The rest of us dress mostly in unsightly monstrosities of drabbery. Sweatpants are a favorite. Anything with an elastic waistband will do. Stuff that resembles canvas tents and shower curtains. Lane Bryant is pretty good, but they have their upper size limit as well. Items we find on special “plus size” websites. Nothing too flashy, nothing that might give us the little pick-me-up that every woman feels when she knows she’s dressed to impress. That thrill is just another one of life’s pleasures that fat chicks are denied.
In the past, stores with horrifying names have opened up to cater to the fat market. Oink Inc. was a phenomenon of the 1980s that specialized in clothing for women with hip measurements between forty-four and sixty inches. They once sold a line of jeans called Lardashe, which got them in trouble with Jordache Jeans due to the similarity of their names. Jordache sued. The co-founder of Oink Inc. countered that the trademark was derived not from the Jordache brand but from her childhood nickname—lard ass. Her grandfather used to call her that! So the company is called Oink Inc. and they sell Lardashe jeans—is it any wonder they went out of business?
Standardized sizes didn’t even exist until about a hundred and forty years ago. Prior to that, clothing was usually made at home from large rolls of material bought at the general store. It was only when people began to purchase ready-made items off of the rack that they began to worry about making their bodies fit into their clothing. Prior to that, all clothing was tailored to the person. If you’re a fat woman, you’ll probably agree with me that the old system was far more practical and versatile than the scavenger hunt that we suffer through in the current age just trying to find something to wear.
The normal laws of economics don’t seem to apply to fat women’s clothing. There is no supply despite copious demand. Women’s bodies are distributed according to a standard bell-shaped curve—a few women wear very small sizes, a few wear very large sizes, and the vast majority wear something in between. The middle of that bell curve is size twelve, the most common size women wear.
Common sense suggests that clothing stores would stock their shelves accordingly. An appropriate amount of each item would be kept on hand for women of every size. Sadly, common sense is in short supply when it comes to women’s fashion. Go into most stores and you’ll find that sizes range from the microscopic size zero (which very few women wear) to size twelve. That’s right, the sizes stop at the average. Even clothing in size twelve—the preferred size of a plurality of American women—is relatively rare. The store might keep only one or two of each item on hand in that size, compared to a dozen in size six.
Why on earth would a store voluntarily limit itself to just more than half of the market? Wouldn’t they stand to make more money if they sold clothing in the same diversity of sizes that women come in?
That’s the way I would run the store if I were in charge. I wouldn’t ghettoize bigger sizes into some kind of “plus sized” section either. It would all be together, right up front. I wouldn’t even call it “plus sized”, I’d just call it clothing.
But apparently the people who currently run the stores disagree. Fatphobia is apparently so strong that “normal-sized” customers don’t want to find out that their favorite stores cater to fat women as well. It damages the brand in the minds of bigoted customers who secretly harbor fears that they could someday be fat as well.
It sounds bizarre, but it’s true. Think of any high-end store that projects an image of fashion—Anthropologie, DKNY, or United Colors of Benetton, for example. Let’s say a skinny bitch wanders in shopping for a snazzy new outfit. She finds one she likes and buys it. The next day, she sees a fat woman on the street wearing the same thing. Under normal circumstances, the sight of another woman wearing the same outfit is enough to catapult most women into jealous fits of eye-scratching, hair-pulling rage. But a fat woman wearing the same outfit? That’s immeasurably worse. In fact, it’s unforgivable. If a fat woman can wear the same outfit, suddenly it isn’t fashionable anymore. It’s been tainted. The whole brand has been contaminated with fat cooties. The skinny bitch will never shop at that store again.
Most clothing stores work very hard to associate themselves with fashion. In our society, fashion is associated with slenderness. There’s no way a store can sell its products to fat women and still maintain its image as the preferred store of European fashion designers. That’s why some highly “exclusive” stores only carry clothing suitable for the thinnest twenty percent of women. Keep in mind that the root word of “exclusive” is “exclude.”
