Rallying the troops on airplane seating

I love to travel. In July, I was headed out to San Francisco, where I indulged in too much of wine country and good eating.

On my last day in San Francisco, things were going my way. I had yet to see a giant redwood, and a nice park ranger provided me the opportunity to do so when I didn't think I'd be able to. The lady at the airline counter changed my flight to DCA, a blink of an eye from house, rather than its original BWI, more like a nod of the sleeping head on the hour long train ride.

After professing my love to this lady, I board the first leg of my journey home. I grab the first flight from Chicago in the morning straight to DCA. I'm jazzed to be making the short way home, until...

I realize I'm sitting beside another woman of size. I admit it, I overflow the average coach seat. If it's a window seat or an aisle, I can lean in the appropriate direction to get out of the way, but let's face it, there's always, shall we call it, overflow. I was blessed with a flight nearer to my house, but with a middle seat between this lovely larger lady and an older gentleman who quickly realized he would be the thin slice of cheese on top of our open face sandwich. There was no way he wouldn't be pushed into the aisle with all the cart bumps and bruises that brings with it.

There has been a lot of new about how those rocking the extra mass look should pay for two seats, but I don't understand why we aren't uniting against a common enemy. By my best estimate the average coach seat in an airplane are 18 inches from armrest to armrest. I've got no problem admitting my ass is probably in the 24 inch range. But a good size full grown, normal size man's shoulders are around 23 inches. What? A perfectly normal size guy overflows by six inches? Mr. Thinly Sliced deserves just as much room as Ms. Spreads while Sitting!

Come on skinny folks, unite with us on this cause! Stop insisting we should pay twice as much, and start insisting people shouldn't be treated like animals on a commercial crammed farm. Give us the space we deserve. I think additional coach class inches can be universally recognized as a good idea.

The last great thing that happened on my trip is that Mr. Thinly Sliced ponied up the extra cash for a bulkhead seat.  I don't think he should have done it, but because he did I rode from Chicago to National in comfort and grace. For that I'm eternally grateful.

I'll Have a #1 with a Diet Coke

Like most Americans, I occasionally partake in fast food. It's terrible for us, and if you don't eat it within the first 10 minutes, you can taste all the congealed saturated fat, grease, and other disgusting ingredients.

Worse than that, however, are the judging looks I get from customers and staff alike. This usually only happens when you're in the eatery rather than in your car. The blissful disguise of a seat belt, an awkward angle, and someone too busy to notice leaves the staff not caring what you look like. But, when you walk into a McDonald's (or Burger King, or Wendy's...) and order a #1 meal with a diet coke, they look at you in disbelief.

A friend finally asked me, "Why do you order a diet drink if you're just going to put all those calories into your body, anyway?" Wait, that's what all the looks are about? It's not because a chunky girl is ordering fattening and unhealthy food?

I order a Diet Coke because I prefer the taste. No, it's not some sort of last-ditch effort for the diet I started that morning (and the one I'll start tomorrow morning, and the morning after...). I just prefer the taste of artificial sweetener over regular sugar. At least with my drinks. My oreo McFlurrys better have a ton of sugar and cream in them, thank you.

And why do I prefer the taste? It's because all those years ago, I started drinking diet pop over regular because at that time, I was trying to cut down on calories. I was trying to lose weight and avoid sugary foods. When all my other tactics failed - stop eating cheese, baked goods, so much wine, etc. - the taste of diet stuck. And now it's here to stay.

So, all you co-fast food eaters: Don't judge me because I'm getting a Diet Coke with my Big Mac. I like the taste. And I don't care if you think it's weird, or if you think I should get a salad with my Diet Coke. Just because I'm fat doesn't mean I don't have preferences, that I eat everything in the most unhealthy manner possible. I don't comment when you're eating your disgusting Mac & Cheese from a box, or gloppy, tasteless spaghetti. Let us fat girls have our diet drink with our fattening food, and we'll let you have your rabbit food at a steakhouse.

Inspired by my partner in crime, one if my favorite dating nightmares...

Back in the day when this happened, I’d been working solid 10 hour days. So when JJ called to say, "Hey, let’s finally get together." I thought, Yes, I can go out, get a drink, have some fun! I’ll admit I don’t know JJ very well, spoken with him a couple of times, thought he was good looking, but basically a blank slate. What an opportunity!

We spoke at 8 pm, and decided to get together for a late dinner, at 10 pm. I’d asked him he liked Thai and suggested a restaurant by my house. I get a call at 8:30, "Did you know that place is Thai? I’m off Thai. Bad bout of food poisoning." OK, I can understand that, maybe he misheard me. No problem, Let’s go to Lauriol Plaza.

Lauriol was a strategic decision as well. It was very close to my old house, so if things go right, conveniently located. If things go awry, I’m hardly inconvenienced. Plus, it’s raining. Who wants to go very far when it’s raining? You’ve got to make the boys work for at least a little, ladies!

