Pluses & Minuses

Wow, it appears that I just became normal. Despite feeling relatively normal for the past 15 or so years, I have not been by clothing standards. I am no longer disgusting or distasteful because I have somehow managed to drop out of plus sizing, one of the biggest bunches of bullshit perpetuated in America, a country where half the female population is so-called plus-sized. Er, not that I have strong feelings about it or anything.

Does anyone honestly think that size alone is a meaningful measure? Anyone could see that a size 14 woman who’s 5’2 would be considerably rounder than a size 14 woman who is 5’10.  One is overweight, one isn’t. How can both be plus-sized? Because we all know plus-sized just means fat.

For years while hovering between a 16 and 18 I had a fantasy tradeoff that would horrify most women who consider a 14 to be about as gross as it gets. I wanted to make a pact (with whom, I have no idea) that I would take the ability to eat whatever I wanted as much as I wanted for eternity if I could always remain a size 14. To me, that seemed like a large but realistic and not wholly unhealthy size for my height. I wouldn’t mind being on the big side of average for the super power to eat with no consequences. This would also mean that even if you ate lettuce and water for a year you would remain a 14, there would be no changing of size based on behavior. There’s something Grimm Brothers about this. So, I guess I’m glad to be transitioning to a 12 but it takes conscientious eating. I still wouldn’t be opposed to staying a 14 for life if I didn’t have to worry about food.

On a similar note, well, not that similar, but about getting what you want and it not being that big of a deal, after all. In middle school I desperately wanted to be 5’8” because that was minimum height for modeling and I knew that the only way I’d ever meet Duran Duran was if I became a model. (Never mind that I wasn’t model material, though I did get down to 121, which is the smallest post-pubescent figure I ever acheived. And also never mind that I could’ve met Nick and Simon in 2000 if I hadn’t stayed home like a stick in the mud and went to a VH1 taping with my friend Jessica, also a former Duranie, who got invited to the after party and was offered quaaludes). At 11 I was only 5’6” and every night before I went to bed I literally prayed to God that I would grow two inches.

I did manage to hit 5’7” somewhere in my teens and assumed that’s how tall I was until a few years ago when a friend who was not taller than me claimed to be 5’8”. This really set me off because I’m a stickler for truth in these matters. We stood back to back and were exactly the same height. After later measuring myself, it turned out that I was 5’8” and must’ve been for years. Dammit, way too late for modeling in my 30s. I made the point of changing my height on the paperwork for my last driver’s license obtained in 2005, and the bastards kept 5’7”. I won’t be able to right this egregious wrong until 2013 when it expires. By then, I’ll be elderly and shrinking.

Of course, now I can’t help but wish that I was 5’9”, which I think would be the perfect height, tallish without towering, but I know I should remain content knowing that my 1983 prayers were actually answered. I’m afraid that I used up my one allotted lifetime miracle on something inconsequential, though. Looks like I’ll have to rely on myself for any future goodness.

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