Kitty Fisher

Size-positivity, feminism, self-esteem crises, ginormous tits.

Archive for October, 2008

less is more

Posted by Kitty on October 22, 2008

Here is a story about another teammate, another story told in the bar the other night. She is what some might (erroneously) call “a slip of a thing”; my height, five seven, but she is nearly a hundred pounds lighter than I am. To her sorrow, roller derby made what small endowments she had in her bra shrink to nearly nothing. But in return, instead of toothpick legs, she now has hard smooth muscular thighs, thin but solid.
What she lacks in bulk, she makes up for in volume: loud, outspoken, and opinionated, this girl never shrinks from confrontation, never shies away from self-expression. When she joined us she was a terrible skater, barely able to keep her feet on the ground. She still falls frequently. But out of sheer cussed determination, she has become a fast skater; what she still lacks in agility, she makes up for in both perseverance and speed.
She occasionally expresses a wish for a fuller figure. She can shop in the children’s section for her clothes. And while it’s great to be able to buy a little girl’s sports bra for $10 instead of a woman’s for $30, she admits that sometimes she wishes she “just had some titties”. She also feels like she has to use grippier wheels than some of the heavy girls– on corners, she can’t keep her center of gravity low enough, and her wheels slide out from under her. (In roller derby there’s a ceaseless debate over grippier vs. faster wheels– you don’t want mushy wheels to slow you down and create resistance as you roll, but if you hit a corner too fast on hard wheels your feet will go out from beneath you. The perfect wheels find a place in the middle, between speed and grippiness, so you can go flat out, not feel like you’re dragging through mud, and not lose it on corners.)

Not long ago she had a terrible bout of something unspecified and intestinal, that left her unable to keep food down, and all she could drink was blue Gatorade. She shed what little weight she had to shed, and grew weak, listless, and unable to focus.

People kept telling her how hot she was. People would stop her on the street and tell her, awestruck, how beautiful she was. Now, back at 120, all lean muscle and spiky highlighted hair, people don’t stop her on the street anymore.

“People are sick,” she said last night, beer in hand, as she told her story. “Sick. I was nearly dead! What’s wrong with me now, huh? I wish I had some titties, but I think I’m pretty hot now. I do all right. I don’t pass out. But people don’t treat me like they did then, when I was a skeleton. Why would less of me be better? I’m already a fucking stick figure! I work what I got, yeah, but shit. People are sick.”

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beautiful

Posted by Kitty on October 20, 2008

She is beautiful. Heart-shaped face, flawless clear white skin, wide-set eyes of the clearest deep blue, jewel-like, fringed with black lashes; her mouth is wide, shapely, and always a slightly glossy red, quick to a knowing smile that reveals perfect white teeth.
Her hair is tousled, flawless highlights scattered in sweaty curls. Helmet head. She has just been skating for nearly two hours, and her shirt collar is damp, her hair sticking up unevenly, disarranged.
“You all are bad for me,” she says, sitting on the speaker by the mute jukebox, a little higher up than the rest of us, who are sitting at the table in the bar. “You all tell me these things, tell me how you love it when I booty-block you, tell me how gorgeous my ass is and how jealous you are of it. And it goes straight to my head.”
We are teammates, friends; we’ve known one another for years, and we know one another’s foibles, weaknesses, troubles, snatches of one another’s histories. There is no reason she should be able to hold us spellbound, but we each seem to have independently decided to let her. Yes, she is that pretty, and yes, she is that charming. She is funny, but we well know the edge she carries, always ready to cut. She has wounded me before, but then, I have most likely wounded her. We are after all teammates. We’ve been through a lot.
“So it catches me completely off guard, because of all this flattery,” she goes on, “when I go out to a bar, and the men come, and they say cruel things. Like last weekend. I had told this man that his story was boring. I was doing him a favor. His story was a train wreck; nobody was listening, and he was dragging us all off the rails with him. I was only being direct, as my people are.” She is from a neighboring city, where people are more direct of manner than in our city. “You know, I was doing him a favor. But he got that look on his face, that posture,” she tilted her head back and forth, moving her shoulders as battling roosters do when sizing one another up, “that ‘yo mamma’ kind of posture, and I thought oh shit, it’s on now. And I was ready, you know I can dish it out and I can take it. But then he says, So you think you’re so clever, in your stupid scarf that doesn’t match your shirt! Oh, oh! I said, Oh no! Oh no, it’s the fashion police! And this man, this man with hockey hair and acne like pennies in craters down his face, he stands up and he holds his hands out to either side of his hips,” and she gestures, holding a hand about six inches away from her own hips, “and he says Oh yeah? Oh yeah, and shakes his ass and his hands.” She gestures, mimicking the gesture.
She is a plus-size model. She wears a size S shirt, in our two-piece skating uniform, and a size XL skirt. The same size skirt I wear. But I wear an XXL shirt. I am top-heavy. She… She is bottom-heavy, to put it mildly. To put it explicitly, she has the kind of waist-hip ratio that reduces most human animals to mute salivation. It is primal. It is hypnotizing.
It is mockable.
She tries to be proud of it. She is beautiful. She is funny. She is dangerous. She is steel and velvet and has her face in magazines. She can work eyes, mouth, across a room and reduce men and women to puddles of goo.
“Oh yeah,” she says, bitterly, mocking this man mocking her, shaking as if holding a gigantic pair of hips. “My friend grabbed my arm, my shy girlfriend, and said That is it, we are not staying at this lame party, and all of you can fuck yourselves. And she took me to the car. And she drove me the whole way home, and I was crying so hard I couldn’t talk. My eyes swelled shut.”
She looks around at us, her audience.
“You girls are bad for me. You inflate my head, saying all these nice things about my ass. It makes it such a shock, every time, when this happens to me. But it happens all the time. That was the first in a set. Last night some local asshole was the second time. I’m waiting for the third one.”

