first date report: A

Ok, first things first. Here’s what I wore:

The top is new; it’s from Fresh Ayer. The jeans are apair of Calvin Kleins I bought over the summer (from Nordstrom Rack! only $20) and had never worn, because they needed hemming (to hell with it, I said, and wore them long).

It was stupid, maybe, to buy a new top. (I also bought a pair of jeans, which  am returning – the Calvins are cuter! – and the Perfect Black Pants, pants I have been searching for, pants I have been longing for, pants that will change my life.) I’m on sabbatical, I have no income, and, um, maybe I shouldn’t be buying new clothing. But have you ever had a perfect clothes experience? Clothes that just feel right, that make you feel beautiful and comfortable and happy and yourself? This top felt that way. As soon as I bought it, I stopped worrying about the date. I knew I was going to be fine.

(An aside: I’ve noticed, looking at the picture up there, that this outfit makes me look a little bigger than I am. Such is the nature of flowy tops, I guess. It speaks to how far I’ve come in fat acceptance that I chose something that I thought made me look beautiful, rather than something that made me look thin.)

And I was. I met A at the coffee shop. I was there first, which was not my intention. I got a chai, I grabbed a paper, I nabbed the two easy chairs in the corner and I started reading. He walked in right while I w as reading a commentary about how Minnesota’s senate election (it’s still not resolved!) might wind up being decided by lot.

So he walked in, I was feeling beautiful and happy and comfortable and myself, and I had just read a fascinating article about my home state, and I was ready to go. He grabbed a coffee and sat down and we talked, and talked and talked. We talked for three hours, and then I had to get to a meeting, and we hugged and said we should do it again, and then I went home. (And then I went to an incredible meeting, a life-changing meeting, but that’s another story for another blog. Yeah, I keep another blog. Under my Real Name. Imagine!)

We got along splendidly. What I’m not sure of is whether – as my friend Jeremy would say – there’s any mojo.

That sounds more negative than I mean it to. I mean, really, that I’m not sure. He talked a lot, he rattled on and I had some trouble getting a word in, at first, but that’s just nerves. That’s why I believe in a two-date minimum, before you can make up your mind about someone. I’m sure that we could be great friends; I’m just not sure whether there’s any zing, you know?

pre-date jitters, part II: The Man

I got so hung up on the clothes angle that I neglected to say anything about the man in question. Riiight, the man. It’s not all about the clothes!

(But about the clothes: I succumbed. I went shopping, and bought new clothes, and feel much more comfortable in them. I went to this wonderful shop and will have more to say about it soon).

The man shall be known as A, until he earns the right to a not-so-clever nickname. He seems like a very pleasant fellow. He’s a liberal. He’s from around here and knows the place I’m living – before I even told him what it was called, he figured it out, which freaked me out a little bit. He skis. Our email exchanges have been goofy and friendly but hard to say much more about it until we get a better sense of each other in person.

We are getting together for coffee, in the late afternoon – my town is on his way home from work, so it’s easy for him to swing by. He seems like a pro at internet dating; he suggested something low-key and relatively short (anyone is tolerable for the time it takes to drink a latte; the same cannot be said for dinner). My schedule is surprisingly difficult – I’m on sabbatical, so you’d think it would be easy, right? – but we found a time quickly and here we go.

If his pictures are accurate, A is a little bit chubby. I hardly noticed this until, when I told him that I just started running, he said that he had lost 100 pounds when he was a runner a decade ago – and has since gained 50 of them back. He said this casually, easily, comfortably. Then he said (or rather, he wrote – this was via email): “Health/fitness is one of those things I’m going to be struggling with for the rest of my life.” That was it. No commentary about how much he hated his weight gain, or how he wished he was that slim again.

In response, I said: “As for struggling with health and fitness: tell me about it. (I mean, I can commiserate, although if you want to actually tell me about it I’d be quite interested). But I console myself with the reminder that it’s something that everyone struggles with – even folks who are naturally lithe aren’t doing themselves any good if they take their size as an indication of fitness.” A sneaky bit of Health at Every Size. He gave no response to this, in his next email. We’d moved on to other topics, for the most part.

