The Beauty of Household Pests

First off, given the number of times that some combination of "plus size womens tuxedo vest black" shows up under "search terms" in my blog stats, I think it's obvious that someone really needs to go make one of these.

Secondly, Captain Awkward strikes again.  This time on Teh Fatties.  This whole losing-weight thing I've been doing is based on the assumption that, no matter how much I try, I can't manage to internalize fat acceptance.  I can find physical beauty in anyone else, but I can only see mine when my waist is 46" or less.  And because I can't accept—and love—myself, the next best solution is to change myself into something I can.

But maybe I gave up too early.  Maybe I didn't give myself enough credit.  If I can make the kind of changes it takes to lose weight, maybe I could make the kind of changes it would take to quit the damn double standard that makes me need to lose weight.

I say that, and it terrifies me.

I am so in love with the idea of myself in a size 14 (shopping at normal people stores again!)  I think, no wonder I couldn't accept myself, I never really wanted to.  You know, that thing about not being able to help someone who won't help themselves. 

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Early on, I told Red Flag Guy about the web site, and the naked photos.  I said, "I'll tell you my last name, but I'd rather you not look at the photos.  I'm not entirely comfortable with them."  He agreed, but eventually caved to temptation and looked them up. 

I am proud, still, of those photographs.  I believe that they are honest, and expressive, and challenging, and they were fucking hard to make, and there are even times when I can look at the color and shape and think that they are beautiful photographs.  I am proud of them, but I have a hard time looking at them.  Because even when I can see the beauty in the photograph, it is despite, and not because of, the subject matter.  It is the beauty of spiders and cockroaches.

And, at the time, even that was more than I'd ever managed before.  The ability to look at myself and see any beauty, even the household pest kind, was a victory.

Knowing that he'd seen them, I could hope that he'd realize that I don't look like that anymore.  I could hope that he'd be able to see some hint of what I look like now in the photos of what I looked like then.

It never occurred to me to hope that he'd like them.  That he'd like me in them.

But he does.