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I want to add my recent Weight-related Anecdote to the public record:

Chris and I spent the last few weekends escaping to the beach, to my aunt's house in RI. My triple XXXtreme love of ocean notwithstanding, I'm not very comfortable in bathing wear. I usually puss out and don some ridiculous t-shirt, unflattering shortpants combo that's more accurately bed clothes not beachwear. This year I ordered these "surf skirts" from JC Penney online (it's pathetic and sad, yes. But after buying some family-requested gifts from the JCP last Christmas I'm AWASH in coupons and special offers. Gift horse, mouth, etc) that seemed as if they'd be the bomb. Made of nylon instead of clingy spandex, with built in "swim pant", oh hell - these. Swim skirts are never as good an idea as one hopes, but these seemed different! Not old lady, floppy, floral beach skirt - young, hip, surferish. Right? Sorta?

Anyway, the point is it turned out to be the tiniest skirt in the world. So after tugging that and the teeniest TinyFit™ t-shirt on, I felt less like a sundrenched, sandy-haired surfer chick and more like a beach ball draped in a fabric swatch. But here's what makes all the difference, and it's something both the Stac(e)ys have in common with me - my boyfriend still thought I was cute. I mean, this is no great revelation - you can be fat and still be loved, duh. But what Chris does for me particularly - in addition to all the other selfless, kind, lovely things he does on a daily basis - is
remind me that my size does not define me and that ultimately I'm the one who has to be happy with my body, whether by making it smaller, or more muscley, or healthier, or leaving it alone. I know I'm lucky to have him now, and a pantsload of other awesome friends who came before him, because one day on the beach, I saw what happens when you let other people decide what your body should look like.

My sister joined us on our first trip. The three of us arrived on the beach early and set up camp. Chris and Weenie immediately ran off into the water and floated halfway out to sea. I needed to work up to it so I sat in the sun with my book, my SPF9000 and my dumb mlb.com hat til I got too hot for modesty. I took off the terry skirt I had over the tiny skirt and walked down the beach, all ball-shaped and feeling half-naked to meet the two seamonkeys in the water. As I waded in I watched this woman, maybe 35 or so, walking out of the surf toward her boyfriend who was waiting ankle deep by the shore. There wasn't much of a current, but walking out of the ocean is an awkward thing. You kick your knees high, arms stretched out either side, stomp, stomp, stomp. This woman added a silly little sashay, a little vavavoom in the hips as she got closer to her man. She had just reached him and started to lean forward for a kiss when he put out his hand and stopped her, and poked her stomach. He gestured to her suit bottom as if to say, pull that up, cover yourself. She stepped back, looked down at her body and then started rearranging her suit, pulling and tugging it this way and that. Eventually they both turned and walked back up the beach. No kiss.

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