So there’s a funny side effect that no one likes to talk about when you’re fat. Your physical appearance becomes the enemy. You are cognizant of what you look like, and no amount of your friends assuring you that you’re “cuddly” can change what you see in the mirror. (Quick note: unless you are a beagle, being called cuddly is the rough equivalent of your friends asking if you’ve ever made your bathroom scale actually whimper.)
When I was overweight, the choices I made about my physical appearance and what little control I had over it reflected how I felt about my body. I cut my hair short, because I didn’t want to pay any more attention to it than absolutely necessary. Clothes shopping was a humiliating and irritating ordeal, one that I approached with the speed and determination of a special forces team taking out a target. My selections were billowy, massive clothes, designed to drape over my voluminous frame, hiding the bulges and jiggles under enough fabric to cover a Prius. I bought the cheapest soap, the cheapest deodorant. My toiletry purchases were made at Dollar General. My philosophy on my personal appearance and presentation could be summed up with a wheezing, muttered, “F*ckit.”
One of the most surprising aspects of this transition has been the realization that the person I see in the mirror is no longer one who embarrasses me. I began to see my wardrobe of clever t-shirts and Hawaiian offerings from Goodwill as no longer enough. I spend more time preparing in the morning, wanting my grooming habits to reflect the pride I’ve begun to take in my physical appearance. I’m nowhere near where I eventually want to be, but I’ve taken large strides towards that eventual goal, and that brings with it some consideration to how I assemble myself before walking out of the door.
Gone are the Suave bottles of shampoo/conditioner/bodywash/tire degreaser that I previously would halfheartedly lather up and gamely wash the stubble atop my head. I’ve begun to grow my hair out, and use a shampoo that rather vehemently insists that it has not a single sulfate. It’s been a while since I took chemistry, but I can only surmise by the wide-eyed yelling of the large font bragging of its “sulfate-free” status that all other shampoos are made only from sulfates and the skulls of murdered kittens, and will leave my hair a patchy, desiccated remnant of what once remained. I don’t know about that, but my hair smells like a pina colada and Jen seems to like it. We’ll mark that one as a win.
I’ve slowly begun assembling a wardrobe that doesn’t look like something found in a dark college dorm room, illuminated only by a black light and a flickering Budweiser neon sign. The down side of this is the price. Clothes that don’t look like they were fired out of a hydraulic cannon at a Braves game actually cost a decent amount. But, piece by piece it’s starting to come together. It’s creating no small level of confusion at my office, where someone wearing a sport coat is either indicative of a job interview or a funeral, so I keep getting greeted with an odd combination of hope and sympathy.
But by far, my favorite addition to my wardrobe was my new hat.
It’s not just that I actually like wearing the damn thing. It’s not even that I keep getting compliments on the hat from friends who usually brace themselves for what sartorial abomination I’ve thrown on my frame. It’s more what the hat represents.
When you wear a hat that doesn’t feature a sports team, chewing tobacco or brand of tractor emblazoned across the front, it stands out. It draws attention, even if it’s just a sideways glance. That may not seem like a huge thing, but the fact is that when you’re ashamed of how you look, every decision you make about your appearance is designed to avoid drawing attention. You want to be a blue dot on a blue wall, never standing out in the crowd. I wanted to be remembered for my sense of humor, my intelligence, or my mad chess skillz (I’m like Tony Hawk with a bishop, yo), but I never wanted to be remembered for what I looked like. Because if they thought about what I looked like, I was sure that the focal point would be, “Remember the fat guy?” The fact that I know that’s not how most people saw me is irrelevant. Self-perception is a powerful thing, and when you don’t like the person staring back at you in the mirror, camouflage is the easiest refuge.
But things have changed. I’ve changed. I want people to look at me and consider my appearance. Maybe it’s vain, but I’m beginning to like the way I look. There’s a huge victory in a certainty that, “Remember the fat guy,” no longer applies to me.
“Remember the skinny jackass in the fedora?” kind of has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?