I once met a woman at a fat liberation conference who told me what she does to subvert the fashion industry’s fatphobia. She told me that she visits the priciest store she can find and then she waltzes right in like she owns the place. She simply ignores all of the societal cues—all of the twelve foot high, flashing warning signs—telling her that she doesn’t belong in a store like that. The sight of a fat woman boldly infiltrating the dazzling world of thin privilege is enough to make the salesbitches’ mouths drop open. They want to scuttle her out just as quickly as they can because her mere presence in the store is enough to drive customers away.
And then she browses all of the overpriced items without the slightest hint of shame. She waits for a salesbitch to approach her with the clearing of her throat and the snotty, “Can I help you?” (Translation: “What are you doing here?”)
“Sure,” she says. “I really like this blouse. Unfortunately, I don’t see it in my size. Can you check in the back?”
Stunned silence. She simply stands there waiting for an answer, forcing the poor young thing to say out loud what everyone already knows: “We don’t carry clothing in your size.” It’s an awkward moment, but it does force an uncomfortable truth out into the open.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” she says. “Because I really wanted to buy this blouse.” Then she grabs something else off the rack at random. “And this skirt. And these shorts. And this belt.” Then, when she has an armful of clothes that don’t fit, she dumps them onto the unsuspecting salesbitch and walks out.
The message is clear—if you’re too good for my money, I’ll just spend it elsewhere.
Ha! I love it. That’s radical fat liberation at its best. One of these days, I just might try it. If every fat woman in America did the same thing, we might just change some attitudes.
Fat women don’t have the luxury of choosing our clothing. We settle for it. We take whatever we can get and we’re happy to have it. We don’t get the colors we want, or the materials either. If we buy a bathing suit, you can bet it will have a skirt and it will be covered with hideous polka dots or daisies. If our clothes fall apart because they are made from shoddy material, we don’t complain much because we’re glad to have anything.
Rather than puissance, we get polyester. Rather looking modish, we get muumuus with sequins and ruffles. Many of us have internalized this kind of oppression, convinced ourselves that we deserve nothing better. Basically, we’re never permitted to buy anything that might make us feel soft, pretty, or princessy. Society thinks of us as cows, and we’re expected to look the part.
Well screw it. I won’t live my life that way.
Chapter Twenty:
A Lie is Halfway Around the World…
I can hardly believe I’m doing this, but I am. My two feet are walking me right into the Weight Watchers clinic in West Springfield. I’ve decided to seek help at the very same institution I’ve spent fifteen years doing battle with. I’m flirting with the Evil Empire of weight loss centers.
Nothing has been the same since Denny started to diet. My life does not make sense to me any more. His strict adherence to “doctor’s orders” became a wedge in our relationship. After he left, I was forced to admit to myself that I was not really as strong as I thought I was. He was my support, my anchor, my foundation. I had sworn I’d never allow myself to become dependent on a man; but then again, he wasn’t just any man. He was Denny.
The first thing I see when
I enter the office are three scales on the floor. There are no numbers on the scales, only little wires that connect them to the receptionists’ computer. Confidentiality is the goal, I see. When you step on a scale, your weight pops up on her computer screen. Your weight is between you and the receptionist. With the exception of doctor visits, I haven’t stepped on a scale since I smashed mine on the Amherst town common in 1996. I hate scales.
I came a half hour early. No one is here yet except the receptionist and a slim woman standing around wearing a name badge. She looks like the meeting leader. I would guess her to be in her fifties, well-dressed, with gold earrings and bracelets. Her hair is red and shows no signs of graying. I’d bet dollars to donuts that it’s a dye job. She looks almost affluent, although I doubt a truly rich woman would be working a part time job at Weight Watchers.
She smiles at me. I kind of want to hate her, but I don’t. “Welcome,” she says.
“Oh hi,” I say.
I inspect her Weight Watchers name badge. Her name is Judith. Beneath that, it reads: “I lost thirty-five pounds in 1999.” So she’s kept it off. She’s one of the lucky five percent.
I step nervously to the counter. I half expect to see my picture framed on the wall. Warning: Be on the lookout for this woman. I’ve spent hours of airtime picking apart Weight Watchers, pointing out their profit motive and decrying their pathetic long-term success rate. The receptionist extends her hand to me. “Your card, please.”
