Size matters...in the pursuit of happiness

A listserv conversation earlier this week on Gabby Sibide being proposed a yearlong supply of some diet supplement ("some damn berry juice" as a commenter called it) in exchange for her "look at how weight I lost using AwesomeProduct" endorsement. The reaction across the serve seemed to be a mix of disgust, embarassment and #cmonson and the conversation turned to "she's a great girl but she needs to lose that weight." Of all the reasons why she "should" shed the lbs (say, high blood pressure, diabetes, or even fitting a more ideal Hollywood standard, hell an everyday socially preferable standard), one struck a chord: "she'll be happier with herself. "

Is it a fair assessment to judge someone's happiness on their size? Gabby seems to have a likeable, outgoing, "I love myself" personality. Some may see the happy fattie routine as a cover-up to how she's REALLY feeling, all insecure, self-hating and dark and twisty. Is it really hard to believe that an extremely overweight person could like themselves 100% and that just be that? Even after the burn of childhood insults and retorts dies down to a manageable flame, are her scars not allowed to heal and just say "fuck it, I'm fat, deal with it!"

I suppose that "you're beautiful no matter what size" ship has sailed. Or sunken, because all the happy fatties are too busy celebrating their fat happy lives. Or, the fattie must be seething with rage and suffering with low self-esteem. Deep down she must want to be a size 4, a cute cinched waist, hips and ass that's noticeable but not obtrusive. I know flabby arms and thighs that rub together clearly render my life inoperable. Life would just be a bowl of cherries if I could just lose some damn weight and not take up more than 1 seat on the 3 train on the way to work.

The logic is flawed-just because a bigger person is unhappy with their size doesn't mean the inverse, the smaller you are, the happier you'll be, is true. I highly doubt your mode of thinking does a 180 when your weight does. Unhappiness, whether rooted in one's physical appearance or otherwise, doesn't lie in one place. its all connected and traces to some random Freudian shit from infancy.

Everyone needs to leave Gabby (and every other fattie looking like they could be on the brink of death) alone. A married man hitting on a woman at a bar doesn't need to be reminded they're married. And deep down, an alcoholic knows, even a little bit, when they've had too much to drink. She likes how she looks, and the people who need to like her look like it. If deep down she doesn't, she's got a helluva poker face, and I'm not mad at her. Either way, she can pay her bills. We need to be applauding her for following the true American dream-living in excess and capitalizing the hell outta it.

And let's stop making this about some "oh I'm just concerned about your health." Fuck outta here. The body is a resilient mothafucka: in a given life it could face a paper cut, a stubbed toe, bone fracture, paralyzation, loss of brain activity. You can take organs out, limbs off, move one piece of flesh to another, lift it, tuck it, suck it, stretch it. It deals with heartache, heartburn, heart attacks, panic attacks, hiccups, love, lust, secondhand smoke, firsthand smoke, too many nights of too many shots...

You get the idea. I'm not making excuses for my (or anyone's) fat ass. I'm just saying, maybe losing 50 lbs would make me happier. But 50 lbs ago, I'm pretty sure I was discontent. Happy mediums must be sold out because anything less than must 14+.