So? I’m thinking this is good news. I’m thinking this is a guy who understands body issues, has been up and down in size himself and doesn’t seem too hard on himself about it. He knows my size, roughly – I haven’t told him, but I have a recent and honest photo on my page, although that’s another story because whenever I look good in a photo it seems like it isn’t really honest; how messed up is that? – and he seems unperturbed. I’m thinking he’s among the first men I’ve met with whom fat acceptance might be a natural topic, at some point, and I’m thinking that that sounds like a relief.

Big News… of the first date sort

Ok, y’all. I have a date on Thursday and I’m trying hard not to talk myself out of it. I mean, I want to go. Of course I do. Right? I put an ad out there (on okcupid), he responded, I responded to his response, we’ve been making witty repartee for a couple weeks (too long! I know, but I’m such a nervous twit, I kept putting off the whole meeting-in-person thing), things are going well.

But in addition to my general level of… oh, what should I call it? Panic? … relating to dating, I have a legitimate problem: I have nothing to wear.

Or, alternatively, I have everything to wear.

The argument for the “nothing to wear” camp is strong. I packed weirdly, in moving to this intentional community. I dedicated my closet to comfort and thought not too much about little things like “cuteness” or “seductiveness”. You think I’m kidding? Here’s a complete list of the pants and skirts I brought with me:

1. Five pairs of Old Navy’s Smoked Jersey Gauchos. These look surprisingly good, for pants that have the mother of all elastic waists and cost $9.99. If it were warm out, I’d throw on this t-shirt and call it a day.
2. Four pairs of jeans. Two are so old they have holes in them. One is the notoriously stinky Right Fit jeans from Lane Bryant. One is lovely, Calvin Klein, but they need hemming (seriously? I’m nearly six feet tall and they need hemming?) and, um, yeah, I’ve been here for two months and I haven’t gotten around to that yet.
3. A floaty, cotton, hugely seasonally inappropriate skirt from The Gap.
4. No more. That’s all.

I also have an overabundance of dresses. Just where, exactly, did I think I was going to wear dresses? Here’s what I do every day: I eat breakfast. I clean up after breakfast (clean up after 60 people, that is – this is a messy thing, not just wiping the Cheerios I spilled on the counter into the trash can). I go to community meeting. I nap. I eat lunch. I rake leaves. I sit around and think about God. I email people about what I’m thinking about God. I talk with other people about God. I cook. I eat dinner. I go to bed. On Fridays, I take a class.

I could wear a dress. (If I found acceptable tights, sometime before Thursday. Tights have been my pre-date nemesis before and, no, I didn’t adequately solve the problem last time.) But, thing is, these days at least, I’m not much of a dress-wearing type. Don’t get me wrong. I love dresses, I love dressing up, but fact is I’m living at a retreat center and the fanciest I get is throwing on a necklace with my ripped jeans.

The other day, another woman here – a staff person, who lived here as a student thirty years ago – told a story about a date she went on while she was a student here. She said she got herself all worked up over what she was going to wear and rushed out to buy something new, only to realize that if the woman she was seeing didn’t like how she dressed normally the relationship probably didn’t have a lot of staying power. It’s an obvious point, but it’s stuck in my mind this time.

So, the argument for everything to wear? I have all my clothes here. Nine pairs of pants. A skirt. Several dresses. All sorts of shirts – mostly fitted t-shirts and sweaters – that I haven’t discussed at all. Maybe I should stop worrying so much and just pull something out of the closet. Like this (scroll down). That looks pretty good, right? I have both those items of clothing with me here, although they’ve seen some wear and tear since then (and those are, after all, the smelly jeans. But then he’s not going to be getting up close and personal with my pants. Not on the first date! Heavens, I’m not that kind of girl.)

Pep talks would be deeply appreciated. Wish me luck!

holy cow! (and: my first troll!)

What the heck happened? When I posted yesterday about The Most Honest Personal Ad You’ll Ever Read I didn’t expect such a huge outpouring from y’all. Did I get linked on Shapely Prose or something? The blog just hit a one-day high and it’s not even dinnertime.

