My rant.

I’ve rewritten this story something like 87 times to try and make it sound like I am being less of a bitch. I’ve developed it with flowery language and a background story, and I’ve tried to omit names but the truth is: it just sounded fake. So here it is honest and straightforward as I sit here and wonder. Why people have to question people who may live their lives different from their own?

When visiting UMKC on a grad school visit last week I had quite the up and down reaction. I liked the campus, I liked some of the program offerings, but I wasn’t a huge fan of a few of the people. Much of that came from their ability to not keep their mouths shut. I am compulsive about researching a place before I come visit or choose it as an option to apply to. With UMKC, it was no different. I’d talked to people who had affiliations directly with, or had friends who had attended UMKC. I’d talked to professors in regards to the program offerings, and I had driven around the campus and city for hours trying to get an idea on whether or not I could see myself there. The truth is, I knew from the first time I saw it, I could see myself there. I think from a far, Kansas City has always been a place that seemed so far away, yet so close. So when I went to visit UMKC, I was more than disappointed by the questioning comments I received about how I was choosing to live once I moved to Kansas City.

As anyone who knows anything about grad school knows, it’s expensive. So I knew that I would be living on a budget, depending on what program I chose. Also, I’ve lived the past few years in dive-y places, and I don’t want to do that again. If I am going to spend money, I’d rather spend it on a nice place, where I can entertain and feel comfortable inviting people over opposed to spending money on gas/sundries. So a huge choice I made when deciding where to move is that it has to be a place where I don’t have to commute. I want to be able to walk/bike/ride the bus to class and live in a moderately place NICE apartment. I want to start my finally “adult” life, right. So, to me, Kansas City seemed like the perfect choice. 2 hours from “all” my homes (Omaha, NE; Creston, IA; Manhattan, KS; etc.,) a thriving nightlife, lots of friends, seemingly great public transportation, and a combination of the program options I wanted.

So here, I was sitting in the grad school I planned on attending hearing that this wasn’t feasible? My first contact was with my middle-aged tour guide who commutes from JoCo because of a family. That’s fine, that’s the choice you made, but please DO NOT TRY AND PRESS YOUR SUBURBAN LIFESTYLE ON ME! I answered her questions regarding where I wanted to live pretty easily, “I’d like to live downtown, in a nice place and commute back and forth via bus/walking/bike/running to make more efficient use of my time and to take some of my transportation budget and place it into housing.” Her response was more condescending than I had imagined, answering with, “So… you won’t have a car? You won’t drive.” I explained that I planned to keep a car, and park it because I do have family out of state, but I would try not to drive on a regular basis, especially if gas prices achieved the $7.00 mark that was predicted. Her response was as if I told her that little green people were beginning to inhabit the Earth. She sat, almost with her jaw dropped a little, just staring. Her persuasion techniques included talking about the car pools, how taxes were supposedly cheaper in JoCo (which about made me lose it with laughter) and that there is lovely housing right across the street from campus if I NEED to live in Missouri, but mainly so I don’t have to ride the bus. I explained, I apologize, I’m not in the mood to live in campus residences because I’m a little old for that. Plus, I liked riding the bus. The fact that I liked riding the bus seemed to be her breaking point. I apologize that I can jump on a bus and read/relax for about 15 minutes instead of setting my blood pressure sky rocketing with bumper to bumper traffic on the commute. Also, one of my favorite past times is people watching and making up stories, so what better place than the bus for that! It was pretty obvious she wasn’t understanding where I was coming from so I just began to nod and smile and look at my phone for the time that I would finally be free from there. She escorted me out, we said our goodbyes and boy was I glad to be out of that situation.

That was until I started talking to the makeshift receptionist. She was a VERY sweet lady, just clueless. The first question out of her mouth was, “So where are you going to live?” *deep breath* I explained everything again. Her answer, “Oh no honey, you don’t want to live downtown and walk or run! It’s a long way, and there are areas that just aren’t safe!” Ok… well, I’ve looked at crime statistics and know there are areas that may not be the world’s safest, I also know that the downtown area has a crime rate that has dropped considerably since they began the “clean-up” or whatever it’s called. I told her I wasn’t too worried because I could handle myself and I used to go explore areas like North Omaha on my own when I was a naïve sixteen year old girl.

At this point, though, I was sick of explaining myself to everyone. Why was I being questioned for my choices repeatedly at a place that is supposed to be persuading me to spend a large sum of money with them? Why were their choices supposed to be my choices? I’d be curious to know if this was their reaction to everyone, or just to a girl from an area that could be classified as “The Country.” Analyzing it a little further, with our country’s supposed push to be more “fiscally responsible” because of the “recession” why aren’t we commending people who make these choices? Why with looking at the BP oil spill, increased environmental awareness, etc. are places not pleased to advertise they have other options in close proximity? I guess I don’t get that one federally funded institution (UMKC) encouraging their students to support another federally funded institution (public transit.) I’ve thought about writing letters, but feel it would probably be better to wait until if/when I get admitted, but it definitely has left a bad taste in mouth and the want to go up and prove to them how it can be done.

