Tag Archives: be happy

skinny fat, fat skinny

how can one be fat

and

skinny?

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – — – – — — – – – — – —– – –

I’ve been struggling with this question lately.

I know I am not what society calls fat, but I also don’t fit the ideal beauty standard. I can’t wear a tight shirt without having some rolls hanging out, or sleeveless shirt and take a picture without looking twice my size.

I was at the gym last week and pretended to work out when really all I just stood in front of the large mirror and frowned at my body. I found my body so unpleasant to look at that I left the gym early. Who does that?

I started jogging again this week (well I jogged once… I plan on doing it tomorrow as well) and part of myself wants to know if I’m doing this because I love the rush I get when I’m running up a hill, or how strong I feel when I’ve completed your three miles; or if I’m doing this because I want to look a certain way.

Can it be both?

Can I love the feeling of a jog but also want the flat belly?

By doing this, am I succumbing to society’s idea of beauty?

It annoys me to think that the discontent with my body comes from a source outside of my control.

But it is in my control. I have the power to say fuck it, I feel great and look great. Except, I don’t feel great. I feel weak and low on nutrition. I’ve been eating out a lot and abusing the amount of BBQ sauce I apply to one fry. I’m buying the burger and greasy fries that makes me lightheaded and nauseous. I’m buying the peanut butter Ben & Jerry’s pint and eating it in one sitting for dinner. I am doing that to myself.

then again,

Why is it that we live in a society that shames the “skinny” for being too thin and begs them to have a BigMac WHILE ALSO shaming the “fat” for being too fat and begs them to stop eating the junk food?? AND where does someone who looks skinny but eats the fast food junk fit in?

Can you eat like crap and be healthy?

Can you eat crap and be skinny?

Can you eat healthy and be fat?

Can you work out and still be fat?

Can you work out and eat like crap and be skinny?

Point is: why do we care so much about weight? why do we care so much about our body image and how others will perceive us through it?

Point is: I love to jog and I want to feel healthy and if I do that then who cares if I still have rolls hanging out and look twice my size in photographs who?

Point is: being content with your body is something we all need to survive in this world, when we fail to accept our body for what it is we open the door for harmful patterns.

on 22

It’s walking ten blocks

             to save three bucks

It’s dodging umbrellas

             through the crowded sidewalks

It’s braiding your hair

             and letting it frizz

             because you just don’t care

It’s going out for drinks with your coworkers

              who are nine years your senior

It’s realizing you’re on the 7:45 local

               and have a ton of shit to fold when you get home

                wasting away your time with the commutes

Falling apart from childhood friends

                but allowing it

It’s not letting distance get in the way of special friendships

It’s eating dollar pizza on your lunch break

                 from your human rights internship

It’s finally loving a man and

                 being loved by him

It’s working on your insecurities to be the person

                 you’ve dreamed of

It’s walking past the NYTs building on 620 eighth ave

                 and envisioning the day an article will be

                 written about you

It’s learning to stand with your head held high

                 when it seems no one wants

                  you

finally

It’s about being afraid of the future

                   but not enough to lose out

                   on the endless opportunities

This is home?

I recently watched Lena Dunham’s Tiny Furniture. It really resonates with my current situation, that of a girl who returns home from school to find it difficult to conform to the realities of living at home. Or at least that is the aspect of the film that caught my attention.

I haven’t officially moved back home, I’m only here for winter break, but I will be moving permanently in May. After graduation. And it’s just such a daunting thought. How things are now at home, it seems almost impossible (I really trying not to use this word in 2015, because why invite negative language into my life? But here, it’ll be used as emphasis) to live here permanently. Unlike my family likes to believe, this isn’t because I hate my family, it’s simply because when I come back I feel almost uninvited, as if my presence is ignored and unappreciated (realllllllly not trying to play the victim card here).