So: Thank you! It’s been absolutely terrific to hear all your responses to Mr. Honesty. I wish I was half as witty as you!

And, as an extra treat, I present to you my first-ever troll! (I’d been wondering; how come I don’t get trolls? Back when I was writing regularly the blog got pretty decent traffic, but all the commenters were friendly. Why was I left out of the trolls’ paths?):

We are looking for thin women, not big fat hogs. There is nothing feminine about a big fat fatty. If we can’t get aroused because of your rolls of fat and blubber, we don’t want to waste our time or money on you!

Nice.

The Most Honest Personal Ad You’ll Ever Read

So, I’m living here in Pennsylvania, I don’t know anyone outside my community and dating within the community is frowned upon (and anyway, the four guys in my age range – say, 26 to 40 or so – are: not single, not single, not single, not friendly). I check out the craigslist personals and hit upon an interesting prospect. He’s written one of those “This is the most honest personal ad you’ll ever read” ads (internet daters, you know the type, right?). Well, they’re a cliche, but I always fall for them – he’s willing to be vulnerable! I can tell him all the horrible things about me and get them out of the way and he’ll fall in love with me for my insouciant spirit!

I wrote back in kind, outlining all the things that one might find difficult about me – in a terribly charming way, of course. Here’s a sample of what I included:

• I live in a Quaker community. That’s weird, right? But charming-weird, not freaky-weird. I’m exploring my soul! That’s a good thing!
• I’m fat. ‘Nuff said.
• I struggle with depression, had a breakdown in grad school, am better now. It’s made me more reflective, more thoughtful, more determined to live beautifully.
• I’m an introvert and I have a hard time getting close to people.
• Sarcasm goes right over my head. Like, seriously. I don’t know why this is. I’m a smart person. I make other people laugh. But I’m just so damned gullible; I’ll ask you if I can borrow a pen, you’ll say no, sarcastically, because DUH, of course I can borrow a pen, why would anyone say no to that? and I’ll walk away dejectedly. The upside to this is that I’m totally earnest, and I actually think that’s a good thing. I’m sincere.
• I love politics but I’ve recently realized, much to my surprise, since I went to public policy grad school on the assumption that the opposite was true, that I don’t really like to debate politics. I mostly like chewing the fat with people who agree with me; I’m happier on a campaign than doing the compromise of policy work.
• I snore.

Here’s what he writes back:

I have no issues with larger women.

Great! We’re off to a good start.

I don’t think we’d get along well. Number one, I never capitalize the word god, because I don’t believe there is only one. I am far from religious. You mentioned you love politics but have a problem talking to people who disagree with you. Well, a healthy debate is good for the soul. But if you’re too closed to see someone else’s side, or why they think the way they do, that’s unfortunate. I voted for Obama, and campaigned for his election. And I’m thrilled he won. Who did you vote for, McCain? Being from MN and living in Quakertown, do you have a problem with black people? I sure don’t.

Um, whoa! I guess I neglected to tell him that I’m a way-left liberal, that it’s Republicans that I don’t really want to talk politics with (sorry, Republicans! I still love you, but let’s talk about dinner or something else instead, ok?), that I worked for Obama organizing rural voters in Virginia, that the photo I sent him was from the spontaneous election-night party outside the White House after Obama was elected.

Oh, and? Maybe he should quick google Minnesota and Quakers before he makes racist assumptions about them; both are progressive, home to stereotypically do-gooder liberal folk. Minnesota, for example, has elected the only Muslim to serve in Congress. Quakers were among the first abolitionists.

Being introverted does not make one opposed to companionship or letting someone into our hearts. It simply means we enjoy time alone, and need it, to recharge. I don’t think the word introverted can accurately describe you, from your description of yourself.

Oh. I guess I’m wrong about myself. Thanks for showing me the light.

I understand depression, and have written a lot about it, but I am not depressed. I don’t think we have that area in common, either. I don’t let myself get down to the point of incapacity. I’m a firm believer in the motto whatever doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.

OK, now I’m mad. His turn of phrase – “I don’t let myself get down…” – pisses me off. As though all you needed to do to avoid depression was buck up, be a man. Feh.

