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Tish has a thing or two to say about fighting obesity, rather than promoting health:

It's so hard when the people who are doing the good work use the size of my ass to make their point.

What is my deal with titles lately? That one sounds like a Dateline special.

Really, I just wanted to link up this post on Feministe by Piny. I had really never thought about what Piny posits there...that there is a double standard in how health is measured in the context of the two eating disorders. Generally, anorexia is measured by death rate, and obesity is measured by a size/acceptability rate. There is not really a health-based measurement on either end of the spectrum. If you are fat, you are automatically unhealthy...if you are thin, you are generally not deemed to be unhealthy unless you are dead.

Wow. That kind of stopped me in my tracks today. There's more conversation about it here and here. And I actually wanted to link up this post by that smarty-pants, Stentor Danielson:

Information about the activities of other parts of the hierarchy is reduced to a few summary numbers (dollars spent or bushels of cotton grown or SAT scores, etc.). These few numbers become all-important, creating an incentive to "game" them in ways that make the indicator look good without actually improving the underlying facts that the indicator is supposed to be measuring. One of the key problems in the Soviet economy -- a quintessentially Hierarchist system -- was just this sort of number-polishing. This is exactly what the weight loss obsession does -- instead of addressing the underlying issue (health) in a holistic way, it sets up a single quantity as a measure of success, and then focuses on "fixing" that indicator.

Not bad for a toss-off response to Ampersand's epic tome about the weight-loss industry.

Dear Person I have to see on a way too regular basis,

Do I LOOK like I care about your diet? I think you look fine the way you are. And, quite frankly, when I eat a carrot, I eat it because I like the way it tastes, not because some dude who will be dead someday (most likely because he is an evil fuck who makes a living perpetuating the beauty myth by selling his bullshit theories that actually result in less health and more sexism) wrote a book that told me carrots will make me Thin and Desirable.

I'm not thin, and I don't give a fuck if you or anyone else desires me.

You are not thin, either, and it makes me sad that you've bought into that bullshit, but telling you that is not my trip, either. When I eat a piece of candy or chocolate cake or greezy cheezy pizza, it's because I like the way it tastes and not because I feel bad about the fact that some narrow-minded ass won't fuck me because I'm too fat for him. Or, hell, because some ass-minded fuck won't even talk to me because I'm too fat. Fuck that shit.

I'm not a self-hating fat person, and I don't want to hear your soft hatred directed at yourself by your constant babble of size-obsessed bullshit, or your soft hatred directed outwards at the other people who also have to unfortunately see you on a way-too-regular basis. And, um, poking someone in the stomach and asking them how they got THAT if they can't even afford dinner is, wow...I mean, I've done and said some pretty crude and rude things in my lifetime, but that really fucking takes the cake. (sorry if that made you hungry.)

Believe it or not, there do exist people in this world who really don't give a fuck about how large they are and how other people perceive their size. I know quite well how I'm perceived. I enjoy experimenting with those perceptions, but in the end, it really doesn't fucking matter to me. So, again, no, I'm not interested in hearing about your diet, or about your fabulous partner who so open-mindedly supports you in your endless desire to be thin and fuckable, just like he likes you. Or, at least, not FAT and UNFUCKABLE...because he hates you that way.

Believe it or not, not everyone hates their body the way you seem to hate yours. Even us fatty fat fatties! So, here...have a carrot. Or a slice of yummy chocolate cake. I don't give a fuck, just as long as you are enjoying it.

Hot Mama at I Blame The Patriarchy

The thing is, in a world where women are the sex class (by which I mean Planet Earth), even morphing mamas are expected to display themselves according to male standards of fuckability as defined by pornography, and those who fall short are subject not only to public censure and ridicule and fat jokes, but to the ultimate horror: not being hot enough for Husband.

Whether MIM and Husband find eternal bliss in their personal oasis of mutual hotness—and really, if it makes them happy, �buena suerte!—is of little consequence to this patriarchy-blamer; it is the larger stupidity of the sexist beauty mandate illustrated by this pair that smegs me off. Check out this agonizing post at a blog called The Homesick Home, wherein author L. has put on a few pounds and now endures her husband’s silent disdain.

She's so freaking dreamy!

I think I've been feeling a bit in need of some size-love reinforcement lately. It's so easy to knock me off kilter and make me look at my body in a not-so-loving light. I look in the mirror and I see my saggy underchin and my skin tags and I think "bluck." I hear Dave Chappelle crack a joke about being so drunk "You'll be fucking fat chicks in no time" and I feel like I'm simultaneously shrinking and becoming cartoonishly gargantuan in the presence of the others in the room.

This year has been a hard one on my body. The past few years have been unhealthy times. I had to stop taking the bus to work and cut down dramatically on the time I took for movement. One of the best things about having Pansy and Clay here, as I've mentioned, has been the freedom of my nightly walks. I love feeling my body in motion. I love my power. I love my size and graceful clumsiness. I love that I can nurture and hug and love and not just feel but BE broad and expansive and overflowing. I love it so much I will rise from the couch at 2 in the morning, after 4 hours of Lord of the fucking Rings, and propel myself forth into the night. Enjoying the air, the company, the sounds of the walkman, and the rhythm of my footfalls. It's gorgeous meditation.

I have to remind myself that this body has carried me through life, protectively encompassing all that I am. At every size, I have always felt larger than life...because I am. As we all are - disembodied energy presiding over moving lumps of flesh. Pleasing to look at, maybe. Warm to the touch, soft. Functional. Strong. Perfectly imperfect. Me.

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As far as I'm concerned, there's nothing at all revolutionary about this stupid advertising campaign.

All they are fucking doing is pretending like they are telling me my fat body is attractive, while reaching around, grabbing my fat ass, and saying "But, you know, you really need to use our FIRMING CREAM."

Dude. The whole POINT of accepting my fat body is accepting that it's NOT FUCKING FIRM.

It's funny. Cecily's post about the OK Soda campaign sort of triggered this. OK Soda's shtick was advertising something mediocre to the "irony" set. Dove is now advertising body hatred to the "empowerment" set.

Nice try. I'm not buying it.

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