When people go home for break, they return to their childhood bedrooms, which are filled with memories, regardless of whether they are good or bad. But with my grandmother moving in with us, my bedroom is now hers. Noticing my clothing overflowing from my bags on the hallway, she explained that the room was still mine and I could place all my belonging there. This helped a lot. But the bed is still hers to use, and I’ve been spending the nights sleeping with my sisters. I like sleeping with Gisselle… A lot. Except I can’t help but feel like every little thing I do is an annoyance to her. Like my uncontrollable allergies that create for unwanted mucus-filled-tissues to appear everywhere. Or how I left HER sweater on the floor, meanwhile there are multiple stacks of her clothes flooding her bedroom (when I said this to her, she noted that it’s okay for her to do it because it’s her clothes and her room). Or when I burned her candles for too long, leaving very little wax left to burn. Yes, this would very much frustrate me if the roles were reversed. But I guess I expect Gisselle to be happy enough to have me over to not rub my mistakes and faults all over my face, or all over the house.

When I sleep with my little sisters it’s nice, they don’t seem to bothered by my presence unless I forget to make the bed. BUT like why am I sleeping with eight and nine year olds, ya feel me? Same goes with sleeping with Mami and Pa.

It isn’t so much that I don’t understand why Gisselle becomes upset when I failed to pick up every last tissue, or that I don’t enjoy sleeping with my younger sisters. The point is that I find myself in these situations, in my OWN house. The fact that there is no place to call my own, no place in which to hide out, or escape to with my thoughts is just inhumane. Doesn’t every living thing need this space? Or am I being melodramatic? Well, whatever, I don’t think so. There isn’t anyone to blame about this situation either, I’m not trying to point fingers.

My own room isn’t the only thing I feel inconveniences my family, but its my lifestyle, specifically my pescatarianism. My entire family eats meat and loves it. I can’t eat meat. This alone ostracizes me. No one is telling me to eat meat, and I wouldn’t eat meat. But the comments that are made by my family (I ignore the ones my little sisters make because they don’t mean to offend me) has a hint of resentment. Why must Gisselle eat fish meals two days in a row? Why am I complicating my mom and grandma’s cooking recipes? Why can’t I simply eat was is made? Solution? This certainly has one, which is cooking my own meals. I brought my chickenless chicken cutlets and nuggets yesterday, so I guess I should see improvement…? Maybe am I just feeling entitled to having a home cooked meal from my mom that doesn’t cause such an ordeal. Entitlement is not logical. I shouldn’t feel entitled to a personalized meal everyday, yet I do.

Winter break has made me think about five months from now. As I sit in my living room couch writing this, I can’t but feel nervous and scared about what will happen when I am living here for good again. Will it feel like I’m living out of a suitcase, being invited (but feeling uninvited) to sleep with my sisters, being shuffled around like an outgrown teddy bear? (did I really just compare myself to a teddy bear?) Will I still hear my dad making comments that hold a tint of grudge towards my decision to leave home four years ago? How many times will I continue to hear “Well you don’t live here so why do you care?”?

They say home is where the heart is, and yes it is. I feel unconditionally love here, without a doubt. I just wished that the small little grunts and complains that are expressed when I am simply “doing me” would disappear. Still, I find that maybe these are characteristics of what makes my home what it is. Because at the end of the day, after the hostility of an argument has faded, there is love. Love that does not need to be proven with a brand new bedroom set or finished basement (which would be nice), but is confirmed when seven/eight (including Abuelita) completely distinctive personalities come together and accept each others’ flaws, value, and exceptional traits.

Although I might find myself sitting in the dinning room table reading Gone Girl, while my dad and sisters play Monopoly across the table. There is no better feeling than that. I am not an inconvenience to my family, I am not a pest in their eyes. Our interests and passions might clash but that doesn’t have to led to a collapse. Hey, today I even started out write this post with Kat (my rebellious 12 year-old sister who never lets go of her iPad and whose social media appearance is everything) sitting by my side writing in her journal (after I convinced her that writing your feelings is essential in life) listening to The Shin’s Wincing the Night Away album (AKA AN UNHEARD OF OCCURRENCE IN THIS HOUSEHOLD)…. Which just further proves my point.