Kind of odd that sarcasm goes right over your head, even 12 year olds can clearly get when someone’s being sarcastic.

Huh. Apparently I made him mad, too. Why else would be slip in this little jab? Why, actually, did he respond at all, since we were so obviously not meant to  be?

He closes with:

I’m sure you’re a cool person but you’re not what I’m looking for.

Now that’s just disingenuous. If I’m really racist, weak-hearted and stupid, I wouldn’t be a terrible cool person, would I?

Ah, no need to get in a huff. I should have known better, anyway. The “I’m so honest” type is right up there with the “Nice Guy” type – they’re insincerely swathing themselves in simplistic understandings of what they imagine women want. What do you want to bet that when he doesn’t get many responses he’ll chalk it up to the snobbery of women?

Bah! Who needs ‘em, anyway? Maybe I’ll just stay tucked up in my community and forget about dating for a while longer.

more on running

I did it!

Today, I did my first-ever run, in my fleet and unstoppable new shoes. I had no idea what to expect, whether I’d be straggling along after the first thirty seconds or what. (Actually, that’s not quite honest: I DID have an expectation… I expected that I’d be straggling along after the first thirty seconds). But – joy of joys – it was actually easier, more fun, better than I expected. My training program only calls for one minute of running to start – one minute of running, six minutes of walking, repeat three times and you’re done – and each time, when I checked my watch, I realized that I’d gone over a minute and I wasn’t hurting at all. This gives me hope.

Also, when I told some folks in my community what I was doing, several asked if they could run with me. I rebuffed most of them, until I got worn down by rebuffing and said yes to one woman, with whom I’m not too close. This was serendipitous, ’cause it turns out that she’s a triathlete, loves to help new runners, and was completely supportive of my taking-it-very-easy-to-start-with strategy (and also totally convinced that I could be ready for a 5K by mid-March, which is my stretch goal). So yay! This gives me more hope.

In the comments on the last post, several people asked for info on the awesome store where I bought my shoes and the awesome super-beginners running program.  Here they are:

Awesome store: Bryn Mawr Running Company. I went to their location in Media, PA.

Super-beginners running program: About.com How to Get Started Running. (More gradual than the Couch to 5K program mentioned by a commenter).

You didn’t ask for it, but here’s a couple online stores that I found that carry plus-size running gear:

Two Roads Fitness (carries a variety of brands, up to size 24 or so in many; this is where I bought my running pants, yet to be delivered)

Team Estrogen (carries SportHill in plus sizes, up to a 32. To find it, go to “apparel” and then narrow your search by “plus size”)

Happy running!

it’s official!

I am now a runner. Well… I guess, as of today, I am a person who owns running shoes. Tomorrow, after I take my first training run, I will be a capital-R Runner.

Brooks "Adrenaline"

Here’s the thing: My beautiful and beloved sister started running last year. She trained for and completed a half-marathon this spring, and was in training for a full marathon this fall when she broke her leg. We’d all bought our flights to DC to watch the race by then, so we showed up anyway. I love watching marathons. I love cheering for everyone as they go by, and I always stay until the very last person (followed by the ambulance that marks the end of the race) goes by. It is inspiring.

Anyway, we watched the Marine Corps Marathon at miles 18 and 19 (just across the Capitol Mall; a mile between them for the runners, just a few steps for the onlookers). This means that everyone who was going past us was kicking ass, whether they finished the marathon or not. They all made it to nearly 20 miles! And you know what? They all looked completely different. There were people so thin you’d think they couldn’t run around the block without keeling over. There were people so fat you’d think they couldn’t run at all. People who trained hard and got big muscles. People who trained hard and got lean and wiry. People who trained hard (everyone trained hard; you can’t just up and run 19 miles on a whim) who didn’t look any different from when they started. It gets you thinking: Hey, maybe I can do this.

So, my dad (6′7″, over 300 pounds, 65 years old) and I (5′11″, around 300 pounds, 29 years old) decided to train for a 5K.

