Why I choose Chubby.

Good evening, friends.

This post will serve as a deviation from what you normally read--much like my last post, I just had to share about being swept away again by music I once loved--in that it's not morning, and it's not about Germany. I certainly could infuse this topic with some Deutschiness, but actually, I'd rather stick to the point that I originally conceived over wine and Jonathan Franzen.

In beginning to read Franzen's latest novel, "Freedom," it struck me how the good fiction I've read lately is utterly depressing. Or, conversely, plainly beautiful. Both, actually. After finishing "The Corrections," I was moved and saddened by the illusions the book's characters inhibited, finding them to be unerringly true to the paradoxes of feeling one may face in one's lifetime. Having known for a long time that my life felt like an unsolved paradox of feeling, I found the illustrated truths in Franzen's books to be quite freeing, which is how I've found myself here. Telling you little-known truths about myself. 

I have chosen to be chubby. Fat? Sure. Stocky? Why not. Thin? Definitely no. The picture of societal feminine acceptability I am not. I am lumpy, stretch-marked, and plump. And may I declare: I have never been happier with myself than I am now. I am imperfect. I am human. I am not beyond the realm of possibility--I am accessible. And I enjoy proving a point.

Having been beset with a healthy dose of confidence from a young age, there was never anything I felt I couldn't do--with ease. Then I learned the harsh reality of existence: that I could never be The Best at everything; I would surely fail; life is, on its own, futile. I fought these realities with my immature strategies, but the truths eventually prevailed. At some point, and please-don't-ask-me-to-pinpoint-it, I started to become more comfortable with life's futility, therefore deciding that if life didn't have a point, by God, I was going to live and love what I'd been given to the fullest. 

I cannot deny that I am a people person. People are fascinating creatures, with their opinions, their habits, their idiosyncrasies. People are wonderful, but they are also capable of the terrible. The paradox of loving people and hating them is that you must find a way to engage them, yet protect oneself from their unnecessary evils. 

This is precisely why I choose Chubby. Society (as its requirements are always changing) currently dictates that as a young woman, I should be physically accessible to you and everyone--we're not just talking about as subordinates to men (that's a history for another day), but as objects of desirability for all to enjoy and admire. My reaction to that requirement: No. A physical interest, or attraction, in my opinion, should not be solely what draws me to people or people to me. Attraction is only one attributable facet of reproduction in this day and age. To practice this belief, I enjoy myself. I eat what I like. I imbibe when it's fun. I let the evidence of my partaking show up in ways on my body that may not be desirable to you or to your father. I've found, time after time, that the people most worth knowing and engaging are the people who inquire further, who dig deeper, who realize the fleeting quality of beauty and say to hell with it. In this way, I've strategically surrounded myself with people who also love people for their opinions, their habits, their idiosyncrasies. This in turn makes life feel less futile--I am not alone. I may be insignificantly small, but I've found similar grains of sand on the beach.

If there is one thing I am grateful to my parents for, it is the confidence they instilled in me from Day One. Like most things in life, confidence has both been a grace and a burden, but now I've masterfully learned to use it to my advantage. With confidence, I can be Chubby/Fat/Obese/Thick/whatever box you'd like to put me in, because I decided, before you saw me, to be there.

...so this has nothing to do with Germany.

I was all set to write you a lovely post on the (less than) 48 hours I spent in Munich, Monday through Wednesday. That, unfortunately, is not going to happen right now. Why? Not like you have a whole lot else going on. Au contraire, meine Freuden! If you had forgotten, Jack and I are coming home in 2 1/2 weeks, which means I need to get this house in tip-top shape (dust and my cat-like shedding habits have taken over), throw things away, pack things up and send them back to the good ol' U S of A, lay my eyes on my favorite places in Berlin one last time, undsoweiter.

But sometimes the pile of stuff to go through or the tasks to check off your list can be tossed to the side for an afternoon of revisiting one of your favorite albums of all time. Mine? So sad to say I've forgotten about it for quite some time, but Jeff Buckley's only studio album, Grace, has stolen my productive afternoon. Honestly, my eyelids are heavy and my heart is hazy, trying to concurrently write and listen to the album at the same time. His voice is so hauntingly beautiful, it's almost painful to listen to too often. But I've been recaptured and the rest of the day will most likely result in a romantic sway in my step, a sadness in my soul for the lost treasure that is/was Jeff Buckley. Only the good die young, don't they?

So the Munich post will have to wait. Sometimes you've just gotta let yourself get swept away.