A little extra? Beautiful
BOMBARDED BY OTHERS’ MESSAGING, I STARTED TO TRUST MY OWN VOICE
IAM STUCK ON the 101 Freeway and trying to text the word “Traffic” to my date.
The guy I’m on my way to meet for dinner might not know I identify as fat. He has long, thick, silver hair and a well- groomed beard. My friends and I call him Hot Gandalf. He’s seen only a few selfies and one full- body shot in which I’m angled so I appear smaller than I am. Based on my Instagram, he may think I’m just a f loating head with good makeup skills.
★★★
Many people think a fat person is a slob. Especially in L. A. That we are sweaty, eat only fried things out of buckets, are lazy, sloppy, disgusting and have no self- control. I’m none of these things. In fact, before the pandemic, I typically workeded out at two gyms ( one near work and one near home because of — why else? — traffic).
But when you’re the largest of the “straight sizes” and smallest of the “plus sizes,” it’s easy to think you don’t fit in. This in- between is supposedly the average size of American females. But let’s face it, most men in L. A. aren’t looking for “a little extra,” as the dating sites call it.
I’ve not brought up being “a little extra” to Hot Gandalf in our texts because I don’t want it to be a thing. I’m going to do my best when I walk into this restaurant for our first date to make it look like I believe that “thick thighs save lives,” even though I don’t.
I grew up skinny in a suburb of L. A. — a competitive dancer with ballet training. I had a ballet instructor who would slap candy out of my hands and harp on my weight. When my non- dancer friends would go to McDonald’s for lunch, I would eat a boiled egg and half a grapefruit I brought from home. If I could get down to a size 2, my dance instructor would stop bullying me.
The boyfriend I had when I was 20 told me I shouldn’t switch my major from dance because dance was “what pretty girls do.” I had met him in his art class; I was posing, lying on a couch so he could draw me, much like that scene in “Titanic.” That was back when I thought I had this very strong sense of self- confidence, which I now think was strong only because I was trying so hard to hide that I had painfully low self- esteem.
I moved on to music videos. My agent would tell me: “Dress ‘ bodyconscious,’ please.” That usually meant the shortest shorts I could find with some knee- high boots. They’d line us up by height and ethnicity and then make cuts before most of us did one dance move.
This started to make me think: Could I rely on just pretty? Or was there more to me?
I didn’t think I was smart or good at anything else. It was like an invisible demon followed me around, pointing out my weight and imperfections. The demon was always waiting to chime in about the things “pretty girls” did and didn’t do.
After every dance audition that I didn’t get, that demon would tell me it was because I didn’t have rock- hard abs. When I applied at Abercrombie & Fitch, where I wore the largest size offered, my demon laughed when I didn’t get the job, taunting me: “They probably thought you were too fat.”
Over time I would gain more weight. And if I was self- conscious at 100 pounds, you can imagine how I felt at 140 and 180.
When I signed up for online dating, I took photos of myself with glasses on in front of a computer — hoping to distract from the “extra” parts of me.
I’ve tried so hard to accept the new curves and bumps and stretch marks that have come just from living life. I tried to look at others who identified as fat, especially the ones who seemed to love their bodies, hoping somehow their confidence would rub off on me through my phone screen. There’s a slew of # bodypositivity inf luencers who post amazing photos of themselves partially nude, celebrating their big and self- proclaimed weird and imperfect bodies. I wanted to be part of this # bodiposi movement.
Only I could never post a photo of myself like that. I can barely look at myself in the mirror anymore in a crop top or shorts, let alone a bikini.
★★★
I wondered what Hot Gandalf would think. This traffic was making me want to turn around and go home.
Would he be the type of man who would look at an old picture of me and say, “Wow, you were so pretty back then”? Or offer “at least you have a pretty face,” like it’s some consolation prize?
Would he be OK meeting my third- wheelin’ demon?
I left my car with the valet and headed into the Front Yard in Studio City, where I saw Hot Gandalf waiting by the fountain. As I walked toward him, I tried to imagine what it would be like to tell off my demon. Maybe I’d say “Look, dude, whatever perfect ideal of a woman you are picturing ain’t me. In fact, you should look around and get out of your comfort zone a bit more, Mr. Demon — ’ cause big asses are in.”
I’d say, “In fact, you’re now disinvited from every date I go on; you’re not allowed to attend shopping trips to pick out clothes or whisper in my ear how many calories you think I just ate.”
I nervously waved at Hot Gandalf. By now he could see my body, and there was no denying its shape. With every step, I willed myself to stand taller — and I let my own voice drown out the demon’s with # bodiposi cliches like “You do not owe the world pretty” and “You are not a ‘ before’ ” and “You are ‘ a little extra’ but in all the most beautiful ways.”
Hot Gandalf greeted me with a hug and kiss on the cheek and told me I looked prettier in person.
I didn’t feel like I had slayed the demon forever. But in that moment I managed to feel confident and funny and strong and smart.
On the next date, he told me he liked curvy girls like me. After the third, he told me he liked smart girls like me. After the fourth, he told me he simply liked me.
> The author is a Los Angeles- based film and TV producer, A& R consultant and music journalist. She is on Instagram @whatangiesays.
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