There’s quite a bit of good writing not syndicated by our own dear little feed, so I thought it would be cool to start linking some of the stuff I run into elsewhere.
So, in response to a loathsome editorial postulating that the extravagant air conditioning of public spaces is the fault of the fat, and presumably sweaty, masses, while simultaneously admitting that “thick, sturdy” folk also find the chill uncomfortable:
You’d think that Ms. Smarty Logicpants would use the same awesome powers of deduction that led her to conclude “overbearing air conditioning is because of fat people” to question the solidity of that reasoning, if FAT PEOPLE ARE COLD, TOO.
I am constantly cold in air conditioning, and I was even when I wasn’t fat. And I am no special fucking snowflake. Lots of fat people are just as cold as is Cepeda in these situations, where, I’d like to point out, air conditioning gets blasted all summer because the doors are constantly opening and closing and letting in 90°+ air.
Shakesville is an especially great non-Fatosphere place to find excellent writing on fat and social justice (as if you didn’t already know that.)
Meals, or The appropriate use of discipline.
I define structure as the space within which things can happen. And I think discipline (or “willpower” or “control” or “forcing yourself”) is best applied in the service of creating structure.
It seems to me that everyone has a little tyrant living inside them. The tyrant, if it cannot be exorcised, must be exercised — much like a two-year old must be worn out (with safe activity, away from uncovered electrical sockets) in order to let you have a moment’s peace.
My tyrant has, in the past, been a touch…overbearing. Especially during The Great Diet of ’00, wherein the Tyrant allowed me to eat a strictly allotted portion of calories spread over a strictly allotted assortment of food groups — preferences and cravings be damned.
I’ve seen other Tyrants playing fast and loose with other people’s diets. The Tyrant who disallows Suspicious Ingredients. The Tyrant who eschews fat in all its forms. The Tyrant who cannot countenance pepperoni, much to his ardently pepperoni-loving host’s despair. The Tyrant who insists you must eat salad, even if you hate it. Especially if you hate it.
In order to live with the Tyrant, I’ve decided to put him to productive use. Namely, I’ve used his seemingly boundless energy and unbreakable rigidity to build structure around my eating. Then, once erected, I’ve barred him from entering the tabernacle, the holy abode of my body’s wishes and wants.
Simply put, I do this by eating meals.
To the beginner, it helps to think of meals not so much as meals, but rather as “eating appointments” — defined times or intervals during the day kept sacred to the act of feeding oneself. No matter what eating may or may not occur outside of these appointments, the appointments must be kept. Sitting must occur, and a single bite or drink of something placed in the mouth.
But whether the plate is balanced, according to the Food Guide, or looking more like Sunday brunch at Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory — in this the Tyrant has no say. If I eat one bite or go back for thirds, it is entirely my choice.
If building structure is defining the space within which things can happen, the appropriate use of discipline is to build and maintain that structure — and then let go of what happens within it.