Fat Math
I’m a really big fan of the Biggest Loser. It’s cheesey as hell, but I cry during every episode. It’s just so inspiring. I have a few friends who watch it, too, and we can talk at length about the latest episode and how motivated we were to go to the gym the morning after watching it. One friend’s husband gets her to go to the gym with him just by singing the show’s theme song.
That said, we all agree that what would be even more entertaining would be a show about people who have to lose only 15-25 pounds and how excruiciating that can be. Talk about crying and scheming!
Alas, there isn’t much interest from the masses in a show about such mediocrity. This is America, after all, and we only seem to be interested in people who let us watch their transformation from ginourmous to miniscule. The more extreme the change, the higher the ratings. It’s too bad, really.
This morning, I was reading this article about how retailers are creating smaller sizes to stroke our egos, thus coaxing us to spend more on their clothes. For some reason, it reminded me of this commercial for cold cuts that was always on TV when I was in junior high. The commercial featured a bunch of women at a picnic. The skinny one was eating a sandwich and flirting with all the men. The other women were off to the side saying things like, “How can she eat like that…and still be a size 6?!” At the time, I was a size 5 and felt pretty smug about the fact that I, too, could eat a sandwich and still be a size 5. I didn’t really think about the fact that I was only twelve years old.
I digress….
Anyway, the article is interesting on so many levels, but as I read it, I was struck again by how the focus seems to be on either those who are morbidly obese or those who are dangerously skinny. Those of you who are 8s, 10s, or 12s… sorry, you just aren’t that interesting.
So why, dear God, why am I fretting so much over the difference between a 12 and an 8?! I’m currently teetering between a 10 and a 12 and it’s frickin’ killing me. I’m so disgusted and unhappy with myself that I forked out $325 this past weekend for GTB and I to join 24 Hour Fitness. (I couldn’t take the mom and pop gym near my house anymore.) It’s a ridiculous amount of money, and as far as I’m concerned, it’s worth every single penny if I can just lose 15 pounds before I get married, thus ensuring that I’ll fit into my size 8s again. Not to mention my wedding dress.
If society in general, and GTB more specifically, doesn’t even notice the difference in my butt when I’m a size 8 or 12, why in the world does it mean so much to me? I’m almost 31 years old and I’m still this hooked on the idea of what size my jeans are. I’m a slave, I tell ya, a slave to the fashion powers that be. And that makes me loathe myself even more than the tag on the slightly too tight pants I’m wearing that says “10” on it.
Because this article is right. I don’t care if the pants are purple and orange gingham with pleats and ruffles. If the labels tells me they are a size 8, I’m going to buy them Every. Fucking. Time.
Pathetic.