I’ve been reading a few fat acceptance blogs lately, many of which are awesome, inspiring, entertaining and bloody good reads.
I can’t personally identify with fat acceptance. I don’t identify as fat. I suspect I probably should. My latest purchases have been of the size 16 to 18 categories and my BMI is… actually, I have no idea, but I feel fairly confident that it wouldn’t put me in the “underweight” category. But looking around at the sum total of humanity, I don’t see myself as being too far beyond the top of the bell curve (and just to clarify – I don’t see any problem with being over the crest of the bell curve. I’m just not there.)
Besides, of all the women I’ve ever met, I am struggling to name a single one who is entirely happy with their body. It’s not just about fat, although it often is, even amongst women who are notably not fat (I once had the displeasure of listening to a professionally successful, tall, witty, smart, slender woman speak for an entire evening about her fat ankles. And you know what? They weren’t the most delicate ankles I’ve ever seen. Would I have noticed had she not spent the night bleating about them? Not a bloody chance.)
For me, it’s not just accepting my wibblier bits. It’s accepting my wild, greying hair, my too-small eyes, my too-big nose, my mix-and-match fingernails, my odd-shaped toes – and, yeah, the societally acceptable things too – my ogle-worthy cleavage, luscious lips, high cheekbones, shapely legs. It’s about loving every bit of me for exactly what it is, regardless of whether it elicits compliments or scorn, and loving the bits that elicit compliments not just because other people approve of them. It’s about accepting this collection of parts as the whole that is me.