Rude Thin Guy Hates Stupid Fat People--boy, that's a surprise, huh?

So, let's talk about "fat shaming."  More specifically, let's talk about a man named Geoffrey Miller, who is a professor.  Mr. Miller "tweeted" that (and I'm paraphrasing) "fat people can't finish dissertations because they lack motivation or self control."

Mr. Miller is, of course, slender and really quite handsome.  I'm sorry, that's DOCTOR Miller.

Silly me.

Now, there are many calling for Dr. Miller's dismissal, but I'm not one of them.  What I WOULD like to see is Dr. Miller educated on matters of obesity, diet, and what really goes on in a person's body when they become fat as a child.  It's not opinion, it's not excuses, it's not whining--it's science, folks.  Because I abruptly piled weight on at the age of seven (and no one did a thing to figure out why, though my doctor called me a pig and my father offered to drop me off at the dump with a fork, neither response proving to be particularly helpful, strangely), my body will ALWAYS burn less, store more, and fight my efforts to keep weight off.  I will never be able to eat the way a "never-fat" person can eat.  I will always have to eat markedly less and move markedly more.  Again, that's not opinion, that's not butt-covering, that's just science.  The more Dr. Miller (a University of New Mexico professor who was doing a "visiting professor" gig at NYU) actually grasps about the human body, metabolism, and issues of weight and diet, perhaps the less he mouths off like a snotty, discriminating punk.

Speaking of discriminating, word has it this man has spent time on academic admissions committees.  Boy, if that doesn't just pierce your heart with something cold and scary, huh?  Kind of like being gay and Hispanic and having Niall Ferguson and Jason Richwine weighing your admissions application.  Not saying the man's obvious bias against folks who weigh more than he thinks they should came into play, just saying the possibility certainly leaps to mind.

Here's one of Dr. Miller's tweets:

And here is a nicely phrased blog entry about Dr. Miller, his tweets, and some of the broader issues at play here.  To put a wrap on this issue, let me just say this--I hope, with all my heart, that Dr. Miller finds a way to overcome this awful prejudice before a wife, lover, or child weighs in at more than he finds acceptable.  Personally, even at my thinnest (think a loose size one), I would never have dated a guy like this--after all, even at my thinnest, I was still ME.  And this guy?  Despises me.

This girl never would have dated Dr. Geoffrey Miller

Now, Dr. Miller would no doubt look at the above picture and say, "But see, that's the perfect example of what I mean--you DID lose the weight, and therefore YOU would be the perfect doctoral candidate!"  

My answer?

I lost that weight (135 lbs) in six months through starvation and terrifyingly obsessive exercise.  I was 15 years old, and I quit school so I could spend six-plus hours a day exercising.  When I wasn't doing aerobics at home, I was running.  And when I wasn't running?  I was at the gym lifting weights, riding stationary bikes, taking part in high energy aerobics classes, and swimming.  I ate (and this is no exaggeration) one day a week, and that meal was preceded by a large dose of laxatives.  All other days?  Four ounces of unsweetened orange juice.  My hair began thinning.  My teeth loosened.  My gums bled.  My hands trembled all the time, my head hurt all the time, my stomach BLED while my periods STOPPED for almost two years.  I'm still facing a health backlash over this, decades later--ever wonder what anorexia does to bone density? Yeah, I'll tell you all about it some time.

But gosh, at least Jeff Abbot asked me out.  Jeff Abbot, whose opinions were much like Dr. Miller's.  Jeff Abbot, who, a year earlier, had told me to get my "fat ass" off his car.  It was with a special joy that, the day he asked me out, I was able to tell him to get HIS "fat ass" off MY car.  It was only then he realized I was the same girl.  No, he didn't have the good sense to be ashamed.

Now, Dr. Miller might say, "You should have lost the weight reasonably, you should have taken it slow and made gradual lifestyle changes."  Oh, shut the hell up--like I haven't been doing that my whole stinking life?  The last time I fried a food--ANY food--was 1981.  The last time I added salt to ANYTHING was that same year.  I haven't eaten white bread in 30 years.  I haven't had a sugar-sweetened soda since that one time Don M. didn't have any diet drinks back in 1984.  My mistake, every time, has been thinking that, once I achieve a weight goal, I can start eating like a normal person, calorie-wise.  No, not like a stereotypical "fat" person, but like the lady across the table from me, like my husband, like my friends.  

