October In The Chair

I had an "incident" at work a week or so ago with our new Director of Strategic Marketing that I've been brooding mulling over.

She was sitting in the break area with our Insurance Director and I had walked in to hand out some new keys (I'm the keymaster) because all of our locks had recently gotten changed. Now, keep in mind it's only her second week working with all of us.

her: So, you really do wear black every day, don't you?
me: Yep. Since I was 12.
her: I had started to wonder about it the other day when I first realized.
me: Yeah, you should see my closet. It's kind of funny. I've attempted to wear colors once in a while, but I've been doing this so long that it makes me uncomfortable to wear anything that isn't black. I like it, though.
Insurance Director: And it suits you.
her: You should totally go on one of those makeover shows.

More conversation happened after that, mostly me ranting about "those makeover shows" because all they would do is make me throw out all the clothes I've spent my hard-earned money on, cut my hair, tell me to cover my tattoos and take out my piercings. There was also a bit of soapboxing over unfair and unrealistic beauty standards being perpetuated by those shows. Needless to say, I'm not a fan of them.

And? She didn't get the hint. Not even in the least. She kept pushing the subject and trying to convince how good of an idea it was and I got pregressively angrier and more uncomfortable with the situation. It got to the point where I told her about how our previous accounts payable clerk made a joke about volunteering me for a show and how I told her if she ever did, she would have to look over her shoulder for the rest of her life. And she still didn't get it.

At first, I was only slightly peeved by the entire affair. I'm used to hearing shit like this because I dress outside the norm and have done so for more years than most LJ users have been in existence on the planet. I can usually shrug it off. My boss, who had not been there that day, heard about this incident through the grapevine (another thing I'm annoyed about, because I wasn't going to tell her) and quizzed me about it, wanting to know if I wanted to make a complaint. And I told her I didn't.

But, the more I think about it- the more it bothers me.

God knows I'm not a fashion plate; I recognize this. However, I dress professionally (even if it is mainly all black and normally involves combat boots). I'm allowed to wear my piercings at work and have my tattoos visible, therefore I do. Shit, it's half the reason why I continue to work there. I've worked in uber-corporate environments and it sucks, but I can do it if I have to. My clothes may not be found on the pages of Vogue, but I do have a sense of style. It's just my own style.

But, this chick thinks she can just waltz in and dole out advice on my appearance? Who does she think she is?

On top of all of this is the constant talk in the office of everyone's weight (and I've complained about this before). Almost every single person in the office constantly bemoans how fat they are when very few of them actually are. Eating disorders seem to be de rigueur and that's quite annoying as well. They go on unrealistic diets, constantly scruntinize each other's food in addition to their own (that's always a party), talk about how they need to exercise, and ask our doctorboss (who runs a weight-loss service) for help. Fat is a dirty word.

I'm very open about being fat. How could I not be? You know as soon as you look at me. But, you should see their faces when I refer to myself as fat and not in a negative sense, but only in a descriptive way. It even happened on Friday which just passed.

I made a comment along the lines of not being able to find some article of clothing (it escapes me as to what, at the moment) at the fat girl store (my pet name for Lane Bryant). And our purchaser almost had a heart attack over it.

her: Don't call yourself that?
me: Why? Was it a secret?

She was horrified.

I don't get it.

Very little known fact: I have a serious problem with The Learning Channel (and to a lesser extent, since it became so asstastic of late, The Discovery Channel). I can sit and watch it for hours upon hours, especially when they show programs like I am My Own Twin and Born Without a Face.

Wednesday night, I had the apartment to myself because the Engineer was at his ooky-spooky Freemason meeting and my brother was passed out in his bedroom. And I hit a veritable jackpot of television-watching.

I came in the door, fed all the animals, and sat down on the ottoman to take my boots off. This is standard procedure for What Happens When Tara Comes Home (tm). Occasionally, I switch this up with Making The Cats Sing Before I Feed Them (tm) or, one of my personal favorites, Running To The Bathroom With My Coat On Before I Pee Myself (tm).

At any rate, this was a normal night. On the ottoman, taking off boots, starving because I hadn't really eaten all day, and browsing through the tv guide function to see if anything good was currently on.

And what do I spy? I Eat 33,000 Calories A Day.

...buh?

I have no words.

For the next thirty minutes, I continued to sit on the ottoman (with only one shoe taken off because I got distracted by this program) and I stared at the horror on the screen.

Close your eyes. Now imagine eating 33,000 calories in a day.

They kept showing close-ups of this one man (who hadn't been able to leave his apartment in five years and needed continuous pure oxygen pumped into his nose) while he was eating fried egg sandwiches.

My stomach warred with itself, torn between being direly hungry and never wanting to eat ever the fuck again.

The entire experience left me full of a healthy dose of self-loathing and an inexplicable craving for sausages.

After this program came Abigal and Brittany Turn 16, which actually sounds more like some kind of dodgy wankfest of a film instead of something you'd find on The Learning Channel.

It was about a set of conjoined twins who are basically two heads on one body. Easily my favorite type of conjoined twins, and easily beating Lori and Dori Schappell hands down (the little one in that set seems to be such a goddamn bitch, although I reckon I would also be a wee cunty if in addition to being a twin cojoined at the face, I also had a raging case of spinal bifada). Also, pardon me, it's not Dori. It's Reba. *

Later on, while discussing the Abigal and Brittany show with the Engineer:

me: They've mostly got their own organs, each. Two hearts, two sets of lungs, two stomachs, two small intestines. But, they share a liver and they share a small intestine.

him: Do they have only one vagina?

me: *withering look* Yes. They have only one vagina.

him: Can they both feel out of the vagina?

me: *glare*

him: What? They each only feel on one side of the body. It's an honest question.

me: It's also not something that the Learning Channel really got into. Although I suppose that if you absolutely must know, I reckon they do indeed both feel out of the vagina.





footnote-
* Just as an aside, on the Wiki page for Lori and Reba, I saw this: Said Lori: "I do not ask for anything from Reba. I don't get in to her concerts free just because she's a conjoined twin. I have to pay, just like every other fan that comes to the concert."

