My husband and I went out for a date night last weekend, a rare event these days since the birth of our second child. I bought a new top for the occasion, threw on one of the three pairs of jeans that fit me, and gingerly stepped into heels I haven’t braved in over a year. With the kids safely shipped off to Grandma’s and a solid hair-day happening, I was selfie-ready and eager for some adult time. I felt amazing. I also felt fat.
Now, don’t stop reading. This is not a woe-is-me, self-effacing ploy for you all to comment with things like, “You look great!” and “Stop calling yourself fat, you’re beautiful!” I know I look great. I also look fat. There’s no reason that both things can’t be true.
I am fat. Objectively so. If you are made uncomfortable by this word, I’m sorry, but I’m going to go ahead and embrace it. If you’d rather I use euphemisms like curvy, full-bodied, or thick, too bad. Fat fat fat. It’s not a dirty word. Fact: when I calculate my BMI based on my height and weight, I am overweight. Fact: I had a baby four months ago, so I’m still carrying around roughly 20 pounds that weren’t there when I got pregnant in the first place. Fact: the majority of my pre-pregnancy clothes don’t fit. Conclusion: I’m fat.
Am I mad about it? Hell, no. Do I still feel great in my skin? Hell, yes. How do I account for such a paradox? Well, simply put, I’m exhausted by the expectation that I’m supposed to feel bad about myself for housing some extra weight. This fat body built a whole human from scratch and continues to nourish her as she grows. This fat body is used as a jungle gym for a rambunctious toddler who doesn’t even know what “fat” means and who only cares that I can play with him. This fat body is loved by an amazing husband who adored me chubby at 18, skinny at 25, enormous with both pregnancies, and fat now as I approach 34. What on earth do I have to feel bad about?
At this point, the world may say, ok MB, we get it. You’re fat and you’re fine with it. But you should probably wear some caftans, long cardigans, and wide-cut pants so you can hide all that. No one wants to see that. To that, I say, ABSOLUTELY NOT. Not only am I exhausted with a self-loathing weight narrative, I am also exhausted with the assumption that fat can’t be sexy. Fat girls can AND SHOULD wear whatever we want to! Shrouding my body in shapeless fabric only serves to suggest that I am ashamed of the way I look or that I am unworthy of aesthetic attention from the public eye. If my shapeliness offends someone, that’s not my problem. If I want to wear shorts or a short dress, I’m going to do it because I deserve to catch a breeze between my legs just as much as any thigh-gapped twiglet. If I want to wear spaghetti straps, I’m going to do it because my husband deserves to catch a little eyeful of cleavage when it has nothing to do with breastfeeding. I can wear form-fitting clothes and reveal skin and be fat and still be seen as desirable.
Shop the Look:
Some great options for my fellow sexy, fat ladies (many of them on SALE!):