Distracted Mind

Change is a little like cliff-diving. It’s exhillarating, frightening, and requires more than a small dose of courage. For someone like me, change is a thrill, but it’s also something that I regard with a bit of fear. Change is one of those things that happens, whether you like it or not. My life is about to go through a little bit of change, starting on Monday:Â I have a little over two days left as a Cleveland State University employee.

I’ll be working in the private sector for the first time in nearly a decade, one crummy summer as an intern at an alternative weekly paper notwithstanding. The new job came as a very pleasant, extremely welcome surprise to me, since I had just started looking for a different job. I had been considering leaving the university, looking for a larger paycheck, something closer to my field, something more satisfying, but hadn’t really gotten down to seriously looking yet. Opportunity gave me a swift kick in the ass, just enough to get me started down the road.

I’ve written about my job before, but always in glowing terms. I refrained from writing about the daily gripes, mainly because I knew that if I had, they would have been found by the wrong people and they would have unecessarily hurt some feelings. I also didn’t write about the changes that have been happening in the past few months, when the department that I had been a part of for nearly four years had been arbitrarily dissected. All I’ll say is that sometimes change is good, other times it just brings frustration. Perhaps, when I gain a bit of distance and perspective, I’ll write about it. Right now I fear that I don’t have an objective enough view to really go into the experience without sounding shrewish.

I’m grateful for the time I’ve spent at the university, and the experiences that I’ve had. It’s time to move on, though, and grow. Thanks, CSU, for the great four years. I’ve learned more than I ever anticipated — now it’s time to show off that learnin’ somewhere new.

Weight’s not something I talk about much. Going from a skinny, wee little child to an average-sized teen, to a burly girl, back down to a little slip of a girl, then back to burliness, I’ve always had what some would call “an issue” with weight. It’s not something I talk about. It’s something that I keep quiet and hope that no one notices.

In the US, and in most of the western world, weight is a great humor prop. The fat jokes, the sight gags, the willowy actresses that don latex to appear literally larger than life, we think fat people are funny. Sitcoms have the “fat friend,” a mouthy yet supportive heart of gold hiding behind a lifetime of ding-dongs. Strangely, the fat friend is usually far from fat, having some meat on her bones that makes her slightly larger than her hot, waify counterpart. Fat is funny–fat cares and fat will be there for you on the morning after, usually because fat is also the designated driver who never gets hit on (unless it’s a punchline). Fat has _personality_.

Being a plus-sized gal really isn’t that bad — I can still shop for clothes, I get exercize, I eat right. I just don’t lose the weight without radical dietary change (paging Dr. Atkins…) that borders on unhealthy. I have friends, I have a husband, I have more important daily issues than my weight, so I choose not to think too long or hard about it.

I don’t have many problems with the way my body looks, except for the daughter-related stretchmarks. I just have problems with the way it’s perceived. If that sounds strange, think about it: I may not have problems with how my body looks, but a potential employer might. While I think I look fine, I worry about being the punchline to some galactic fat joke. Insecurities abound about my abundant frame, even though I’m perfectly comfortable with it.

I feel guilty whenever a story on obesity makes it on the news, with the obligatory shot of someone’s ass waggling down the street in a pair of polyester stretch-pants that should’ve been banned a long time ago. I don’t feel guilty because I’m deemed overweight, I feel guilty because I’m looking at the video and thinking _I’m not that bad… not that freakish._ Yes, even among the fat, judgement happens.

I guess that what I fear the most is judgement — I fear that someone will see my Lane Bryant shopping bag and evaluate me based on the simple fact that I don’t shop JCrew or Banana Republic. I fear that my size will downgrade my importance in their eyes. Then I fear that I’m placing too much importance on what other people think of me. Then I worry about the black helicopters that are monitoring just how much cash I have in my wallet and my politically dissident thoughts (ok, so the last one was a joke–the medication has taken care of most of that… I promise).

Honestly, shape and weight are an issue for anyone. If you’re “too skinny,” you have a problem. If you’re “fat,” you have a problem. It seems like our culture and our society just won’t let us be happy with our bodies. With so many other things to be concerned about, it doesn’t seem like it should be such a “big” issue, but it is what we make of it. I’m off to eat some dinner.