“I’m new,” I reply. “First time.”
“Oh, let’s get you started then,” the receptionist replies. “Your name, please?”
Her hand is poised with a thin, blue marker to write on a nametag. I get a little panicky. Should I lie? My worst fear is that someone here will know who I am, thus unveiling me as a phony fat acceptance activist. I could tell her my name is Margaret and that wouldn’t be a lie.
“Gabby,” I blurt out. I decide to take the honest route. “G-A-B-B-Y. Medeiros. M-E-D-E-I-R-O-S.”
She writes out a nametag and hands it to me. I see that only my first name is on it. The name appears to have no meaning to her. “Okay, let’s get started. Just step on the scale, please.”
My breath catches. There it is, right next to my foot. The damned scale. “Is that really necessary?” I ask.
“Yes. We have to have an official starting weight so that you can set goals from there.”
My eyes search her face for a glint of mercy, but find none. Weigh-ins are just textbook procedure and no one’s going to make an exception for me. “Okay,” I breathe out. I step on the scale.
The receptionist writes a number down on a sheet of paper and again on a yellow post-it note. She hands the post-it note to me. It pains me to look at the number: 331.
I’m not sure what to think of that number. I’ve told myself for many years that it doesn’t mean a damned thing. It’s not a measure of worth, just a measure of the earth’s gravitational pull on me. Nothing more.
“We’d like you to stick around after the meeting so that we can teach you the Weight Watchers system. It’s pretty simple.”
“Uh huh,” I nod.
The receptionist hands me a blue pamphlet. “Welcome to Weight Watchers” it reads. “Your guide to getting started”. She hands me a packet of stuff she calls membership materials. Finally, I pay with my credit card.
I feel so dirty.
The meeting room is around the back. A few rows of chairs form a semi-circle around an easel with butcher block paper. Written on the paper are the words “Getting Beyond Plateaus”. Around the room are various workout contraptions, diet shakes, and weight loss bars. All of them are for sale at the front desk, I’m assuming. The gaudy commercialism is suffocating.
I am surprised that the only other person in the room is a man. He’s quite fat, probably in his forties. His clothes fit him tightly. He wears frameless glasses. Not bad looking, kind of a BHM. He sits by himself, patiently awaiting the start of the meeting. I take a seat and peruse the “Welcome to Weight Watchers” pamphlet.
“This your first time?” he asks. I notice that his name tag reads “Ron”. Ron seems genuinely friendly.
“Yeah,” I shrug. “Can you tell?”
“Oh yeah. Easy. You have the same pamphlet I do,” he replies. Ron holds up an identical blue pamphlet.
“Oh, so it’s your first time too?” I ask.
“Yup. I thought I’d give it a try,” he says. “I have to do something. Just sick and tired of feeling sick and tired, I suppose.”
I chuckle nervously. “Yeah.”
“I’ve got a lot of weight to lose,” he continues. “A lot of work to do. But I’m ready.”
I hate it when fat people talk that way. He seems like a really nice guy. It sounds like he’s deprecating himself for not putting in enough effort thus far, as if he’s fat because he just hasn’t worked hard enough at being thin.
“Well, good luck,” I say.
Another pair walk in—a fat mother and her fat daughter. Immediately, my heart goes out to the daughter. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s about fifteen years old. Her greasy hair is falling in her eyes, covering the rounded edges of her chubby face. Her cheeks are hot red, her mouth a flat line of glum despair. Life as the teenage fat girl has left her vanquished. I can relate. She’s got her whole life in front of her and all she can see is humiliation and self-imposed starvation. I want to grab her around the shoulders, take her to the side, tell her everything she needs to hear but no one is telling her. I want to tell her that she has intrinsic value, that she’s special, that she’s pretty. I want to be her big sister. I’d even braid her hair, if she’d let me. Looking at this girl makes me want to cry. She is me, two decades ago.
The room begins to fill up. Meeting time is fast approaching. People trickle into the room in ones and twos, some very fat, some not fat at all.