We did some research and chose a super-beginner running program, one that starts with buying shoes (check!) and some verrrrry easygoing runs (20 minutes 3 a week, to start – with one minute of running to every 6 minutes of walking!). I’ve been looking forward to the actual running, but I was psyching myself out about the buying of running shoes.

My runner-sister insisted that we get real running shoes. Like, from a running store, one that will analyze your stride and measure your feet and pick out the perfect, ninety-bazillion dollar shoe that will make you fleet and unstoppable. The kind of store, that is, that I imagine to be hostile to a fat person.

Here’s what I imagined: Walking into a store filled with attractive, super-fit people in slim-cut workout pants. Tripping over my words as I tried to explain that, yeah, um, even though I’m so damned fat, I’m going to run. Trying to do so without equivocating – “Yeah, I’m trying to get in shape so I decided to start running…”. Huffing and puffing on a treadmill as they watched and decided I needed the super-duper-heavy-duty-”keep this chick from falling on her face” motion control shoes. Buying the first shoes I found, fleeing, leaving the super-fit to laugh and set bets on how many runs I’ll make before I quit.

Here’s what happened: I walked into a store filled with attractive, super-fit people in slim-cut workout pants. I tripped over my words as I tried to explain that I needed some shoes ’cause I was just starting to run. I did not make any comments about trying to lose weight or get in shape (neither of which are my goals in doing this). I walked up and down the length of the store a couple of times, as a charming super-fit man named Gunther and a charming super-fit woman named Karen watched the way my feet moved. Was unreasonably proud of myself when they said that I didn’t need the heavy-duty motion control shoes (for people with severe pronation) but the medium-duty stability shoes. Tried on a bunch, with lots of attention and help from charming and friendly Gunther and Karen. Got advice on which to buy. Bought some. Was told that there was a sale on apparel, and when I asked whether they had my size, was pleased to note that Gunther didn’t seem to notice that I might need a special size – and that he was chagrined to say that they didn’t carry plus-sizes. Left, with cheery goodbyes from Gunther and Karen and requests that I stop back in to let them know how the shoes are fitting and how the running is going.

In short: It was awesome. Now I have shoes. I am going to run tomorrow and I am going to be fleet and unstoppable. Go me!

they try so hard

One of the things I get here, in the community in which I now live, is a spiritual nurturer. The nurturer is like a therapist, but with a spiritual (rather than a psychological) approach to healing. We talk about the same things you’d talk about in therapy, but we also talk about God. (For example, today I described how I “wore out” a former friend of mine who helped me through my depression several years ago. My nurturer, Carol, said that it sounded like I was trying to fill a God-shaped hole with a person; no wonder he couldn’t bear the weight of what I was asking of him.)

When all the students first arrived here, we spent a week or so getting to know the members of the staff who were available as nurturers. We filled out a form, saying who we would be comfortable working with and who we would most like to work with. The woman with whom I was assigned to work was not among my first choices (I’ve grown to appreciate her more since then; I’m very satisfied). The woman who was my first choice, Mary, was a student here last year and stayed on as a member of the staff.

Ok, that’s all background. The point is, Mary is a very sensitive and loving person.

One day, after we’d been doing some work together (beekeeping! no shit.), I mentioned that I needed a tailor, to hem some jeans. She told me that another staff member was a seamstress and could help me out; she’d helped Mary when she had to hem some Armani pants she found at a Goodwill. She said “They’re a size eight but I can just squeeze them on and by God I wanted to own a pair of Armanis!” We laughed about all our experiences with jamming ourselves into clothes that just don’t fit, and then I told her about fillyjonk’s “To hell with tiny pants!”

This led to a conversation about fat acceptance. She was pleased for me and proud of me, I guess, and totally supportive. She so wanted to be on my side. She told me about her friend, who was “large,” and how she once confronted her and told her that “the most unattractive thing about her was that she thought she was unattractive.” She said that when she was younger and a skinny little thing, men would tell her that they liked a woman with some meat on her bones. She told me that most men liked bigger women. Everything she said was intended to bolster me, but instead it felt a little insulting, as if the only reason fat is painful is because of how men respond to it, as though if I just found a man who appreciated me I wouldn’t worry about my body any more. I didn’t say anything to her about it. She meant well. But it made me feel a little less close to her, a little less disappointed that I wasn’t working with her as a spiritual nurturer.

eating in intentional community

Ok, so after my last post several people asked about what I meant when I said I would be living in an “intentional community.”

