“Real” women

I keep seeing references to fat women that are meant to be positive, calling them “real women”.  Plus sized clothing stores that advertise the idea that their clothes are for “real women”, commercials for the More to Love dating show that indicated that he is dating “real” women.   Shirts that say “real women have curves”.  I would love to have more fat positive t-shirts, but they all seem to be saying something nasty about thin women.  While I teach dance classes that are created specifically to be body inclusive, I personally know a woman who was ridiculed in a belly dance class for being too thin.

It really bugs me.  As if thin women are somehow “fake”, or that we should try to convince our would-be partners that we are somehow better to date than our thin counterparts because of the shape of our bodies.  I think that we are stumbling mightily on the path to equality. From my perspective, it’s not about trying to bring the other side down. We achieve equality by bringing ourselves up – by doing things like shattering stereotypes and refusing to participate in a cultural phenomenon whereby our body size is used as a measure for anything other than exactly what it is – the size of our bodies.

Trying to make thin women feel bad about themselves is not the way to go – in fact I would wager that it increases the chasm (of mutual fear and insecurity) between us. Trying to make other people feel bad about themselves to make ourselves feel better was a bad idea in Elementary School and it’s a bad idea now.

If we want people to stop judging us by our body size, how about we stop doing the same to others.

Principles of Science even apply to OMIGOD DEATHFAT!

A crappy fairytale:

Once upon a time, someone noticed a decrease in Physical Education classes that happened around the same time as an increase in “childhood obesity”.  Rather than apply that evil villain, Scientific Method, to the problem, they immediately began funneling money into schools to get more physical education to fight the omigod deathfat.  Reasonable people, who were not alarmists from the United States, did a study (using the evil villain, Scientific Method).  Turns out that the guess was not proved out and they may have nothing to do with each other.  You can read the facts here: http://budurl.com/gymduh

The moral of the story?  Despite the media and politician’s best efforts, your eighth grade biology teacher was right that CORRELATION DOES NOT IMPLY CAUSATION.  Never ever, never ever, never ever.  Not even when we’re talking about OMIGODDeathFat.  Even then, Scientific Method prevails.  Look, over there, is that a big flaming sack of duh?

On the verge of a dream

You know how sometimes it can take a while for a dream that you have to come true and sometimes it happens right away?

On December 9, 2008 at 11:25pm, I decided to stop thinking about teaching dance classes for bigger bodies, and having a performance team (which I had been doing for a couple of years) and make a few posts around Live Journal to see if anyone might actually want to take them.

Three months and 4 days later, not only are the classes going strong but it is the night before the performance team’s debut.  And let me be the first to tell you, they are incredible. 

We originally planned to debut on June 7th so we are pushing hard to get the choreography.  I gave them difficult choreography – it’s fast and intricate, I gave them really tough partner stunts, and they just learned it.  I created a precise walk on, bow and walk off sequence, and they just learned it.  I got really specific about foot position and hand position, and they just learned it.

After the performance I’ll post the video, but for now let me say that when we finished the trick and all six people slammed the floor at the same time during our VERY FIRST full music run through, it was like my whole dream came together right there.

I cannot begin to express my gratitude to the members of the class who come and, through sheer force of will, create a space for us all to love and respect our bodies in a culture where that seems like an impossible feat.

And I know I will never be able to express what it means to be part of a group who are willing to put themselves out there to prove that dancers come in every shape and size.

Thank you!  Thank you!  Thank you!

Join us tomorrow from 8-10pm at the Dancing for Dachshunds fundraiser  Watch some dancing (maybe dance a little yourself) and support the Central Texas Dachshund Rescue as they try to find homes for wayward little dogs!

Superficial Self Esteem

From my point of view, one of the most damaging things about the current slew of weight loss shows, diet books etc. is newly thin people trying on clothes, smiling into the camera and saying “I’m wearing single digits!  I finally love myself after all these years!!!!”.

If someone chooses their life partner or friends based entirely upon how they look, we call them superficial.  So why is it considered ok in our society to make our self-esteem contingent upon how we look?

I  take a decent amount of flack for being a body positive fat person.  Most recently, someone anonymously e-mailed me to say “I don’t think it’s a good thing for you to tell people it’s ok to be fat”. They said a lot of other really mean-spirited stuff, including calling me a fat bitch, but that was the gist of their argument.  I get an e-mail like this about twice a week (sometimes the writer is more respectful, but usually not).

Here’s the thing, I’m not interested in being in the business of telling other people what is or is not ok for their body.  There are size 0 women who do not have an eating disorder and are sick of people assuming that they do, or hearing bitter fat women call them “skinny bitches”.  There are healthy fat people who are sick of the death fat police telling them that if they don’t lose weight they are just going to keel over and die, or hearing insecure thin women call them “fat bitches”.

What I am trying to show people is that they can love themselves no matter what their size or what they want to do with their body.

If someone chooses to lose weight, or gain weight,  I fully support them (because, hey, it’s their decision and I want my decisions about my body and weight to be respected and supported).  I just think it’s unfortunate that they should make their self-esteem contingent upon that happening.

What about choosing to love yourself and appreciate your body for what it CAN do, and coming to your weight loss journey from that place instead of “I hope I finally stop hating myself after I lose 50lbs”?  What if you lose 50lbs and it doesn’t reverse your self-esteem instantly?  What if you do lose the weight and suddenly “love yourself”, but then something happens and you gain it back?

You might be able to afford to be completely superficial when choosing your dates, life partner, and your friends, but I think you will find that the price for superficial self-esteem is just too high.