And that is just not true.  And it never will be true.  And until I can find a way to reconcile what I want with the vastly reduced amount I can actually have, I will always struggle.  I challenge Geoffrey Miller to exist on markedly reduced calories a day FOR THE REST OF HIS LIFE and keep blathering on about lazy people who lack willpower.  

Here's an EXCELLENT PIECE in the NY Times on the subject.

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And enough of that!  Let's move on to even more depressing things.

My teeth.

I am the dental health queen in the family.  While my husband has racked up thousands of dollars in dental care costs, I've always been Ms. Wonder-Teeth.  Yes, I'm missing all my molars on the right side, but through no fault of my own--the bottom ones never erupted (and had to be removed surgically in an in-patient procedure when I was 13 years old), and the top ones, which were perfectly healthy, had to be yanked out of my head because they kept sinking lower and lower (because of the lack of a bridge below them), until they were gouging into my lower jaw every time I chewed.  But otherwise, my teeth have always rocked.  I did have a root canal 8 years ago because a tooth broke when I chewed something that turned out to have a hard chunk of rock-like stuff in it.  That aside, I'm the girl who's always being congratulated for my dental hygiene.  I'm the "brush 2-3 times a day, floss repeatedly, rinse with an anti-cavity product every night before bed" kind of person.

So you can imagine my horror at the 600 dollar-plus dental bill I have coming up later this month.  You see, when you chew on only one side of your face, it takes a toll.  I've been chewing only on the left side since . . . well, since the baby molars fell out and nothing new came in to take their place.  And, eventually, that has a deleterious effect.  In me?

It's left one of my molars cracked.  Which is going to necessitate a build up and crown.

Damn.

In addition, I have a new problem.  See, I rinse nightly with a fluoride/anti-gingivitis rinse.  I have for years.  But recently (about a month ago), I ran out of my usual stuff (ACT).  While at Wegmans, I spied a big, purple bottle of Crest Pro-Health Complete Rinse.

It's purple.

It claims to be "no burn" and "clean mint" flavored.

Did I mention it's PURPLE?

 I'd been using it for 3+ weeks when I noticed that my teeth were looking decidedly . . . dingy.  A sort of nasty yellowish pall.  Upon closer inspection, I realized that I had definite BROWN staining starting between the teeth.  In some spots, it was pretty intense.  I was horrified.  I smoked for 26+ years, so my teeth aren't movie-star white, but they're a nice, solid, even light ivory.  For them to suddenly be yellow with brown patches between them?

What the hell?

So there it is-the brown between, the yellowish cast--that's all new.  Again, I brush, floss, and rinse daily, so this was something initially scary to me.  Being the web-junkie I am, I immediately ran out and did a websearch.  And the overwhelming answer?

Crest Pro-Health.  Not only does this stuff contain an ingredient that causes brown stains to teeth (cetylpyridnium chloride), but Crest has KNOWN that this stuff stains teeth for YEARS.  In fact, it turns out, in very fine print, that they say so on the packaging:

Now, here's the rub--they say it's not permanent, and that "adequate brushing" can prevent it.  Wellll, screw you, Proctor and Gamble!  I brush plenty adequately, and the hygienist who went nuts trying to scrape it off?  Said it won't budge.  And she really put some muscle into it.  Fact is, if I want this completely gone, I'm going to have to fork over for a professional tooth whitening gig.

Yes, I contacted Crest.  And after a few days?  Still no response.  I feel me a big, nasty Epinions product review coming on.

Now, I will say that, after a week of NOT using this crap (and it is crap--it smells and tastes like that horrid saccharine-like fake bubble gum air freshener my mom used to bring home from the hospital where she worked), the brown is not as bad.  And I suppose I should be grateful for the brown--with the number of people out there who complain that this product has robbed them of their sense of taste (believable to me--my tongue is still randomly tossing out bitter sensations, and the flavor of this stuff ten minutes after use is horrifically, deeply chemical-y), I guess a little brown and yellow is the preferable bad side-effect.

