Thursday, March 13, 2014

The Hardest Rule to Follow

Daddy doesn’t have a lot of rules for me right now, and several of them could be collapsed into one simple edict of “obey me.” It’s mostly an easy list, and the one I find most difficult is probably one of the simplest.

I am not allowed to call myself fat…or any other potentially derogatory term for squishy. 

My favorite euphemism for big is delightfully squishy.
He lets me get away with that one. :D

He has had this rule for every pet he’s had because he exclusively dates larger women, as in, a size 12 is his lower limit and that’s pushing it. I’m around a size 18.

Now, I’ve been big since I was a kid.  The one time I lost any significant amount of weight, I did it by eating turkey sandwiches once or twice a day for 2 months. Weight loss has never been easy for me, and I always end up somewhere in the neighborhood of 200 pounds. Now, he has no issue with this obviously, but when you’ve been big most of your life, you get used to the ridicule and try to do your best to own it when changing it doesn’t work.

I kind of developed the whole thing where if I establish that I’m aware of my size and can be flippant about it, others can’t hurt me with it. If I show I’m not bothered by it, then maybe others won’t be or at least won’t waste the effort to point it out.

I made this after a certain number of idiots on FetLife
decided to inform me of my girth.

 Self-deprecation is a hard habit to break after so many years. I’m very picky about pictures because I don’t like ones that make me look bigger than I am. I’m annoyed that I can’t manage to compose a dance costume that doesn’t try to roll under my belly. I’m also annoyed that I don’t have the big boobs many other big girls have.

It’s not fair, I tell you. I just want them to match my ass. It would also help the wardrobe situation, since clothing designers always assume that plus-sized women have huge tits. Hence, why I can’t find a bra that fits.

But, as much as he tells me I’m pretty and he likes it, I can’t shake the self-consciousness. I can’t stop myself from being devastated that I’ve gained a few pounds. I mean, I’ve kind of resigned myself to it, as long as it’s under the 210 mark, but it’s really disappointing when it finally goes over. It also doesn’t help that my mother, who is somewhere between a size 0 and a 2, sits around and complains about her own weight.

My favorite shirt ever. I wish I had 10 of them.
I don't feel so big in it. 

So, I’ve failed a few times on that rule (fortunately not where he could hear), because habits are habits. He grumbles whenever I talk about weight loss, or imply I wouldn’t look good in something because of my weight. He’s sad that I won’t wear a bikini in public. But, seriously, no. I respect his opinion and all that, but I don’t need that sort of grief. I’ll stick to my bathing suits that look like short dresses, and not wearing shorts in public. I think they flatter me more, even if he disagrees.

And, perhaps that’s not very slavely of me, but I’ve never claimed to be good at it. 

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