Let me preface this by saying that I like Country Music

I was listening to the radio today and they were playing a country song about a guy who lost his girl.  Pretty traditional fare where Country music is concerned.   But then came the lyric:

"I would spend all my money on caviar and cocaine"

Awww, poor guy lost his girl and he’s so sa….Wait.  What?  Did he just say "caviar and cocaine"? 

My boyfriend and I decided that it absolutely wasn’t ok for a country singer to spend all of his money on caviar and cocaine.  We quickly came up with a list of acceptable combos to drown your country western sorrow:

stale pretzels and warm beer
cheap whiskey and Pringles
Jack Daniels and Twinkies
RC Cola and moonpies
Cold Brisket, day old Tater Salad and Tequila
Ribs, Ice Cream and Boones Farm

Any others?

Can you Digg it?

Check it out, somebody Dugg my Baby Got Back two-step routine.  Now, the more people who digg it, the more who will see it, the more stereotypes that can be hopefully smashed and I feel all cool and stuff.

If you want to Digg it,, just click here and say that you digg it (if, in fact, you do).

Thanks!!!!

Can I just brag about the students in my dance classes?

Today was our last day on January Choreography and my dance classes KILLED IT!!!  The beginner class had some very challenging choreography (especially the fast pivots to the pose at the end) and they were awesome.  The intermediate class dance their choreography about 50% faster than we have been and they completely ROCKED it.  It made me so happy.

Now I’m off to choreograph February’s combinations.  Woo Hoo!!!

Reasons 523, 524 and 525 that I don’t have kids

This is a true story – from friends of mine (it’s hilarious, kind of gross and includes bodily fluids and swearing…you’ve been warned!)

Cast of Characters:
S (5 years old), C (2 years old), Ch (5months)
W (Wife)

 

The Following Takes Place Monday Night From 6:05pm-6:15pm

 

It was a rather normal Monday night.  The girls had finished dinner and we were enjoying some family time.  S and C were wrestling with W while baby Ch was in my lap making faces.  S came into our playroom with Ch and I, then it all began….

 

I laid back on the couch, lifted Ch over my head.  While making faces with each other, a stream of a freshly consumed breast milk shot from Ch’s smiling mouth, hitting me in the right eye and then making a perfectline midway down my chest.  I froze.  Holding Ch still, I heard S quickly say "SWEET!" 

 

"S", I said, "please go ask your mother to bring me towel…now!"  As she jumped off the couch and ran to the kitchen, I heard her shout "Mom, Ch yaked on Dad, bring us a towel"  I smiled, still holding my right eye closed and Ch hovering over me, she continued to smile, as did I.  As the father of 3 girls under 5, this was far from the first time I’ve been yaked upon.

 

W and S quickly returned to the playroom.  W stared over me, smirking, then gently wiping the urrp from my eye and shirt.  Then, she took Ch from my hands and sent me upstairs to change.  S followed me upstairs, still reveling in the moment and asking if I had yak on my underwear too, or just my shirt?

 

A quick change of shirt and we headed back downstairs.  As we entered the playroom, C, who was previously MIA and missed all the previous action sat in front of the TV, chair pulled under the table, with a small blue plate and a brownie.  "Interesting", I thought to myself, "I didn’t know we had any brownies".  About :20 seconds later, S got a whiff of the brownie, and you got it, that was no brownie!  That’s right, it was a plate of shit!

 

"Ahhh" screamed S.  "Oh fuck" screamed Dad.  I grabbed C under the arms, yelled to W and headed as fast as I could toward the upstairs bath.  The stench was unbelievable.  C had taken that brownie fresh from the factory and spread it like hair gel all over her.  As I sprinted upstairs, S ran behind screaming "C ate her poop, eeww, gross" 

 

W dashed into the playroom to begin to clean up the mess while I had the living turd with me.  I quickly got C into the bathtub, trying desperately to limit the damage.  "Don’t touch your face, be still honey, it’s OK" I said over and over.  Although at this point there was no consoling her.  She cried loud and often.  Meanwhile, her all too curious sister sat behind me watching the play-by-play.

 

As I peeled off layers of clothing, I flung her sinfully soiled shirt over my right shoulder.  Not paying attention, apparently the shit shirt hit S, sending her into a frenzy.  Within moments, as I desperately tried to scrub the poop from underneath C’s fingernails, I heard an all too familiar sound behind me.  "S, S, don’t you throw up"  Apparently, the shit shirt had grazed her, and a whiff of the poop sent her intoconvulsions.  "S, S, take a deep breath"  But it was too late.  As I peeled another layer of poop from C, here came a pile of freshly almost digested Chicken Salad from S’s mouth.  I quickly whirled around, grabbing her with my soiled hands and trying to get her to the sink, but the damage had been done.  And in usual fashion, we got the last 10% into to sink and the other 90% on the floor, my legs and the cabinets.

 

I screamed "HELP" to W, "Get Up Here Now" However, W had her hands full (o-poop) downstairs, so for the moment, I was on my own.  I managed to get C stable, sent S to her room to change and tried to contain the area.  Within a few minutes, I headed downstairs.  As I stood halfway down, my eyes met W standing in the kitchen.  We exchange one of "those" moments that only parents understand.  That glance that needs no words.  A glance that within it carries love, laugh, anger and acceptance.  As I looked to W’s right, Ch sat in her chair, cooing and smiling at me.  S then passed my on the stairs and said "Sorry I yaked Dad" and in the background I heard C in her room screaming "Yippee, WooHoo" – And so it was.  15 minutes of chaos.  15 minutes of life.  15 minutes of parenthood.