Here’s what I mean: Along with around 15 other people from around the world (mostly from within the U.S., but we also have a Canadian woman, a Korean family, a Kenyan man, a British woman and a British-Japanese woman), I have moved to a community in Pennsylvania and committed to living here for the next nine months. I’m living in what amounts to a dorm – I have a single room, but the ten of us who share a floor share four bathrooms. We have assigned jobs associated with preparing our meals, cleaning our living spaces, and so on. We eat all three meals together every day. (Everyone here is on sabbatical from work, so we are not going off to the office for the majority of the day; we take classes, some of us are working on outside projects, and so on). I’m happy to answer any questions anyone has (except the name of the community; although if someone is really interested you could e-mail me – fatgirlonadate at gmail dot com and we could talk more).

But what I really want to talk about is the food. The food here is incredible. Fairly traditional, but mainly vegetarian, mostly local (including much that comes from the big garden and green house right on campus), prepared by a staff of cooks and the residents themselves. But I have some concerns about eating here:

First, it’s an adjustment to be eating on such a schedule – and to always set aside time for eating. Back at home, in my “real life,” I would eat breakfast in the car, lunch at my desk, and dinner on the sofa. I rarely sat down to a meal. There is something very relaxing about knowing precisely your next meal will be – it takes most of the control out of feeding oneself, and for someone with as many food issues as me that’s something of a relief.

Second, I’m finding myself somewhat worried about my weight. Now, I’ve come about a million miles in accepting my own body – and fat bodies in general – since I started reading Shapely Prose just under a year ago, but I still struggle with it. Right now, I’m worried that I won’t fit into the airplane seats when I fly home for Christmas (this has never happened to me; in fact, I’m pretty sure that I’m quite small enough for this to never happen to me, but I am always wracked with fear about it when I fly). I’m also worried because I’m unsure of how much or what kind of exercise I’m going to get here. I have access to a pool and a gym, but it’s difficult and complicated to get to. There are no classes (and that’s the main kind of working out I did before I moved; I took yoga and pilates and tai chi and water aerobics and a dance class). There’s a walking trail, but that’s only good as long as the weather holds. Finally, I’m worried – and, on the flip side, interested – because my eating is so different here than it has been in the rest of my life. I eat regular meals, with a variety of foods*. I don’t snack. I don’t go back for seconds. We do not have desserts, except on birthdays and other special occasions. I do have some of everything at each meal. The food is rich. The portions vary. For the first time in a long, long time I have no idea how many calories I’m eating. Overall, this – along with the regularity of meals – seems like a good thing. But what if I wind up gaining weight? WIll my fledgling fat acceptance tolerate that in myself?

fatgirlonadate… backish

So hey. I took a little hiatus there. Didn’t mean for it to last that long, and I’m sorry about that.

Here’s the thing: I’m not going to be dating much for a while. That’s not a big deal for me – I haven’t put a lot of emphasis on dating, before I gave myself a New Year’s theme and started this blog – but it’s a kinda a big deal for the blog. Without the whole “dating” element I find myself without a narrative. I’m just another fatgirl.

On the other hand, I love the blog. I love writing here, and I love connecting with the folks who read it. (Hi! Anyone still out there?) I love being a part of this community, no matter how dysfunctional it can get at times.

And besides, while I’m not going to be dating much, that’s just another part of life. If my goal here is be open about life as a single fat woman, well… this is my life right now. I’m taking a sabbatical from work, I’m living in an intentional community, and I have no idea what that’s going to mean for friendship and romance over the next year. Maybe I’ll fall in love with someone that I’m living with. Maybe I’ll get a job “off-campus” and meet someone there. Maybe I’ll find that I want to continue internet dating. Maybe not. But whatever happens, it’s a real life, I’m a real person, it’s what is really happening to me.

So hello again. Here I am. I’ve got some new stories to tell and I can’t wait to keep hearing from all of you about your stories, too.