I get home and decide to shower and change, as all good people do on a first date. I get a phone call at 9:00. "Why don’t we meet at 9:30?" Well, I want to change. I’ll see you at 10:00.

9:30, my phone rings. "You’re not going to believe this. It’ll be an hour for the cab. I’m going to the metro." 9:45, "I’m waiting for the yellow line, as the blue line’s taking forever." 10:00, "I’m on the green line." 10:05, "I’m at the metro stop. What are the directions to the restaurant." 10:15, "I’m at the restaurant, where are you?"

Somewhere in the midst of the 9:00 and 9:30 phone calls, I began to worry about my date a little. This has suddenly turned from a good idea to a really annoying one. I’ve called my friends for backup. They support the general date idea, but warn me to be careful. At least people now know where I am. Besides, he’s a cop, he can’t be that bad.

I’d gotten to the restaurant a little before him to order a drink. When he comes in, I think, now there’s a good looking guy. Then he says, "I need food. I’m grumpy." We get our table, sit down, and I say, maybe we could be annoyed for 5 minutes and then let it go? "No," says he, "I’m the one in control."

Oh you are are you? I knew right then that my instincts were correct. This would be a one date wonder, if I could even make it that far. 

At that moment my margarita glass was empty, and the waiter appeared at my side. I ordered a sangria, and he advised me that it would be less expensive to order a half pitcher if I thought I would have more than two. Looking at my date, one more time, I turn to the waiter and say, I’m going to need a half pitcher.

It’s not that JJ didn’t have potential, but the list of first date don’ts grew far too long for me. Some examples:

1. Complete non sequiter, "I’ve kissed a man before." My response: How’d that work out for you?

2. Followed up with, "I’ve kissed a frog before." My response: Well, which was better the man or the frog?

3. A personal favorite: "Have you ever noticed how all the white people get off at one metro stop, and all the black people get off at another." My response: Well, that’s DC.

4. "This girl I hooked up with a few months back, well, we didn’t hook up, we dated, well, we didn’t date, we just went out, she left this sweatshirt at my house. She just emailed me and asked me to give it back. Like, I can’t believe that. What would you do?" My response, ummm, give her shirt back?

The end of the date come, without a single interesting tidbit shared. I’m thinking this guy’s a cop, and can’t even come up with a cool story about how he shook down some criminal, it’s not even worth my time.

We head out on the streets, and I take my leave. JJ shakes my hand, says, "How about a hug." Before I can respond, he moves in for a kiss. Argh! Ugh! I felt like I’d kissed a frog. I couldn’t believe this guy. Then I get a "call me when you get home!" Right! Why? To prove I’m crazy, like you.

Needless to say I don’t call him, but 12:00 rolls around and guess who’s on the phone…

Fat Girls Guide to Dating in DC - Vol I "My Friends Call Me a Chubby Chaser"

"My friends call me a chubby chaser." Ladies, if these words are ever uttered during a date - shoot, anytime you're near the man - walk away. Walk away quickly. Because it only goes downhill from there.

I should have known how disastrous it would be right from the start. I met this interesting guy online (more about online dating later - that's a whole other topic!) and we agreed to meet for a couple of drinks and then a movie. Yes, a movie is lame for a date but I had preview tickets to a movie that hadn't hit the screens yet, so it was a little different than your average romcom on a Friday night.

I've seen his face photo; he's seen mine. He shows up about three inches shorter than he described...which puts him about at my chin. Ugh - minus one. He's dressed well, smells nice, and lights up when he sees me. Okay - plus one. Back to even.

A first date turns into a second, despite his obsession with quoting Borat every five minutes - "Very Niiiiiiiiiiiiiiice!" (Ugh - minus 10)

He picks the place for the second date, and this is when I should have walked away. He picked a gay bar because he likes "open mic night." Uh, okay. I'm all about gay bars. It's empty, we get a nice table, get drinks, and he signs up for his song. Are you ready for it? West Virginia by John Denver. My brain started screaming at me Get out now!!! Run!!! But do I listen? No, because I'm fascinated by this train wreck I'm enduring.

As we're chatting, he throws out the precursor... "I really like girls like you." Oh no he didn't. He is NOT going to go there. But he does.

I reply: "What do you mean? Intelligent, independent women?"
Him: "No, you know." (I still can't believe this!)
Me: "No, I really don't. The red hair? Men love redheads."
Him: "Yeah, I like that too. No, I mean, you know. Your type...."
Me: Sitting with an expectant look upon my face.
Him: Searching for words, "Well, my friends call me a chubby chaser..." (Minus 100)
Me: "Seriously, did you just tell me that?"
Him: Defensive. "Well, I like what I like!!"
Me: "Why don't you write this down for the next girl you meet. You don't tell the chubby you're chasing that your friends call you a 'chubby chaser.'"

