Demons (inner).

Standard

Today, I am liking Susie Orbach, for talking about fat and prejudice in The Guardian. It’s becoming clear, in U.K. at least, though I suspect it’s true in other places, that fat discrimination in the job market has become a serious problem. This shouldn’t happen. A person has the skills and is polite and clever enough? They are hireable. Looking for an outward excuse not to hire them is appalling. Size so frequently means nothing.

(What’s embarrassing for me, especially in light of my wussy agnosticism, is that it put the phrase “God loves endless variety” in my head. People who know what movie that’s from will laugh and laugh at me. Shut up.)

But I’m having a dysmorphic week. It doesn’t happen nearly so much anymore, but lately, no matter how much time I spent trying not to weigh myself (even though my weight has been relatively stable all year – NO, SELF, STOP WORRYING ABOUT IT), nor to obsess over the temporary muffin-top my jeans cause, nor to fret that my chin seems a bit saggy, nor to worry about not dealing with the lady mustache more often, I feel old, fat, and incapable. Even though I truly don’t believe those that I’m any of those things, the human brain is a tricky fucker, so, like everyone (presumably), self-doubt is always there, particularly worries over not feeling into a media-friendly image of what a healthy, 34-year-old woman should look like.

I should be too smart to fall in these traps, but I do. And yet I feel aggrieved when other people who obsess about their looks or weight. It’s a constant, and hypocritical, internal struggle. And it’s fucking infuriating. So I’m going for a run, for the good of my endorphins and so I can feel (tiredly) kick-ass today. Accomplishing something is good, folks, whether it be exercise, cooking, or even a self-pitying/navel-gazey blog entry that hasn’t actually said anything new.


Someone nerdier than I has re-imagined the opening credits to QI. I quite like it.

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