During a camping trip I went on late last year (during which I stayed in a cabin and most of my friends camped in tents), I was talking to some friends about how I wished tent camping were more viable for me. I have bad knees due to injuring both of them at different times in my life, which makes getting up and down off the floor difficult and painful. The others suggested I could try and buy a camp bed that would be off the ground, and when I said I didn’t think I’d be able to get one that would hold my weight, one friend said I’d be safe with a double-sized one because they’re usually rated for two smaller people around 80 kilos and “I don’t know how much you weigh, but you don’t weigh 160 kilos.”
I don’t weigh myself any more, but she was kind of right. It’s more like 170 than 160.
I let the error go by without comment. I knew she wasn’t being nasty and I didn’t want to embarrass her by making a big deal about it. But it struck me that the reality of someone weighing what I do was so far outside her worldview that even with my physical body right in front of her, where she could see exactly how fat I am, she couldn’t imagine anybody weighing that much. It’s not like I’m particularly muscular or dense – I know people who weigh more than they look like they do, but I am not one of those people. It’s just that 160 kilos was so far away from my friend’s reality that she dismissed it out of hand as being some unimaginably huge size.
I encounter the same issue with clothing sizes, too. I’ll complain about not being about to find specific clothing items (such as trying to find black concert dress for choir performances) and suddenly a flood of my thinner friends will inundate me with suggestions that, while well-meaning, are completely useless to me because the clothing companies they suggest don’t make my size. It isn’t that they don’t know what I look like, in fact they probably have a better picture in their minds of my appearance than I do, but once again imaginable clothing sizes for them extend a little past their own size and then vanish into the amorphous mists of “really really big”.
On the flip side, I can usually guess what size a woman wears and roughly how much she probably weighs from looking at her (though I usually don’t because what does it matter?). This was possibly a skill acquired through years of “thinspiration” in my dieting and eating disordered years (ugh), but it’s also the upshot of being exposed to far more information about thin people’s – especially thin women’s – bodies and clothing sizes and weights in popular media and everyday life than fat people’s.
Partly that’s because the thin bodies, sizes and weights are held up in advertising and other media as the ideal to which we should all strive, and partly it’s because the stigma against fat pressures a lot of fat women into hiding or lying about their own size or weight. I never would have even thought about publishing my real weight or dress size on the internet five or six years ago. As a result of this embarrassed secrecy about fat weights and sizes (which doesn’t, of course, trick people into not realising you are fat), people who aren’t fat themselves often don’t develop a visual vocabulary of fatness because the information to connect with the visual simply isn’t available. And what follows is an incredulity about the perfectly real bodies of fat people that only compounds and exacerbates the stigma and embarrassment associated with being fat. It is difficult and painful to have a body that’s not only not socially acceptable, but so socially unacceptable that your friends can’t even imagine it being real.
This disconnect is part of why I am writing this blog, why it is called what it is, and why I love seeing blog posts and tumblrs and instagrams and tweets and Facebook posts and everything about other fat people just living their lives and being seen doing it. I want us to be visible and known and understood, not freaky unicorns that people – even the people who know and love us – can’t quite comprehend. I want us to be free of embarrassment about talking about our weight and what size we wear (men and genderqueer people and genderless people as well as women) and demystify the reality of being really fat. I want people to hear 170 kilos and think “ah, that’s someone about the same size as my friend Sarah” and not “170 kilos, NOBODY weighs that much!” You keep using that word “nobody”. I do not think it means what you think it means.
To that end, here is a picture of me – in my cute ModCloth bathers, so as to give a good idea of my body size without the obfuscation of normal clothes – along with my clothing size (AU 26-28) and my weight as of this very moment (171.3 kilos, or roughly 378 pounds). Just for information purposes. Because yes, I am very real.
Not that I wouldn’t make an amazing unicorn.