And, I enjoy “Sex and the City.” It’s totally fascinating. The chic women in that show, with their cosmopolitans and their rapid-fire lingo, like most of the women at the party on Sunday, live in a universe so completely outside of the stratosphere which I occupy that I thought my lungs would burst into flames.

First off, the clothing.* There was a sea of really cute items to wade through, but the vast majority of them were ridiculously tiny, and I was mostly relegated to sift through the purses and shoes. Those were plenty cute, too, but after picking up skirt after skirt and seeing those teeny, single-digit numbers on the tag, all I could do was guffaw and try to get the fuck out of the clothing room as soon as possible. Shopping overwhelms me to begin with, and then, I usually go by myself and don’t have to hunt for my size or style, and I can give up whenever I want. Sifting through a vast selection of shit that I could never fit into, surrounded by collapsible little women telling each other how this dress make them look like Miranda or that sweater makes them look like Carrie? A little bit of hell.

I don’t mean to be all sour grapesy. I’m not going to lie and say that there aren’t any sour grapes involved, because, damn, I would love to be a size 4. But, these women were cool and welcoming and interesting. All of the guests were somehow involved in the arts, and knew their shit, so it’s not like there were a bunch of vapid starlets flitting around, and while I obviously couldn’t help comparing myself to the petite ladies around me,** I didn’t sit around bitching and hiding behind my mimosa glass.

I had fun, and ended up quite pleased with my spoils of the closet swap, most notably a seafoam green negligee and a long, embroidered linen skirt. I’m just not very girly that way. I’m not really fashion conscious, I don’t give a rat’s about my nails or my moisturizer, though perhaps I should. I’m not very discerning when it comes to wardrobe, what looks good on me or on others, and I marvel over some women’s abilities to glance at something and coo, “OH! That would be so cute on so-and-so.” It’s sweet, and good-natured, and I think it’s a real talent. Most actresses have that, it seems. NOT ME. I’m not good at it.

It has been a long time since I’ve found myself surrounded by the truly “actory” actor scene. When I was in college, my best girlfriends and I affectionately referred to ourselves as “the Fatties,” because we were the lead actresses in the Theatre Department who lacked waifishness, and were thus automatically considered for the character roles instead of the ingenues. (Hell, no complaints, here. I scored some really good roles, including one ingenue. She was Russian, so I guess she was allowed to be a little beefy. Um.) None of us were fat. We were making fun of the dumbass beauty standards that exist in something as inconsequential as a university Theatre Department, and how much people become convinced that it matters.

It takes a special kind of love and within a group of friends to be able to call each other “Fatty”, when everyone knows there is a bulimic among them. (Hiya!) By that point, though, my bulimia was hardly about weight or body image. But that is neither here nor there. I just don’t want you to think my friends are cruel or insensitive. I love the no-holds-barred approach we have to jokes. And we call each other “Pretty” more often than ”Fatty.” “Fatty” basically meant “Fuck Them, We Rule,” but that’s too long, and too difficult to pluralize.

The theatre group I’m involved with now was started by a group of friends, who basically founded the ensemble so that they could do theatre, together, on their own terms. The women in the group are older than I am, and not very girly. The dumbass beauty standards seldom apply in our shows, because we do weird shit with puppets and lights and noises, and non-traditional roles. I’ve taken for granted that that’s just how things are.

I’m obviously not unaffected by feminine beauty standards. I know that I still tend to wear my skin like it’s a heavy coat that has been stuffed in a mothball-laden trunk for too long. I’m probably too hard on myself. I feel almost constantly apologetic about my appearance; when I show up for a date, I want to say “I’m sorry. I’m sure you were expecting something else, but I promise that I’m fun.” I’m to be in a wedding in a few weeks, and I want to tell the bride and the photographer, “I’m sorry. Maybe if you hire a body-double for the pictures of the bridal party?” When I’m onstage, I sometimes think “I’m sorry. I know this isn’t what you paid to see. I know my hands are so big and my shoulders are so broad.” Silly and boring, yes. But, believe it or not, it’s not nearly as bad as it used to be.

On Sunday, I and some of the other guests were out on the balcony. One of the women was talking about tanning salons, everyone complimented her on her golden skin, and she went on to sheepishly say, “I like to be tan. It makes me feel thinner.” There were nods of agreement as these tiny, tiny women agreed that they knew what she meant, how they like to feel toned or whatever, and big ol’ marshmallow me is sitting there, munching on my corn chips, knowing full well that no amount of UV rays are going to magically melt me into a size 6, and not really caring about it.

I thought,“Oh, my god. I recognize you guys. You’re nice and everything, but, for this portion of the conversation, I’ll stay over here. I remember this shit, and I don’t miss it AT ALL.” I felt no judgement, jealousy, or pity towards them. These women didn’t seem sick, but they seemed obsessed in a way that I’m starting to realize that I no longer am. Almost, anyway. If I were to say among my close women friends that I go tanning to feel thin, they would tear me apart, and tease me mercilessly until I admitted that I was a rockstar.

Years ago, in high school, when I was only a couple of years into my fun eating disordered adventure, I was in the gym locker room with Erin, a friend of mine. She was a beautiful little pixie of a thing, who lived primarily on coffee and gummi bears, and decorated her locker with “motivational” photos of Winona Ryder and Kate Moss. She was pro-ana before there was such a thing, and man, was I jealous of her. That day in the locker room, I remember her leaning wispily in the doorway and asking me if I thought her forearms were getting fat.

Her forearms.

She fucking knew her fucking forearms were not fucking fat.

No, Erin, your fucking forearms are not getting … what?

I wondered to myself what kind of shit-for-brains suicide cult I was mired in, and I decided I was more or less done with the stupid competition aspect of dieting. So I separated from the cult to follow my own misguided path for a while, and I guess I’m glad for that. It became less a case of the blind leading the blind, and more a case of one blind woman trying to navigate a solo jet through a mountain pass. Or something.

Anyway, so I’m not entirely okay with the fact that I would be immediately laughed off the set of “Sex and the City.” But I was never fully comfortable with the solidarity offered in that awful world, and though I sometimes look with longing at what it yields and am still trying to take responsibility for my own unhealthy obsessions, I don’t miss that old, skinny life. I thought I did, but nope. Bring on the beer, ladies.

* “First off, the clothing …” a splendid policy!

** Don’t even try to convince me that this tendency to compare is strictly a “girl-thing.” I don’t think I know one man who hasn’t measured his dick and compared it to those of his peers.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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