. I am fat. I am beautiful.

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