When I read the summary of what Louis CK’s episode, “So Did
the Fat Lady” was about before it aired, I was quite curious to see just what
he’d wind up doing. I have a very, very
sadly small pantheon of white male comedians who actually seem to “get it”, or
at least, appear to make an effort to “get it” when it comes to issues of
sexism, racism, misogyny, and the like.
Louis CK is a member, along with Paul F. Tompkins, and…well, there’s
plenty room for more. So come on,
fellas, the snacks are top-notch.
I am a fat lady, the kind of fat that makes people really
angry. It’s my body type that’s more
likely to be used in one of those “headless fatty” montages used on the news
when they decide it’s time for the quarterly report about how awful fat people
are. I did my due diligence in my
younger days of dieting, losing some weight, gaining it (and more) back,
dieting, losing some weight, gaining it (and more) back. I removed myself completely from the world
when it came to romance and dating. I
believed 100 percent that a woman that looked like me had absolutely no shot at
finding a fellow that would love me unconditionally, that wouldn’t see me as a
make-skinny project, that wouldn’t keep my existence a secret because he
wouldn’t want the world to know he stooped so low as to fuck a fat woman. A part of my pain-in-the-ass brain understood
that I actually did deserve love and was someone who was entertaining and
festive and decent, but as long as I had an ass the size of Madagascar, it was
simply pointless to make an effort. So I
didn’t. Well, I wouldn’t until I’d
reached some sort of “acceptable” size.
In my earlyish 30s, I discovered fat acceptance and began a
lengthy re-acquaintance with feminism and figured out “holy fucking shit, I
have wasted SO MUCH TIME hating myself”.
I got my head right and even though I still wasn’t terribly keen on
venturing into romantic waters, I wound up the happiest, the most confident,
the most comfortable and content I had been in a long time. I finally understood that a goodly amount of
the noise my head was filled with regarding the pursuit of the opposite sex was
self-generated – maybe the reason why I never had a boyfriend wasn’t because I
was fat, but because I’d bought the shit that was being sold to me and it
turned into one of those handy self-fulfilling prophecies. However, since I’d never actually
participated in the rigmarole of dating, I couldn’t speak to whether or not my
fat was truly an impediment. I’d
certainly had my stomach-churning crushes and felt like I had “loved” someone
(though he didn’t love me back), and all the experiences had all ended with me
feeling humiliated and worthless because the affection wasn’t returned. But these were experiences I had had between
the ages of, say, 14 and 20. The one
blind date I went on thanks to the personals section in the Chicago Reader went
from gross (he interrupted me while I was talking and said “let’s cut the small
talk and get to the sex”) to hilariously cataclysmic (he presented me with
photographs of himself posing on a rug, wearing just a Speedo, then followed
his disturbing presentation with a story about getting a handjob from a lesbian
on a gay bar dance floor – oh, and he was wearing a wrestling singlet, as you
do). So I was a bit at sea as to how to
go about pursuing a potential suitor…if I even wanted one at that point.
Long story short, the internet – the blessed, infuriating,
bullshitty, wondrous internet – would eventually deliver a stone fox to me, and
we’ve been friends for almost seven years, together for almost five, and
married for just a smidge over two. I
never “dated” until I met my husband. Oh,
I made a halfhearted attempt at online dating and quickly realized it just wasn’t
for me despite my having done a goodly amount of socializing online since the
late 90s. I had two things that were
important to me, things I wasn’t willing to compromise on – I wasn’t interested
in dating someone who was religious, and I wasn’t interested in dating someone
who had children. It would also be
helpful if someone was feminist or feminist-friendly. The suggestions provided to me by the service
I used inevitably consisted of men with children, and those who didn’t have
children were quite keen to have women with “weight proportionate to height”
which I definitely am not. I checked out
free sites, pay sites, and at the end of it all, I couldn’t conjure up the energy
or interest that was required to “date”.
Then I was resolute – if I was going to be single until my dying day,
then for fuck’s sake I was going to make my life as entertaining as
possible. That resolution has had some
revisions since then.
So I couldn’t necessarily identify with what Vanessa said
during her speech about dating and flirting since I didn’t endure years of
fruitless dating and I suspect I’ve flirted over the years, but I really can’t
be sure. But mercy, mercy me, I felt it, I completely understood when
she said, “You know, if you were standing over there looking at us, you know
what you'd see? That we totally match. We're actually a great couple together.” I felt
it when she presented Louie with those fucking hockey tickets that she insisted
wasn’t some sort of demand for reciprocity in the form of a date or just a kind
word or some affectionate attention, because God almighty, how often did I do
that over the years. There’s a certain hustle that goes into being
a fat girl – my hustle consisted of having a sense of humor that was beyond, a
personality that was funny and loud and funnyloud, doing whatever I had to do
in order to make the life of the object of my affection wonderful and joyous
and oh he’s asking out someone else and
now they’re getting married and oh. My
hustle should have taken me into comedy or performing or acting, but good ole
insecurity/my being chickenshit took me out, and if there’s a regret I cling to
to this day, it’s that I didn’t take the best compliment I ever received from a
teacher of mine – “You have a knack for making an unfunny scene funny again” –
and run the shit out of it.
I’ve read a few thinkpieces (let’s have that word destroyed,
shall we?) about “So Did the Fat Lady” and they interpret Louie grabbing
Vanessa’s hand as a sign that he just wanted her to stop talking and be quiet,
or to end the awkwardness, or any number of things that would point to him not
having had a moment of clarity. To me,
it was a moment – and maybe it wouldn’t stick with him, maybe that moment of
courage would only be just that, a moment – where Louie decided to flout
conventions, give the middle finger to all the guys who would give him shit for
being seen with a fat girl in a romantic way, and hold the hand of this woman
who was “very really beautiful”.
Maybe I’m being optimistic.
I probably am – shit, I’m in the midst of writing a novel about a fat
girl in her late 30s getting her shit together and finding love for the first
time in her life which, if you know me personally, IS BASICALLY MY FUCKING
STORY. But it’s not hard for me to see
it being dismissed as fantasy, wish fulfillment, complete bunk – once again,
EVEN THOUGH IT ACTUALLY SERIOUSLY HAPPENED TO ME. And fucking forget it ever being made into a
movie, since romcoms are only allowed to feature thin women who have a tendency
to be a wee bit clumsy because isn’t that just ADORABLE. I couldn’t bear seeing someone who wasn’t me,
frankly, playing the lead role. After
all, I spent so much time as a supporting player in my own life – I’m not
giving up the spotlight ever again.
