When Truthiness becomes TMI

First off, at the risk of sounding cornball, I cannot for the life of me adequately express how all of these photos and all of these posts -- by so many amazing, brave, beautiful women I can't even list them all here -- have inspired me. I've been completely floored and humbled by the response, by the honesty and courage of everyone who has participated. In fact, I think the only way I can really show my gratitude and honor all the awesome truthiness you've put out there into the world over the past week is by continuing to follow the no-bullshit, total honesty tack. Like so:

This week I went out and bought myself some fat girl clothes.

And I don't say "fat girl" with even the slightest twinge of disdain, or mean it in any derogatory fashion whatsoever -- let's just get that little disclaimer out of the way all upfront-like, m'kay? Rather, I say it in the "let's call a spade a spade" voice of someone recognizing the reality of their own physicality. Hi, I'm Tracey, and I'm a fat chick.

Of course, one person's fat is another's chubby or pleasantly plump, but let's just say I'm girthful in such a way that for the past year I've been straddling that borderline that falls between the clothes you can buy in the "normal" ladies section of the department store and those shoved off in the dark, dank "big women" clothing ghetto. To avoid entering The Ghetto, I've been desperately clinging to a few pieces of clothing that I've long been barely able to squeeze into (o hai, muffintop!), refusing to go out and buy things that actually fit me properly because, like, OMG, I'm SO TOTALLY losing all the weight next month! NO, FOR REALS THIS TIME. I MEAN THAT SHIT.

But my precious delusions have been getting kind of threadbare lately, and the feeling that I honestly just can't face the anguish and humiliation I feel every time I try to squeeze into the jeans I've continued to wear despite the fact that they stopped fitting me a year ago has been growing stronger. It's just teh dumbz. I mean, who do I think I'm fooling? Do I really think I'm enacting some kind of masterful, David Copperfield-type dazzling slimming illusion by cramming myself into clothing two sizes too small? Or that by wearing shapeless, generic T-Shirts that hover around my body I've somehow magically concealed that I'm not a size 6? Riiiight.

So, umm, screw it. If I'm going to be fat, I might as well have some nice, cute fat girl clothes and stop being such a frumptastic piece of self-punishing shit about it, equating "buying clothes that fit" with "admitting defeat".

Still, am I honestly happy about all of this? No, no I'm not. And that's not because I think fat people are bad, or because I think they're ugly, or because I have any kind of issue of any sort with anyone else's weight whatsoever, period. Really, I could give a flaming shit. I've always embraced people for WHO THEY ARE -- fat or thin, beautiful or homely, stylish or frumpy -- the only criteria for entree into my circle of friends has always and forever been that you MUST be smart and you MUST be funny (and, if we're being perfectly honest here, being willing to talk enthusiastically about really awfully reality TV doesn't hurt). But when it comes to evaluating myself? Well, I have to admit I still long to get back into the body I had ten years ago, before becoming a wife and a mother. That I still have some vanity left in me, for better or worse. That I still endlessly diet, and struggle every day, trying to get back there. And that I dearly hope I will, sooner rather than later, if only because I felt much more comfortable in my own skin back then, more myself somehow. 

So that's my honesty, my TMI truthiness for today. Hi, I'm Tracey, and I have self-image issues. Hi, I'm Tracey, and I struggle with this body I own every single stupid day. I sure wish I didn't, but I do.

. . . . .

Unrelatedly, I just found out I'll be speaking at BlogHer again this year. Errm, who else is going? And will you hold my hand through all the potential catty/cliquey/claustrophobic weirdness that is the natural by-product of cramming hundreds of women together in a single space for several days? [begins twitching uncontrollably]