I had a realization yesterday… fit people have bad days too.
What in the actual fuck? How?
Pretty people have one out that I don’t think they use
enough. One escape that can instantly put a positive spin on anything. You.
Are. Fucking. Fit. How the hell do you not notice this? No matter what life
throws at you, you look good, and that’s all that matters. The whole world is
at your fingertips.
I think this is closer to how I subconsciously have felt
than I always like to admit. I blame all of life’s failures on being fat.
However, I think that has been a crutch instead of a catalyst for change. Expectations
are a motherfucker. The status quo is easy, even if it is hard. Change and the unknown
are always harder. Its easy to pin my shortcomings on other peoples judgement
of my weight, than it is to accept that I actually have shortcomings.
Being passed up for a job, or sitting alone on a Saturday night,
or losing the big deal at work; I have spent my entire life pawning all of
these life events off on my physique. Of course, the handsome guy got the job,
or the date, or won the deal. They are handsome guys. They whole world was made
for handsome dudes who lack self-awareness. The dumpy white dude cursed with self-reflection
is built to self loathe. Life is easier without having anyone expect anything
from you, even yourself.
Truth is I am a monster of my own design. Feeling feelings
sucks. Especially the negative ones. I have never felt I maxed out my own
potential. I have avoided chasing the highs, in fear of the lows. I have used
the built in lack of expectations, to hide from trying. Here is a great example
of this.
My brother Jimmy has cerebral
palsy. He is quadriplegic and confined to a wheelchair. He is also extremely magnetic
and wired with an overabundance of “fuck you, I can do it”. He started his
academic career at a school meant to help physically disabled students learn to
harness their physical beings as well as learning their ABC’s, but finished his
academic career by graduating from Oregon State University. He needs an aid to
help him with every aspect of life; eating, showering, getting dressed, taking
notes in class, and getting to bed… hell, he needs help clearing the sleep from
his eyes, and scratching his ear. The man types using a propped up keyboard
that he pecks with his nose. He can take nothing for granted and his entire
existence is shadowed with the realization that he has no physical control of
his world. With all of these perceived hurdles, he still achieved. He was
student body vice president of his high school, attended every football and
wrestling practice in spite of not being able to participate, and he was friends
with everyone he ever met.
When I walked into my first day of
high school, Jimmy had already applied weight to our name. I was sitting in gym
class when Coach Dave Foust began taking roll. He made his way down the line up
of awkward and terrified newcomers, bellowing out name after name, each one
being met by a cracking/nervous/faintly voiced “here”. As soon as Coach Foust
called out “Brett Johnson”, I knew I was next… but instead of calling out my
name, he just stopped and looked at his sheet. He slowly looked up at me and inquisitively
said “Ed…. Kiester”. When I responded
that I was indeed in attendance, he smiled this sideways smiled and asked, “Kiester,
as in Jimmy Kiester”. “Yeah, he’s my brother” I answered. He stood there in his
1980’s issued skin tight polyester PE teacher shorts, and unnecessarily sexual identity
testingly tight and perfectly tucked in Spartan blue polo, and he giggled out
two words which I will never forget… “You’re fucked”. I raised my eyebrows and
my heart fell out through my butt. He continued, “Your brother is a legend
here. He is an inspiring guy. He overcame so much and left his mark here. No
matter what you do, you’ll never accomplish 1/10 of what he did”. He was right,
and I knew it. This should have been a call to action. This should have raised my
inner “fuck you” and I should have… well... I should have fought. However, I didn’t.
I agreed. I validated his statement by spending my high school days being the
jolly likeable person. The guy who befriended everyone, and challenged no one. I
came, I saw, I relented. I didn’t fight to leave my mark on my school, pr even on
myself.
I have treated my weight issues the same way. I use them as
an escape from accountability or expectation. I use my weight issues to change
the conversation. So many innocuous and mildly uncomfortable life issues can be
ignored when we are focused on our weight. We all feel like Jimmy at times. We all
feel out of control of our physical presence. We feel like we are fighting an
unwinnable battle. Its easier to chalk all inconveniences up to the fact that
we are the jolly fat people. This is obvious skirting of personal responsibility.
Instead, we should be screaming “fuck you” to our hurdles. Fighting for ourselves.
Fighting for our health. This is life or death.
Besides, I am tired of feeling marginalized by myself. This
is a completely self-fulfilling prophecy. We are monsters of our own design.
When we have bad days, and we self loathe and comfort eat and downplay the
accomplishments of others, we only hurt ourselves. Our rush to comfort is what
is holding us back. We need to take that “you’re fucked” that we feel, and turn
it into a call to action. Instead of “you’re right”, we should meet that with a
“fuck you”. I feel like any scary emotions that come in are pushed aside and
drowned out with easy emotions. White noise. I need to adopt more of what Jimmy
has. Take my hurdles as a challenge, and feel proud of a battle won. Instead, I
have spent my life using my weight as a deflection from hardship.
-
Being passed over for a job isn’t a reflection
of me… they gave it to the pretty guy
-
Sitting home on Saturday nights in high school wasn’t
a result of my cowardice… she went out with the pretty guy
The fear of judgement or personal failure was replaced by
this thing that I could pin all my failures on. Instead, I need to use these
hurdles as learning experiences. Own my shortcomings as my own. I should seek
high expectations. Someday I want a man in tiny polyester shorts and an unnecessarily
tight polo shirt to say “You are following Ed Kiester? You’re fucked. No matter
what you do, it wont measure up”.