The population here at the Weight Watchers meeting is not very diverse. We’re basically a bunch of fat white broads over forty. There are no racial minorities. That’s no surprise—African-American and Hispanic women tend to have better body image, and even if they aren’t quite satisfied with themselves, they rarely have the money for weight loss centers. Only the teenage girl and I have yet to see our fortieth birthday.
The group is also entirely female with the exception of Ron. Where are all the fat men? The truth is that women are expected to watch their girlish figures and it’s women who hate themselves for not succeeding. The guys have a lot more latitude to munch beer nuts and loosen their belt buckles a few notches. They just don’t care that much.
Judith, the meeting leader, wanders into the room. Apparently she’s our skinny savior, the one whose job it is to rescue us fatties from our horrendous eating habits. Seems rather presumptuous of her. But then again, she isn’t “presuming” to save us. We’re giving her our permission. And our money.
She smiles and greets us. I take a few deep breaths to calm myself. I’m suddenly very claustrophobic around all of these weight-loss shakes, weight-loss bars, and self-loathing fat people. I want to break out of here. This is the belly of the beast.
I settle in for the meeting.
* * *
“Mama” Cass Elliot is an icon of the fat liberation movement. The former member of the 1960’s folk rock group The Mamas and the Papas was a rarity in the entertainment business—a fat woman who dared to show herself on the world stage.
As a little girl, Cass Elliot dreamed of being “the most famous fat girl who ever lived.” A case could be made that she achieved that goal. She is remembered for her wit, sense of humor, and plus-sized earthy hippy garb, but she is most well known for her contributions to music. Her voice sang the songs of a generation. “She has broken the strongest barrier for an aspiring star,” wrote New York magazine in 1967. “In America, the most weight conscious nation in the world, she has become a glamour girl. She is a star not despite her weight or because of it, but beyond it.”
As a child growing
up in Baltimore in the 1950s, Cass (then known by her birth name, Ellen Cohen) was prescribed Dexedrine, an amphetamine analogue known to stimulate the metabolism and suppress appetite. The family doctor prescribed the pills for weight loss, of course. Ellen (Cass) found it nearly impossible to sit still during class. Not surprisingly, the pills she popped seemed to have no visible effect on her weight. Pumping this child full of drugs did nothing to solve her “problem”.
Adulthood brought more difficulties. Cass yearned for stardom but found show biz inhospitable to a woman of her girth. Her struggle to “make it” in the New York theater and music scene was emblematic of fat women everywhere. Her personality was luminous, her singing talent was limitless, but her body was fat. The first two seemed inconsequential next to the third.
She was initially rejected by fellow band member “Papa” John Phillips who never wanted her in the band in the first place. He was concerned that having a fat chick on stage doomed them to failure. The first three members of the Mamas and the Papas—John Phillips, Michelle Phillips, and Denny Doherty—had already formed a folk rock trio called the New Journeymen. Cass Elliot was friends with Doherty, having enjoyed moderate success with him in another band called the Mugwumps. She begged Doherty to get her an entrance into the band.
John Phillips would have none of it. “[Michelle], Denny, and I were three string beans and she was huge. The sound was off and the look didn’t fit either. So I kept her out,” he admits.
A revisionist tale was spun after the fact to explain away his initial reluctance to accept her as a member. Perhaps you’ve already heard the legend. Cass’s vocals did not have adequate range to join the group. But then one day—miraculously!—she was hit in the head by a metal pipe and suddenly added three notes to her range. If it sounds like a plot device salvaged from old television sitcoms, that’s because it is.
The story was concocted after the band achieved commercial success in order to explain why Cass had initially been excluded. The truth—that bandmate John Phillips was a raging fatphobe—seemed embarrassing after the foursome had sold millions of records and cemented their place as an iconic ‘60’s supergroup. Even Cass went along with the lie. The fact that she would fib in order to cover for fatphobic Phillips tells us a lot about the internalized hatred fat women grapple with. It was almost as if Cass expected and understood this kind of discrimination.
We Are Fat and We Are Legion Page 16
