The reception to Plus Size From C – Sporting a Bodacious Body in a Bony-Ass World ™ on October 6 stunned even this optimistic round woman! Hundreds of you sent emails to express your congratulations and encouragement for creating the forum. Clearly, it all went too well, because my health immediately took a turn for the worse. Now my Christian Sisters call this the Devil trying steal your blessings and my New Age Sisters would tell me that I still believe in lack and have work to do. Regardless, I was sidelined with such fury that I didn’t have enough brain space to contemplate the cause, only to hold still and heal. Betwixt all the smoting, I still had a day job in which October is mad busy, culminating with a huge event in NYC for the rich and beautiful. So the Bodacious Blog got parked in favor of adult responsibilities and popping pills.
My profession employs a type of woman that is especially fembotish. My industry is peopled with ectomorphs with perfect three-color processed hair dressed in an unsettling, nearly identical wardrobe whether employed in Missouri, Marin County or Manhattan. While I have no statistical proof, I would estimate that over 99% of these women wear a size ten or smaller. This is borne out anecdotally as I survey the stick-figures of thousands of my contemporaries at the annual professional gathering in NYC I attend. In this crowd, I stand out. Literally.
And while my profession clearly one skinny vocation, the audience I serve elevates thin to a whole new stratum. Among a certain zip codes in Manhattan (and the surrounding tri-state area) there is no such size as 10. There is only size 0-2 and disgustingly fat. If you’re a 10, you just aren’t trying hard enough. Everyone on this island measures food intake by hunger pangs. A well rounded nutritional plan consists of watching the food channel 24/7 while calling your personal trainer. The only caffeine allowed is a coffee colonic (which, if you were ever diagnosed with true colon problems, you would avoid like the plague they are).
And so I prepared for my autumn rites, with a fun new twist. In addition to the steroids (which stopped working just after I developed “moonface”) my doc threw in a new drug that lists excessive perspiration as a major side effect. The insert can call it whatever it wants, but now we have a largely woman with a puffy face, suffering from insomnia (to give the eyes that shifty, serial killer look) who is producing flop sweat every time the climate changes (in this case each time the elevator door opens to deposit guests at the event).
And I’m sorry, but at this four-star boneyard soirée, I guarantee you that not one of the fifty-year- olds who still sports her asscheeks between her shoulder blades was thinking – “My, she’s mighty sweaty, she must be on some kind of new medication.” Nope, they judged. And judged harshly. The standard double check society kiss suddenly was administered sans the actual hugging. One woman, who has a habit of preloading for these affairs, actually blurted out, “Wait – I don’t want to touch you” as she tried to do the hokey- pokey to avoid anything moist. I can’t really blame her, I didn’t want to touch my body either. But my desire for evasion came without contempt.
I made it through the event, bid everyone adieu and adjourned to my hotel room. I stripped naked as I speed dialed my best friend where I promptly reported the play by play. Sure, the hate made we want to cry. But since I had just passed the “no you don’t have to have half your internal organs rerouted to a Ziploc” the segue into hysterical laughter came quickly. (And for the record, they laughter produced even more sweat)
I am home now, still feeling well and getting a bit stronger every day. And the good news is that I get to return to my essence – writing, healing, shopping.
So welcome back to the blog. Stay tuned for all the features you thought you might grow to love. I hope you will continue to return despite the lag in content during the first launch.
