December 2007


Ten years ago today, I was frantically putting the finishing touches on my wedding cake. And maybe my wedding dress. Or more likely, I was frantically cooking, which is what I do when I am stressed, and also preparing for the sumptuous party spread that I used to put on back then.

Everyone thought they were simply coming to a new year’s eve party. No one guessed of the cake hidden away upstairs, or that my Empire style red velvet frock was in honour of anything other than the new year. We stopped at five to midnight and our friend John from Boston performed the ceremony. Everyone was surprised. Greg’s wedding vows quoted Cartman from South Park. It was the perfect wedding – no gifts, no shower, no puffy marshmallow dress. Just us and our friends and a promise.

Ten years later, we’re still together and going strong. There’s been sickness and health, riches and poverty, good times and bad. I annoy him with my control-freak, perfectionist tendencies, and he frustrates me with his pokey old man ways and inability to hold a conversation first thing in the morning.

Of course, there have been changes and challenges. We’re very different people than we were back in 1997 – with different styles, and different interests. We survived and grew strong from our struggles and upheavals. We’ve mellowed and relaxed. Matured, hopefully, learning to lean on each other for support.

Together we’ve published a zine, produced some memorable concerts and events, ran a record label, and now a respected website about food in Toronto, with another exciting project in the works. Yeah, we argue – who doesn’t? Yes, sometimes it’s a struggle. But through it all, Greg is still my best friend. And more importantly, my partner in the truest sense of the word. We get each other. We love each other. I enjoy his company more than that of anybody else.

The one mistake we made in choosing new year’s eve as our wedding day is that it’s also our anniversary, and going out to celebrate is a nightmare. So although this is a big one, with a whole decade under our belts, we’ll celebrate in the same way we always do; with some Indian take-out, a couple of movies and a nice bottle of beer. This year, it’s a 4-year-old bottle of chocolate stout that we’ve been saving especially for tonight. I have expectations of it being rich and gorgeous, just as I do for the decades to come.

I’m a terrible girlfriend. That is, I am never really comfortable hanging out exclusively with a group of women. I like to cook and I like fashion, but mostly I don’t get women things. I hate when my female friends talk about their partners behind their backs, and I’m never exactly sure what I’m supposed to say when other women start talking about their weight.

Sure, I have a critical Virgoan eye, and I notice physical changes, but – and I don’t want this to sound heartless – I don’t really care. A loss or addition of 5 pounds or 50 pounds isn’t going to make me change my opinion of someone. As someone who has been fat since puberty, I know better than to judge another person by some arbitrary number on a scale. Which is why I so dearly wish other people would stop judging themselves that way.

These thoughts are prevalent in my head at the moment for a couple of reasons. First, because I’ve just finished reading Rethinking Thin: The New Science of Weight Loss – and the Myths and Realities of Dieting by Gina Kolata. When I put that book down the next thing I read was a series of three essays in the most recent Utne Reader, all on the topic of fat politics and fat acceptance. Combine that with the recent discussion with a friend about her need to lose 35 pounds, despite a plethora of other health and life concerns that make that task very difficult, and I’ve got fat on the brain.

What is so terribly frustrating about the whole thing is how we’ve all bought into the myths. Particularly that being fat is a health risk. In his 2005 book Fat Politics, J. Eric Oliver points out that only 2 illnesses are directly linked to obesity – osteoarthritis of the weight-bearing joints (which makes sense – the more weight you force your joints to carry, the harder they have to work and the more quickly they wear out), and ovarian cancer in women due to the increased estrogen fat produces. Everything else, from diabetes and cancer to heart disease have no direct cause and effect related to excess weight.

Since it’s almost conclusive that a tendency towards obesity is genetic, it’s reasonable to assume that obesity can be considered a genetic marker for these other health concerns – but it’s not a cause. That is, people who are genetically fat are more likely to end up with some of these other health issues – but the fat isn’t **causing** these issues.

This is an important factor in a society where the overweight and obese are not just teased and taunted, but are told they’re costing the health care system billions of extra dollars per year. Fat people are being denied airline flights, health insurance and in some cases in the US are being forced out of their jobs for not losing weight.

Both Kolata and Oliver touch on the issue of a “set point” – the range in which an individual person’s weight will not stray. No matter how many diets a person goes on, no matter how much weight they lose, their bodies will eventually return to their set point range. What this means is that the entire diet industry is arranged to prey on our insecurities and desire to meet an unattainable ideal. That “results may vary” disclaimer at the bottom of all those fitness and diet ads – it’s there for a reason, because all of these organizations, from Weight Watchers to LA Fitness and everything else, are counting on their customers to lose just enough weight that they’ll come back and use this programme again when the weight inevitably returns.

