unstable purely based on my size. No one has ever told me all I need is a little self-discipline and I too could be thin, pretty—a knockout, probably, because I have a “pretty face”—probably very popular because I have a “good personality.” My mother never told me boys would never pay any attention to me because I’m fat.
I have never assumed an admirer would never pay any attention to me because I’m fat. I have never mishandled a sexual situation because I have been trained to think of myself as asexual. Unattractive. Repugnant.
Total strangers have never walked up to me in the street and started to tell me about weight loss programs their second cousin in Tulsa tried with incredible results, nor would they ever do so with the manner and demeanor of someone doing me a nearly unparalleled favor. I have never walked across a parking lot to have a herd of young men break into song about loving women with big butts. When I walk down the street or ride my bicycle, no one has ever hung out the car window to yell crude insults. When I walk into the houses of friends I have never been directed to the “safe” chairs as if I just woke up this morning this size and am incapable of gauging for myself what will or will not hold me.
I have never internalized any of this nonexistent presumption of who I am or what I feel. I would never discriminate against another woman of substance. I would never look at a heavy person and think, “self-pitying, undisciplined tub of lard.” I would never admit that while I admire beautiful bodies, I rarely give the inhabitants the same attention and respect I would a soul mate because I do not expect they would ever become a soul mate. I would never tell you that I was probably thirty years old before I realized you really
can
be too small or too thin, or that the condition causes real emotional pain.
I have never skipped a high school reunion until I “lose a few pounds.” I have never hesitated to reconnect with an old friend. I will appear anywhere in a bathing suit. If my pants split, I assume—and I assume everyone assumes—it was caused by poor materials.
I have always understood why attractive women are offended when men whistle at them.
I have never felt self-conscious standing next to my male friend who is five foot ten and weighs 145 pounds.
I am not angry about any of this.
the enchantment factor
for my birthday my Beloved gave me a Dremel.
I have wanted a Dremel for a long time. And indeed, as I have shared the news of my Beloved’s gift, my friends have responded “(slight sigh) I’ve always
wanted
one of those,” or “What’s a Dremel?” I have no idea what a Dremel is. It’s a power tool. According to the box, it’s a “rotary tool.” It is not necessary to know what a Dremel is to want one. It is small. It is neat. It runs on electricity (although there is a rechargeable Dremel with its own battery pack). It comes with a lively assortment of bits and brushes and little felt things that look important and practical. A Dremel is an
instrument
: it is the sort of handy, pragmatic little tool that one eyes and murmurs reverently, “That would be
good
for something.”
My father has a Dremel. My father has two separate buildings filled with tools. I suspect that—had he so desired—he could have lived a full and complete life Dremel-free, his routers and drills and buffers filling in those spaces that the missing Dremel left, but I believe—and there is a note of bitterness here—that he has not one Dremel but two. I first fell in love with the whole idea of a Dremel when I found one nesting in a small plastic box, its bits and brushes lined up cozily next to it, in one of his two tool buildings. (“Shed” does not properly describe my father’s tool storage units. One of his “sheds” is the leftover part of a house.) I said, “What does this do, Dad?” The answer, as I recall, was vague. Several years later we were clearing out his
I have never assumed an admirer would never pay any attention to me because I’m fat. I have never mishandled a sexual situation because I have been trained to think of myself as asexual. Unattractive. Repugnant.
Total strangers have never walked up to me in the street and started to tell me about weight loss programs their second cousin in Tulsa tried with incredible results, nor would they ever do so with the manner and demeanor of someone doing me a nearly unparalleled favor. I have never walked across a parking lot to have a herd of young men break into song about loving women with big butts. When I walk down the street or ride my bicycle, no one has ever hung out the car window to yell crude insults. When I walk into the houses of friends I have never been directed to the “safe” chairs as if I just woke up this morning this size and am incapable of gauging for myself what will or will not hold me.
I have never internalized any of this nonexistent presumption of who I am or what I feel. I would never discriminate against another woman of substance. I would never look at a heavy person and think, “self-pitying, undisciplined tub of lard.” I would never admit that while I admire beautiful bodies, I rarely give the inhabitants the same attention and respect I would a soul mate because I do not expect they would ever become a soul mate. I would never tell you that I was probably thirty years old before I realized you really
can
be too small or too thin, or that the condition causes real emotional pain.
I have never skipped a high school reunion until I “lose a few pounds.” I have never hesitated to reconnect with an old friend. I will appear anywhere in a bathing suit. If my pants split, I assume—and I assume everyone assumes—it was caused by poor materials.
I have always understood why attractive women are offended when men whistle at them.
I have never felt self-conscious standing next to my male friend who is five foot ten and weighs 145 pounds.
I am not angry about any of this.
the enchantment factor
for my birthday my Beloved gave me a Dremel.
I have wanted a Dremel for a long time. And indeed, as I have shared the news of my Beloved’s gift, my friends have responded “(slight sigh) I’ve always
wanted
one of those,” or “What’s a Dremel?” I have no idea what a Dremel is. It’s a power tool. According to the box, it’s a “rotary tool.” It is not necessary to know what a Dremel is to want one. It is small. It is neat. It runs on electricity (although there is a rechargeable Dremel with its own battery pack). It comes with a lively assortment of bits and brushes and little felt things that look important and practical. A Dremel is an
instrument
: it is the sort of handy, pragmatic little tool that one eyes and murmurs reverently, “That would be
good
for something.”
My father has a Dremel. My father has two separate buildings filled with tools. I suspect that—had he so desired—he could have lived a full and complete life Dremel-free, his routers and drills and buffers filling in those spaces that the missing Dremel left, but I believe—and there is a note of bitterness here—that he has not one Dremel but two. I first fell in love with the whole idea of a Dremel when I found one nesting in a small plastic box, its bits and brushes lined up cozily next to it, in one of his two tool buildings. (“Shed” does not properly describe my father’s tool storage units. One of his “sheds” is the leftover part of a house.) I said, “What does this do, Dad?” The answer, as I recall, was vague. Several years later we were clearing out his
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