It was shock and awe. He hit me so hard and so fast I wasn't sure what to do. I was rooted in the sand. He tried to pick up the conversation from there. But after that, it just got worse. The waiter at the gay bar asked if I was his "beard"; my date then sang the worse rendition of John Denver I'd ever heard in my life; then he started arguing over our differing political views.

This chubby had had enough. I jumped out of my seat, threw a $20 on the table, and told him, "Listen, buddy. You're rude, you can't sing, and the waiter thinks you're gay. You can stop chasing this chubby. I'm out." You want a movie quote? How about Yippee-cayay, mother f***er. Or, he can kiss both sides of my a$$. Or just plain, SCREW YOU!

I felt glorious, despite the angry tears in the corner of my eyes. He ran after me to accuse me of being "crazy" and "needing pills" but I still felt like I had won the day.

So ladies, let this be a lesson. If a guy lies about his height - it's one thing. If he can't stop quoting Borat - that's bad, too. But when he proclaims that he's a "chubby chaser" - walk away. Walk as quickly and as far away as you can. Because it doesn't get any better than that.

**Look for a new volume of dating horror stories each week!**

Can you still wear your prom dress?

I lost some weight once. It involved a lot of running. I mean a lot. The thing is, I was only a size 14 running three miles a day and working out. Who has time for that? Who has the knees for that?

There seems to be some pride in being able to fit into your prom dress past the age of 30. I can, but I’m one of the lucky ones who has never been thin. I can only imagine the horror and dismay of waking up one day to find a fat you in the mirror when you’re used to thin you. Size 18 at 18 to size 18 at 32. The prom dress was green velvet with palazzo pants. Comfort and class, I strive for you always.

I’m not saying I don’t have the typically broad range of size in the closet. What sizable lass hasn’t rocked a size 14 one year to find herself in a 20 the next? Or to give away the 22s swearing she would never see 2X in the label again.

If I lose weight these days, I don’t give clothes to Goodwill. I give them to friends and relatives so I can visit them. Pinstripe capris went to Mom. Boatneck sweater to the best friend. Mod flower print dress to the sister-in-law as soon as I see her next. It’s not so much that I hope to get these back, as I want to know these clothes have found a safe size 16 home.

It isn’t all about the clothes, though. It’s the attitude. I’m less impressed by Jillian Michaels yelling at me than I am by the woman I saw on the beach in Nice, France, 1998, with the golden tan, golden bikini, and golden hair—coming in at probably 250 pounds. She was full of life, surrounded by kids and sun. Confidence, my friends, if we can carry confidence, we can carry any weight. 

Ashley Falcon, Have You Cornered the Market?

Ashley Falcon, have you beaten us to the fat girl - excuse me, "big girl" - market? Who are you, and how did you read my mind? Better yet, how did you get picked up by Marie Claire magazine as the voice for any woman who has been described as chunky, chubby, big, fleshy, big-boned, heavyset, heavier, obese, thick, a little extra, BBW, and any other synonym of fat?

I don't read a lot of fashion magazines. In fact, I don't read a lot of magazines, period. I prefer elevated literature such as gossip blogs and trashy romance novels. So as I was getting my feet done today (one of the few non-discriminatory things in which a fat girl can partake), I picked up one of the old Marie Claire's laying around. I've been meaning to read Marie Claire since I discovered my secret obsession, TV show Project Runway. (A raise of hands, please, for those of you on the edge of your seats each week waiting for Heidi Klum to pronounce Marie Claire's fashion editor's name..."Neeeenah Gah-seee-ah" with that short, clipped German accent.)

Back to the point. I'm flipping through and I see this little one-pager entitled "Big Girl in a Skinny World." It was a little fashion piece written by "big girl" Ashley Falcon. Lo and behold, she was talking about wearing a properly fitting bra! I guess we chunks think alike.

This made me wonder - do you have the "fat girl" market cornered, Ashley Falcon? Are you ready to let it all hang out? Are you ready to talk about the worst dates you've ever been on, what it's like to sleep with a man you think you might crush, just how jiggly your jelly gets? Well, I'm ready. So bring it, Ashley Falcon. Sure, you know how to dress. You know how to show off all those luscious curves. But this girl knows how to, in the words of Tim Gunn, make it work.

Lingerie--living large.

I knew I was in trouble when I skipped the training bra. My first bra was a B cup, at age 10. This bra was purchased a Sears and looked like it could shield me from bullets and sex alike. White, with a flower for decoration, I entered my mother's preference of support over sexiness and function over fun.

While my teenaged self may not have known better, I later realized this wasn't my mother's preference, but one of the market. There was nothing interesting available, and my problem grew with my cup size.

It took two decades to discover a solution. Singular. One. La Mystere Dream Tisha. Amazing. Compliments abound when the girls stand proud--supported, without lines, full of hopes and dreams of former perky glory.

There are supportive bras that have no prayer of looking cute. There are cute bras that have no hope of being supportive. In its simplicity, there is sexy.

Be warned, though the bulk of the solution will take up the bulk of your lingerie drawer.