Anyway, I guess the whole point of this is to state, why is one person’s opinion expected to be that of others. Why don’t we appreciate and accept others opinions? I won’t question someone driving their car a lot, since I do now. I just know in the future, I’d like to have at least a few years where I don’t have to rely on something that may not be available to me ten years from now, with the rate of consumption our nation participates in. Why not educate on all levels, instead of just the most convenient and the one you participate in. Sorry for the randomness of this rant, I just wanted to get it out there!

Realizing the Existence of Lard Colored Lenses

It all started with the numbers 26 and 337. To most, those numbers are pretty meaningless, unless you are talking sports records or batting averages. For me, those numbers were my reality. The number 26 seems relatively small, until I follow it up with a “W” and let you know it was my pants size. As most women know, when you hit 26W you’ve set sail on the express ferry to the land of elastic waistband “mom jeans.” This ferry usually makes a couple stops on its journey; at least it did for me. Stopping briefly on the island of common sizes and quickly departing to spend some time at the Great Derriere Reef. See, the fashion industry knows not to stick their label on a mix of cotton/denim with a hint of Lycra for comfort, on a pair of pants made for women who don’t know when to ask, “Does my fat ass make my fat ass look big.” In reality, they are absolutely right. Image is everything and if you sell jeans to a size 2 model type, why would you want to sell a pair that was large enough to house her and her 8 size 0-4 housemates?

Of course, the revelation of, “Wow. My ass is the size of Cuba,” struck, I wasn’t alone. In fact, I was in the worst possible company. I was shopping alongside my step-mom and my twig-like can make spandex, sequins and whatever else (or lack thereof) she puts on, size 2, make me puke step-sister. Too afraid to leave the dressing room wearing the largest size of jean offered that I made fit by sucking in and laying down and zipping until all the breath left my body, I delivered every excuse, but stuck with my personal favorite “They are too short,” which fits since I am 6’1”. After having my self-esteem plummet faster than the Dow during Bush’s second term, adding insult to injury, was my step-sister standing directly in front of me wearing said spandex/sequin number which hugged perfectly every curve of her size negative 22 figure. “Bitch,” I muttered under my breath as I found solace, alone in the dressing room.

Even after this, it still didn’t sink in, that I was fat. In fact, it took almost 9 months for it to really hit me. 9 months I continued to shove myself full of Twinkies and fast food faster than you can say “Yo Quiero Taco bell.”

You may be asking the same thing as I had often asked the competitors on “The Biggest Loser,” which is: didn’t you have a mirror? Didn’t you know you were fat? Or my favorite, don’t you know those jeans look like you just tried to squeeze Rosie O’Donnell into Lindsey Lohan’s skinny jeans? The answer is no. I was oblivious; because I had always been fat. I knew I was never thin, so the obligatory, “You have a beautiful face,” or “You’re not fat your curvy, big-boned, etc.” compliments were second nature.

Being in a serious relationship, with a wedding ahead didn’t help either. Little did I know that he was part of the problem. Another was my dress, “The dress” as bridezillas everywhere proclaim, was two sizes smaller than my regular size. I felt beautiful, like I had lost weight. Looking back on these pictures, I laugh at the albino orca staring back at me.

Summer of 2009 came along. It was a time of epic changes and a time of growing up. Some of the best and worst memories of my life started this summer, including meeting one of the best friends I could have ever been blessed with. She is someone who was, and still continues to be, my biggest cheerleader while showing me the realistic side of things whether I liked it or not. After seeing this reality, my whole world flipped. I finally, after almost a year of avoidance, stepped on the scale. 337. Crap. I am fat. That is when I changed from making excuses, to realizing in 13lbs, I would be 350. Ew. No. I finally knew the lies I was being told. I saw visions of elastic waist bands, empire waists and kankles. shudder I fear the kankles. This made the size 26W pants look like allergies instead of the influenza pandemic that suddenly was upon me because of one number. 337.

When you make this type of realization about yourself, what else is there to do? I ate half a cheese pizza and quickly downed a six-pack of my favorite microbrew and wept. I ate this like I had everything else until one of my other great friends said, “Fatty McFatpants, you can’t change.” I have never been one to turn down a challenge, in fact, a challenge is one of my greatest motivators. I put down slice #5 and told him, B.S. I will. What I didn’t realize though, is that no matter how many pounds come off, is that once you are fat, you may never go back. Sure you can change the number on the scale; but what about your worldview?

What you are reading and will read, is basically my diary. An honest outpouring of struggles, triumphs and self-doubt that has brought me to the point of who I am now and today. This is my attempt at showing those who may not, and those who may never will, what it’s like to see life through lard colored glasses.