Ideas and Ideals

I have a pernicious fantasy of who I would be if I were slender. I call my alter ego Thin Fokker. Thin Fokker is who I have striven, nay — even yearned, to be. Thin Fokker does not have any of the flaws Fat Fokker does.

Thin Fokker is graceful and elegant and lovely. She never puts her foot into her mouth until she chokes on her knee-cap. She doesn’t fall over things. She looks good in clothes. People are nice to her because she has magically become pretty. In fact, Thin Fokker is not only thin, she is Christina Hendricks with Beyonce’s legs and ass. Because that’s how awesome looking Thin Fokker is.

Sweet Babou would love her even more than he does Fat Fokker.

When Thin Fokker is doing kickboxing or yoga at the YMCA, she doesn’t need to dread her reflexion in the mirrored wall. Thin Fokker doesn’t look like a hippo on hind legs in the midst of a herd of gazelles, and she doesn’t wear baggy tee-shirts to work out in. Nope. Thin Fokker wears these cutest little workout clothes. Especially the jogging skirt, which makes her booty look magnificent. That skirt just swish-swishes away, luring all humans into her wake to admire her taunt backside. Her thighs are muscular and do not touch when she walks. That’s so very fabulous, the lean non-touching thighs. Thin Fokker is just all around better than Fat Fokker.

She’s also smarter, and is good with computers. Her house is cleaner and better organized and decorated with handmade shit that would make Martha Stewart weep with envy. She’s also a better parent, I can just tell. Because she is thin!

Of course, this is bullshit. Not just because being slender will not magically make me a better human, but also because being willowy would NOT make me beautiful and graceful and loved. I’m already loved, dammit.Thinness would not make me or my body anything other than leaner. I won’t suddenly have a gorgeous high-cheekboned face with a bridge to my nose. I’m not going to become long-legged even if my thighs are the circumference of toothpicks. My hair will still have cowlicks. My boobs are still middle-aged and baby chewed, they are not going to spontaneously pick themselves up off my hips and migrate back to their high-school position.

This myth of the Thin Fokker is why I have never realized that I was no longer fat when I have managed to starve myself into a size 6/8. Because I was still not drop-dead gorgeous. I still had sadness. My prince charming did not ride up on his horse and sweep me away to a castle in Ireland. I was still awkward. I wasn’t perfect, so I couldn’t really be Thin Fokker.

I need to let that bitch go.

I was a chub when my Prince Charming finally showed up. He loved me anyway. I was beefy when I had my kids, but that didn’t make them less wonderful. I was hefty when I got published, but that did not negate my achievements.

Fat Fokker has done just fine.

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