Now, I was checking in the store last night, and not all Crest Pro-Health products appear to have this ingredient.  So read your labels, and watch for the staining warning.  And remember, the FDA is not your friend here--because they consider these effects "minor" and "cosmetic" and "not damaging," they won't do anything about it.

Looks like I'll be dodging Crest products like I'll be dodging Chrysler.  Sometimes, it's not just what your product does, it's how you, as a corporate entity, respond to what your product does.

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And on a final, happy note?  I was out this morning at around six (I know, some of you are saying, "6 a.m.?  I thought you said HAPPY?"), watering the flowers, veggies, and grass (and putting fresh water in the neighbor's bird bath).  I like going out early when it's cool and green and everything still has that dewy, fresh smell to it.  It's why, when my other neighbor (the atheist-hater) offers to let me use her soaker hose, I don't actually take her up on it.  While she would never understand, fact is, I LIKE being outside with my yard.  I like watering, pruning, and just sitting there enjoying as I give my world a drink.  Anyway (see how I wandered there?), I was watering, and the birds were so loud, so . . . celebratory.  A hummingbird kept coming to the feeder, landing, and taking deep drinks.  Two mourning doves kept landing on the fence and staring, waiting for me to leave.  And the robin on the shed?  Kept coming to the ground, hunting for bugs, then flying off when I'd move, each time giving an offended chirp and casting an evil glance my way.  Obviously impatient for me to get out of HIS yard so he could get his breakfast in.  And then?

It occurred to me.  At 6 a.m., I don't have a lot of birds in my yard.  Instead, the birds have a lot of ME in their yard.  At 6 a.m., I'm the interloper.

It made me happy to see it that way.

Slummin' with Meg

So I promised a description of what it was like to move in with Margaret.  I won't say it defies description, but I will say this:

Make sure you're not eating while you read this.

When I was just shy of 19 years old, I left my first husband.  It was . . . acrimonious?  After a few months of skipping from place to place, I wound up living with my mother.  My mother, who had already taken in my sister and her then-husband.  My sister wasn't happy about me moving back in, and it didn't take long for some really awful accusations to be made.  Accusations my mother and sister both knew to be false.  But they played it that way because I was inconvenient.

Those were the bad ol' days.  Thankfully, things are better these days.

I wound up homeless, really.  My best friend couldn't give me a place to stay (she had her own stuff going on), and so I wound up appealing to Margaret.  And, to her credit, she opened her door.

Her crusty, awful, filthy door.

Meg rented from an elderly Catholic couple, neither of whom were in good health.  The attic.  It was stifling up there, so incredibly hot in the summer. No air conditioning, just a single fan stuck in the open window.

My first day there, Margaret just let me in on her way out--she had class, and then work.  I crept up the cluttered stairs, increasingly horrified.  I'd lived in some pretty messy places.  None compared to this.

Meg had a dog, you see.  A half jack-russell, half chihuahua, if I had to put  a name to it.  She called him "Lil' Guy."  And Lil' Guy?

Lil' Guy was the animal that taught me I don't love all animals.  In fact, sometimes I hate the living daylights out of them.

Lil' Guy, horrifyingly, wasn't house broken.  In fact, there were piles of Lil' Guy crap all through the house.  In the horrid shag carpet.  Instead of cleaning them up, Margaret had tossed newspapers or scraps of whatever (sometimes clothing) on top of the piles.  Where they had dried.  Solid.  Like cement.  Most of Lil' Guy's "business" was being done in a large walk-in closet.  All over the floor. Where Meg had also been tossing garbage when it suited her.  This was to be MY room, as there was no other room for me.

My first day there was spent cleaning.  I walked to the nearby Osco and picked up carpet sprinkles, Ajax, Windex, Pine Sol, and cheap fragrances to put into my Rainbow vacuum to freshen up the air.  I got sponges, Brillo Pads, a mop, a broom, a toilet scrub brush, a huge box of garbage bags.  In other words, I blew every stinking penny I had on cleaning supplies.  And I cleaned.  I scrubbed, scraped, shampooed.  The sink?  Had algae growing in it.  Seriously.  And mold.  Everywhere.  The fridge was alive with furry, fuzzy, green, white, black, and blue creatures spreading over who-knows-what those used to be.

