the Life and Times of Warrior Woman

blonde recluse. nihilarian pronk.

on my mind: women.

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There are a lot of women-related things I want to write clever words about.

Women and culture.

Women in culture.

Women and men.

Women and women.

Women and religion.

Women and Church.  My Church.

Women in media.

Women and science.

Women and career.

Women and fashion.

Women as a target audience.

Women and marriage.  Children.  Go make me a sandwich.

Usually I don’t write about any of these, or any other clever things, because I’m not clever.  I might get eloquent and throw in a reference or two, but I can’t be too detailed.  I can’t always build a cause and effect connection.  Hell, I can’t always see what’s a cause, and what’s an effect.  I’m not a good critical thinker.  I don’t respond.  I react.

So please keep this in mind.  I’m not responding right now.  I’m mostly reacting.

Right now, I want to talk about women and weight.

Not body image.  Body image is something more detailed and something that goes deeper.  Body image covers weight, of course.  But it could also include legs, nose, ears, boobs, fingers.

I want to talk about women and weight.

Just weight.

I went out with my friend last week.  She was going out to a late supper (or at least that’s what was implied in a casual invitation over a fcbk chat – a late supper, not a late cuppa or a pint or dancing or whatever) – anyway, so she was going out to a late supper with her friends, and she invited me to go with them.

I didn’t want to, at first.  (Intuition.)

But I did.

So she picks me up, and she’s with a man I later vaguely understand is a friend of a friend, and we come to the restaurant and we make our order.  I’m pretty hungry, having only had time for a quick lunch and a shaurma later, so aside from tea I also order a beet salad and a portion of draniki.

As I was picking my order, I was aggravated by some words in the menu.  It was ~*~quirky~*~, you see, with a bit of an ~+~edge~+~, and even though some things implemented by them (like short stories about the origin of the dishes’ names) were great, others – not so much.  At least three places mentioned women, in the context of weight, diets, and curves.

I wanted to open my mouth and go on a spiel how it’s microaggression, and it’s degrading, and it’s sexist.  But, ah, you know, the good old cowardly PC me.  I didn’t.  Besides, I am sure they’d just tell me to chill, to not overreact.

(“Don’t be an idiot, order a dessert – a woman is prettier with a curvier figure.”  That’s a translation of one menu… inscription.  So no, I wouldn’t have been overreacting.  What I was doing was under-reacting.)

Drinks are brought, and as we wait for the rest of our (mine, really – everyone else was only having drinks) order to arrive, more of my friend’s friends show up.  Two ladies I’ve never seen before.  To distinguish, let’s call them A and B.

Let’s also call my friend C, and the man D, while we’re at it.

Now, A really wants to go dancing all of a sudden.  She’s dressed for it too, even though from what I’ve picked up from A’s conversation with my friend, earlier on the phone she said she couldn’t go dancing.

But now she wants to, and is behaving quite rudely in general.

B introduces herself to me.  A doesn’t even try.  When I look at her and open my mouth to introduce myself to her, she starts facebooking on her phone.

Right.  Whatever.

I sip my tea.  A wants us to pay and leave.  Friend mentions we’re waiting for the rest of our order.

We wait for my salad.  A is impatient.  Eventually she makes me look like an arse in front of the waiter, because she asks where the salad is, impatiently, but then asks me what salad that’d be.  So not only an arse, but a cowardly arse.  I mean, not that I’d deny the accusation, but honestly.

So the salad is brought, and I eat it.  I ate it, and A got up, and insists that we pay and leave.

I mention another dish.

Now, let me remind you, dear reader, that up to this point, the only line directed to me by that person was the question about the salad I ordered.

“Is she your friend, C?”  A asks my friend about me.

“Yeah,” I say, “we’ve known each other since high school.”

“Yeah,” my friend answers, “we’ve known each other for 15 years or so.”

“Because I don’t know, if she were my friend, I’d stop her,” she raises her eyebrows and goes back to her phone.

“I- what?”  I say.

“Why should I stop her?”  My friend says.

“Well I don’t know, talk to her about diets or maybe invite her to your gym.”

And then she proceeds to talk about a friend she has, who eats a lot, and who weighs 110 kg.

I weigh less.

Not that it matters.

I count to ten.

Now, I make no secret of the fact, that I am overweight.

IMG_20120712_114201

I’ve also been losing some of that weight, maybe slower than I’d like.

IMG_20120430_210844

(Yes, that is toilet paper.  Yes, it’s clean.)

Aside from wanting to be able to wear this without every fat fold falling out, I want to look best for my mum, who in turn simply wants me to look my best.

IMG_20120719_140621

I also make no secret of the fact that I believe people should eat healthily all the time, and try to lose weight or get in better shape if theirs limit them.

It’s okay to lose weight.  It’s okay to diet.  There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be the best version of yourself, and if that entails losing a few (dozens) extra pounds, then so be it!

What’s not okay is to be uncouth, uncultured, tactless about other people’s weight.

You’re not being direct and open, you’re being an ass.

You’re not telling the truth, you make yourself look like an uneducated prejudiced pig.

I counted to twenty.

I didn’t say anything.

I would’ve, if A’s words were directed at, say, C.

B proceeded saying something about human rights.  A brushed her off.  C asked me if I want to be stopped when I’m eating.  I didn’t answer.  I ate.  Without appetite.  But – deliberately – very, very slowly.

Two incidents of such nature during one outing, one very short outing.  First the menu, and now a person who doesn’t even know me.  Who didn’t even try to get to know me. 

I wasn’t offended.

I mean it.

I was horrified at our culture.  A culture that’s pulling a woman’s mind and a woman’s body in all directions.  At first one is screamed at to eat, to get curvier.  Then one has to listen to tirades of strangers about 250-pound friends of friends and a bleak future.

Moral of the story:  Women, stop trying to guilt trip other women (or men, or undecided – but we’re talking about women here) into not eating because you think they shouldn’t be.  That way two things lie: a reputation of an arse for you and – way more important – a possible eating disorder for other women.

There are a lot of body types, and as long as owners of such types are healthy, they’re all doing great, weight-wise.

I’m seriously considering to photograph a night raid on the fridge, with time stamp on, so I could send the picture to A.

Over fcbk.

Tagged, “stop this.”

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Written by Alexandra

9 September 2012 at 3:33 pm

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