But what about the Body Mass Index? people will exclaim. Eric Oliver explains the origins of the BMI, as well as its many failings – it was never intended to be used to determine health weight for the average person, and it doesn’t take any factors other than height and weight into consideration. In fact, pretty much the entire “obesity epidemic” can be explained by the 1997 decision by the World Health Organization to change the limit for “overweight” from a BMI of 27 to 25. Sure, in the past decade, there has been a huge surge in weight gain as measured by the BMI – millions of people who were considered a normal weight were, literally overnight, considered overweight. And why did the WHO change this definition? Because they were lobbied by a group of drug companies – all of which just happened to make diet drugs.

Not having true control over our shape and size isn’t an excuse to run rampant through a pastry shop, mind you. We all, fat, thin and everything in between, still need to take responsibility for our own health, and that includes eating healthy foods and exercising regularly. But we need to stop blaming. We need to stop blaming fat people for being lazy (we’re not). We need to stop blaming junk food for making kids fat. And we all need to stop blaming ourselves when a few pounds don’t come off.

Maybe it’s the rebel punk in me who hates to see good, intelligent people buying into society’s twisted sense of manipulated beauty, but I have a hard time listening to the women I know put themselves down because of some perceived failing. Who cares if you don’t hit that perfect number on the BMI chart? I’m not going to think any less of you because of it. In fact, I’m likely to have more respect and admiration for someone interested in living their life to the fullest. Someone who, yes, takes care of themselves, but also someone who is able to say “To hell with it. Pass the cheese!” without counting calories and making jokes about where on their body it will end up.

To all my friends and readers – please – learn to be happy with who you are, regardless of your BMI or the size of your hips. Enjoy all the pleasures of the holidays, including the eggnog and the shortbread. Life is too short to spend it wracked with guilt.

I’ve been noticeably absent. Busy, in part, finishing up Christmas stuff (8 kinds of chocolates – done), but also because I’ve been having terrible pain in my hands and wrists. Numbness, too, which is scary. Numbness in one foot as well. I have enough acquaintances suffering from Multiple Sclerosis that I wasted no time in heading to the doctor.

The foot things seems to be my flat feet catching up with me. I had been seeing a chiropodist for ingrown toenails a couple of years ago, and she kept pressuring me to get orthotics, and I think I’m going to have to break down and do it.

The hands confounded the MD though, since one was numb and the other just hurt like a mofo at the wrist. They got me into the neurologists for an EMG pretty quickly, and Wednesday morning I lied around on a hospital bed while a nice lady zapped me with a mini-taser.

After taping electrodes to my hand in various spots, she used a dual-pronged thingie (what? How am I supposed to know what it’s called?) to send a current through my muscles. The fingers of the hand that was experiencing the numbness got little wire loops wrapped around them. And then more electrical current.

It didn’t hurt exactly – it was fast, and felt like getting snapped with an elastic. Apparently some people are really bothered by the whole procedure, but I personally found it kind of cool.

Once the tests were done I was left to wait for 35 minutes for the doctor to come in. I was about to get up and walk out, in fact, when I stuck my head out the door to find someone and tell them I was leaving. There was a man in the room across the hall eating lunch. I told the technician that I had been waiting for over half an hour, and she said the doctor would be right in. Turns out my doctor was the guy I had seen having lunch. Ah, the Ontario health care system in all its glory.

He did some more brief tests and then checked the readouts of my EMG. I’ve got carpal tunnel syndrome in my left hand, probably from leaning on my left elbow while watching TV. Oops.

The right wrist, which is the one that is considerably more painful, shows no nerve damage conducive to carpal tunnel syndrome. And because this injury no longer fell into his area of expertise, he offered no solution, no suggestion or no referral to another doctor who might be able to tell me why my hand feels like it’s about to fall off.

Instead, I’ve got it strapped into a wrist brace while working at the computer, am power-dosing on anti-inflammatories (as per my MD’s instructions) and am oiling up for a daily arm massage that I learned when I worked at the massage school about 15 years ago. It’s bearable if I don’t overwork it.

The left arm gets braced at night while sleeping, and if I can remember to stop leaning on it (a hard habit to break), it should heal in a few weeks.

All of this has made me feel particularly old and creaky. I’ve rearranged some schedule stuff and bailed on some other jobs that were taking up a lot of time and were causing me wrist strain (such as the Wanigan blog), so hopefully I can find some time to exercise my creaky wrists and ankles and stop hurting.

A cessation to the hurting would be very, very good.

Sometimes, my dog sits like she’s posing for a porn mag.

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