In addition to the dog crap, algae, mold, and general filth, there were special surprises.  Like the completely soured milk glass Meg had been using as an ASHTRAY.  Heck, the whole place was awash in cigarette butts and ashes.  Her method of ashtray dumping appears to be "accidentally" knocking it to the floor, then picking up the ashtray but leaving the butts on the floor.  But the worst of it?

The "sanitary pads" laying scattered about.  I told you, don't eat while reading this!

This was an all-day project.  I never stopped.  The dog-crap closet that was to be my bedroom?  Oh, man.  I scraped and scrubbed, souped out, mopped up, souped out again.  Nearly killed myself with Pine Sol fumes in that enclosed space.  The task was made all the harder by the lack of a light in the room.

And when Margaret came home?

She took her shoes and socks off at the bottom of the stairs, left them there.  Peeled off her back pack half way up the stairs and just dropped it.  Open.  Books and papers and dreck sliding down the newly vacuumed stairs.  She got into the living room, which had been alive with dog crap and other horrors, and said, "Oh, you cleaned."  She then pulled off shirt and bra and dumped them on the floor.

By bed time, Meg had left dirty dishes on the counter, spilled milk on the floor (and then managed to dump an ashtray into it), had let her dog crap twice in my new bedroom (there was no DOOR, but I quickly learned to tug my dresser in front of the doorway), and had read the day's newspaper in the bathroom, leaving it scattered all around the toilet.  Within two days, the place was a disaster again.  Not as bad as it had been, obviously--that takes time.  But it became clear that I was going to have to follow her around and play housekeeper.  Which I did willingly, until I started working 6 pm to 3 am at a local hotel bar.  Meg worked in the restaurant.  My first night at work?

I came home wiped out, feet aching.  I didn't even notice that the dresser wasn't pulled to block the doorway (meaning Meg had been in my room).  I just staggered in and fell into my bed.

My dog crap covered bed.  I hadn't seen the piles in the dark.  I spent the next two hours bathing, then washing nightclothes and sheets.  Sadly, there was nothing I could do for the mattress, other than sprinkle it with carpet freshener and put new sheets on.

This was life with Margaret.  At one point, she decided to move to Southern Utah to live with our old guidance counselor from high school who had moved down there to be with her lesbian lover (or so Meg said).  Meg was only there a few months before she  managed to get pregnant and found herself without a home (guidance counselor's staunch Mormonism could allow for being a secret lesbian, but not for an unwed pregnancy, I guess).  So Meg was shipped back up north, and wound up moving in with me.  She treated my home just as badly as she treated her own (her room became a garbage dumpster, no other way to describe it), and when she announced, three months into it, that she was going back to Southern Utah to get that DOG and bring him back, I said, "Never."

Never.

Her and her snot rags and food leftovers and dirty laundry and other assorted horrors were all I could deal with.  I refused to throw dog feces into the mix.

I feel I need to stress that I'm not exaggerating.  If anything, I'm sparing you the gory details.  I am not one of those hyper-clean, perfectionist housekeepers.  Far from it.  There's lettuce on my floor from salad-making last night, and it's STILL there because I just don't feel like it right now.  There are four empty water bottles in the living room.  Last night's dinner dishes are still in the sink.  I'll take care of it all later.  When I feel like it.

With most things, I find myself thinking "Wow, how could that have been so long ago?  It seems like yesterday!"  But not this.  Not Meg.  She seems like forever ago, like another life.  It was almost 30 years ago, and it feels like it.  I wonder what that means?

I wonder if it's a function of aging, that deaths don't loom as large in the memory anymore?  When I was younger, if someone I knew and cared about died, I'd never find myself forgetting they were dead.  Not so anymore, and especially with Margaret.  I find myself recalling experiences with her, and the, "Oh, wow--she's dead" takes a little while to flare.  Maybe my hellish life with her is so deeply ingrained that even her death can't make a dent?

I dunno.