Another bar patron comes over. She is middle-aged, partially toothless. She wants to use the jukebox. “Excuse me, ladies,” she says, cheerful, friendly. “Move your fat asses, can ya?”
The looks we all turn on her must have been frightening; she holds up her hands. “Skinny asses!” she says. My teammate hops down off the speaker, shooting me a rueful smile. The woman says to her, “Skinny asses!” but my gorgeous teammate just walks back to the bar, shaking her head.

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name change

Posted by Kitty on October 16, 2008

I got myself a new handle, commensurate with a new angle. I am unable to delve into the yawning pit of terror that is my relationship with my body and looks interestingly anymore. It’s just… not interesting. I’m not going to sit around, either, and wait to feel better. I’m going to go do something to make myself feel better.
I’m starting a garden and focusing my eating more on eating locally available foods, and yet not in a preachy way.
I bought a bike trainer so I could ride the expensive bike I got several years ago (actually, I inherited it, and bought nice new parts for it, and bought my boyfriend an expensive bike to go along with it) and never ever ever ride.
I have decided to let myself read books again. (I don’t get to read books like alcoholics don’t get to drink: because I can’t stop once I start, I can’t have moderate amounts, I can’t pace myself, and once I fall into reading, I am completely unable to do anything else.) But only while riding the bike.
I love and hate exercise. I hate it because it’s boring. I love it because my sadistic roller derby coach got me hooked on exercise endorphins and I just fucking love the sensation when you’re out of breath and your heart is pounding and you have just told your body to suck it, you don’t care if it hurts, because you know you can go faster than that– and you’re right. So fuck you, boredom, and fuck you, pain. I am going to read and love it, I am going to exercise and love it. We’ll see how that goes.

And I have decided to take more nude photos of myself. I’ve always had a mixed relationship with this sort of thing. I love taking the photos. I hate seeing the photos. I am going to do something about this contradiction.

Just as only blogging finally made me write faithfully, so having an audience is more likely to make me actually follow through with this. So I’m looking into venues where I could sell these photos of myself. I don’t know if I’ll follow through with it. I’m going to try it.

Hence the new name. I’m considering being a pretentious asshole and making you Google it, but I won’t. Kitty Fisher was a whore. She was a famous whore. The image of her I’ll undoubtedly use as my avatar is of her dissolving a pearl in a glass of wine; she also is rumored to have eaten a thousand-pound bank note with butter on bread. She was that in-demand, that fucking rich, that rebellious.
This is not a situation I anticipate encountering myself, by any means. (For one thing, I’m so neurotic with money that I’ve lived on $5k a year, and it’s looking like I’m going to do so again. I had more money than I could spend, at one point, and my impulse was to hide it in the mattress. For another thing, I’m not Kitty fucking Fisher, I’m pushing thirty and fat and pasty and pretty damn clumsy really.)
But we’ve got to have role models. And why not aim high? As roller derby has taught me, it’s easier to push yourself beyond your normal limits (I don’t know how to roller skate!!!) if you give yourself a new name first. A new name, a new persona. Be someone else. I can’t skate, but my alter-ego can.

So, a new name. A new attitude. I won’t sit here in frustration and anger in a darkened room. I will not wait for my attitude towards my recalcitrant body to improve via the miracle of positive thinking. I will fucking do something.

(I should make clear, too, that I’m not going to obsessively exercise because I want to be thinner, but because my roller derby team has a shot at the championship this year and I will not be a second-stringer, who gets put in the lineup to let better skaters rest and to fill gaps with a warm body. I want to be strong, I want to be fucking unstoppable. I want to be feared. I will eat whatever the fuck makes me feel good– and I know from experience that food whose origin I can identify makes me feel much better than the anonymous grocery-store kind. If my thighs blossom up to 23 inches, 24 inches, I will not care, not even if they are jiggly, as long as underneath they are rock-solid and immovable.)

I probably ought to hire a photographer to do a proper shoot. But I have a little ways to go first.

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over here

Posted by Kitty on October 9, 2008

I have been having trouble lately mustering up the gumption to write here. To do so, I have to sit down and think about my body. And I’m just not… it doesn’t feel good. For a while there, being defiant and angry kept me going, and made me full of fire to post rants and essays and polemics here. But lately the anger has faded, and I just… feel fat. That’s pretty much how it goes.
I have other blogs, where I talk about things besides being fat and having completely ridiculous proportions. It’s easier to fall back on those, as the seasons turn. But it means I neglect this one, which is isolated and anonymous. I still feel like this is an important issue– obviously it is, if someone so immersed in the Fat Acceptance movement that she started a blog, is still falling prey to all the negative body-image stuff. But I don’t know how to write about it.
Because I gained yet more weight this fall, while nursing a foot injury that kept me off-skates. Then I pulled a nerve in my back. I know I need to exercise more because more exercise makes me less physically fragile. But I also know that I can’t count on exercise to make my body go “back the way it was”. It won’t. My body changes one way only. And I don’t like the way my body is. I don’t like the direction it’s headed. I am still far enough back that anything older, bigger, saggier is instinctively seen as a bad thing. I have stretch marks in new places. I am now hopelessly beyond the range of most bra manufacturers. I console myself that at least I can finally fit into Lane Bryant’s clothes, which is a pretty big step– for the first time in about ten years, I can shop at the mall with a reasonable expectation of finding a selection, as opposed to just one item, that will fit me. And I don’t have to try on the whole store to find it!
But it’s scant consolation in the face of so much negativity.

So I will probably be back. But I don’t know when I’ll feel good about myself again, good enough to get fired up and post an essay.

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