It’s apparent that I can write endlessly about my fat, my lack of fat, my continuing reduction of fat, the fat on my ass, my ass, how I cover my ass and move my ass and additionally, all about me. I mean, that’s a good thing in this space–it’s what I am suppose+d to do, be introspective, inwardly-directed, self-absorbed, even. Go ahead and call it that. It’s my job to be.
It’s also all I think about any more–my ass, what I put in my face, what others think about my particular ass and the things I put in my mouth, and I am starting to feel extremely boring. I am bored with all things fat-, ass-, and food-related. I am coming dangerously close to becoming bored with clothing and maybe even shoes. Well, probably not shoes.
This can’t be it. It feels like it’s it. I have narrowed down to a pinprick of light, and all else is darkness, darkness, terror and the unknown, outside, and I cling to what I know. I write here, I write emails–and that’s all I ever write down, anymore. There’s this novel I wrote, and I think it’s pretty good, as novels go. It’s been sitting in a pile on my desk for six, eight, ten months now. Every once in awhile, I’ll open up the file on my lap top, look at all the words, and then close it again quickly before the words can hurt me.
Other hobbies I used to have, I know I did, but now it’s been so long I don’t even remember what they are. I think probably they were very wonderful. I sense a distant feeling of satisfaction, and possibly the crisp tang of sea air. I might have sailboated! Or macraméd, or tatted or collected unusual stamps. It is possible I was a street evangelist, preaching the way, the truth and the light, or maybe I was your mom.
Whatever it was I used to do, I am sure it was endlessly fulfilling, deeply satisfying, and gave me many interesting things to talk about at parties. There’s no way I wasn’t interesting at parties, with my knowledgeable discourse on the many intriguing facts about sturgeon that I had at my fingertips. Maybe I even knew a little something about current events and the state of the world, and I might have been able to discuss my opinions in a cogent, learned manner that delighted all who knew me and infuriated my enemies, who lurked in the shadows. I bet I did crossword puzzles, too. In ink. And once, I must have saved the world.
I feel much less interesting now. It is amazing how your conversation and your feeling of having something to offer to other people dries up when you have just shrunk down to a collection of body parts and functions, and how much less time you have for crime fighting, and apocalypse averting and bear baiting, when suddenly you are spending all of your time not just inside your own head, but stuck in your own body. Though I imagine if I were stuck outside my own body, I’d be complaining like hell, too, if not very effectively. I’m just never satisfied.
Sometimes, I think one of the weirder, more obscure half-conscious reasons I got this surgery (I think there are a lot of those, and most of them are pretty hilarious), one of those reasons was in order to be more interesting. Because I thought I had plenty to offer as a fat person, except it was hidden, irritatingly, by all the fat. You can’t tell what I have for you, and you don’t want it, because you can’t see it inside here! I’m waving, do you see? You don’t see.
Getting this surgery and losing all the weight would mean that the outer, candy-coated shell would melt and run down in delicious rivulets, which I would ignore because surgery also appended upon me a sense of moral superiority, and inside would be revealed the fabulous prizes I had always carried in my heart that you just couldn’t see, and now don’t you feel a little embarrassed you never noticed? Group hug, and then, I would never have anything to worry about and I would be free to be the super exciting wonder-person of awesome awesomeness I always knew I could be, once I had emerged from my cocoon of fat and flapped my beautiful, slender butterfly wings in the sun!
When I was 135 pounds heavier, I spent a lot of time thinking about my ass, and the size of my ass and what I was eating and what people thought about the size of my ass and what I was putting in my face. Why did I think it would ever be different in my life? What made me think there would ever be a time where I could set it all aside and just embrace the entirety of my corporeal being and exist, apparently, on moonbeams and starlight and lightning bugs and sips of dew from the ruffled petals of opening rosebuds?
You think about food, and you think about your ass, and you think about what other people think about your ass–it’s just what people do, you know? It is probably okay that I think about it a lot, but probably it is okay, too, to try and stop thinking about it so much. To pick back up one of those hobbies that languish on the side of the road–banjo plucking, or cat grooming, or nurse spanking. Anything to shake me out of this rut that sometimes feels like it is headed directly toward that cliff right there, that looms above a sparkling sea. Oh My God, Head, Shut the Fuck Up Already. That is probably slightly too drastic a solution.