Seriously, what the shit is that? She makes her sister pay to get into the concerts she performs? How messed up is that? One, she's a conjoined twin and therefore has no CHOICE whether or not she has to attend the concert. And two, she can't even get in on the freaking GUESTLIST? Jesus.

Holy Mary, Mother of Mice.

I'm beginning to believe, scratch that- I damn well know that the majority of the people in my office are suffering from eating disorders. Or are on the verge of having one. I've never seen such a group of people with so many unhealthy relationships with food. It's unsettling and saddening and frightening, all at the same time.

All they ever want to do is eat salad. Every. Single. Day. But, the salad isn't good enough. They have to pick out all of the things that actually come with the salad. You know, the shit that's listed on the menu? They don't like eggs, they don't like cheese, there's too many croutons, the dressing isn't fat-free. Here's an idea, order the salad the way you would like it to be. I realize that it's a startling and novel concept, but it's not so hard to wrap one's mind around. I have sat and watched people order what is called a "Sport Salad" from this one detestable place called TJ's. It consists of lettuce, grilled chicken, cheese, olives, onions, tomatoes, cucumbers and croutons. Apparently, the meaning behind "Sport Salad" is something with a lot of protein. For athletes. So, they order this salad and then procede to pick out everything but the chicken and the lettuce. Where is the sense in that? And if they've brought their own lunch, it's either a crappy little salad from Wawa or some bullshit Lean Cuisine to be microwaved.

This is what happens on the days that I bring my own lunch and they don't have me to fall back on for decision-making. Every day I don't bring my own lunch, it's a new circus revolving around lunch. What are we doing for lunch today? And they all come to me, like I'm some kind of grand decision maker (which is quite a laugh if you know me well, because I can barely decide what clothing to put on in the morning, let alone what a small group of people should eat for lunch). I inevitably tell them something like Thai or Indian, because I am heartily sick of the sandwich places. They all offer the same damn thing, it's all hastily prepared and with minimal thought into how it actually looks or tastes, and it's all gross. I want something good. I want it to look good, smell good, and taste good. And I don't want it offered on the same menu as cheesesteaks and Italian hoagies. Fuck that noise.

Everyone cries about what I've decided, despite the fact that they came to me for my decision, because not only do they have eating disorders, but they're bordering on xenophobic as well. What's that? How do you pronounce it? I don't like how that looks. That's too weird for me. How do you know that's real chicken and not dog? blah blah blah. Motherfuckers, it's PAD THAI. Noodles, chicken, bean sprouts, peanuts, and a mild sauce. How is that unusual? And if I have to once again teach someone how to pronounce giew grob, I'm going to start screeching. Say it like it's spelled. It's not difficult and you're not stupid.

So, now we have people who are afraid of food, afraid of the fat or whatever in the food, and afraid of different kinds of food.

But yet, the second someone brings in a cake or a box of cookies or some sort of sweet thing, it's like a plague of locusts have descended upon the earth. And then, the crying and moaning over how they shouldn't have eaten such horrible things goes on for an hour or two, with additional boasting lamenting about how now they're not going to eat dinner.

C'mon, people. I may have a fat ass, but it's certainly not because I have an unhealthy relationship with food. My problem is that I'm a decadent. I enjoy indulgence and I'm incredibly lazy on top of it. The picture perfect definition of a Libra, I would reckon. I used to think that my problem was that I had an unhealthy food relationship, that I ran to comfort eating whenever I had a problem. But, I started scrutinizing my eating habits and how they corresponded with depression or manic episodes. And they didn't match up at all. When I get depressed, I don't eat. When I get stressed out, I don't eat and I smoke too much on top of it all. Overall, I'm not too fond of sweets (except for dark chocolate and that is in small amounts), but cream and butter? Cheese? Red meat and bacon? Oh sweet, suffering Jesus. That's a bit of Heaven, if you ask me. The good thing is that I'm just as likely to get all googly-eyed over garlic-roasted cauliflower (ingredients: garlic cloves, cauliflower, little bit of olive oil, salt and pepper) as I am over Cajun crabmeat au gratin. I could eat garlic-roasted cauliflower all goddamn day, if left to my own devices. And if I took my nose out of a book for long enough to actually walk around the block a couple of times a week, my ass wouldn't be so big and my arms wouldn't jiggle quite so alarmingly.

That out of the way, I'm fairly perplexed by my co-workers' attitude about food and the attitude of women and food, in general. I know it's largely (no pun intended) because of how women have been made to feel about their bodies by advertising and media, but when did it all get quite so neurotic? Are we so afraid of being potentially unloved and abandoned that we'll starve ourselves on iceberg lettuce and whatever high-priced, chemical-laden diet food is currently popular?

And really, the high-priced, chemical-laden diet chow is such a crock of bullshit. Fake food, it reminds of the plastic play food that comes with toy kitchens. All of those chemicals, just to produce something that looksvaguely like food and provides minimal calories/fat. What nonsense is that? All of that shit is full of sodium and horrifying things I can't pronounce. And it does absolutely nothing but make your body believe that it actually ingested something nutrious. Here's an idea: eat something fresh that hasn't been processed to the point where it barely qualifies as food anymore. Eat normal-sized portions, don't starve yourself. Move around more. Don't look for the magic answer that's going to make you look like a fashion model, it doesn't exist.

And stop relying on your BMI as an indicator of whether you're going to die old and alone or not.