When I was seven, my mom put me on a diet. She used to tell me that I would be so pretty if I just lost weight. For context, my parents are old-school Taiwanese who are greatly invested in gender roles–except when they’re not. For example, they believe that a woman should work outside the home–at least my father does. My mother might not because she’s said more than once that she would have loved to stay at home fulltime and be a mother. Given that she gave in to my father at every turn, it’s not wonder she ended up working.
In addition, she played sports. That’s the thing I never understood–many of the women in our church (Taiwanese church) played sports. Tennis, softball, ping-pong, to be more specific. That’s not usual in societies with rigid gender roles, but whatever. It’s just proves that no one is perfectly consistent, but I do appreciate the fact that I was not restricted sports-wise because of my perceived gender. Every other way, yes, but not in that specific way.
While my mother was putting me on diets and scolding me for being fat, she was also insisting that I clean my plate and that I eat everything before me. To be fair, that was rarely dessert, but it still did not make for healthy habits. It didn’t matter if I was hungry or not–I had to eat whatever was in front of me.
My parents also took us to a fast food restaurant once a week after church. It was the best part of my Sundays, if I’m to be honest. Getting a Big Mac, large fries, large DK, and hot fudge sundae from Mickey D or a chicken parm, large fries, large Diet Pepsi from BK, or a cheddar beef sandwich with the trimmings from Arby’s was the highlight of the day, if not the week, foodwise. My mother was not a good cook. She told me when I was an adult that she did not like to cook.
I do not blame her because I do not like to cook, either. I don’t take any joy in it, especially when it’s just for myself. I don’t mind doing it when I’m with someone else. But chopping up a bunch of stuff is no fun when it’s me on my own. And, yes, I know I can freeze things and unfreeze them later, but that’s a lot of work for something I don’t enjoy in the first place.
Because of my mother’s constant harping on my weight, I grew up believing that I was incredibly fat–and not only that, that I was ugly because of it. I mean, how else was I supposed to take her constant criticism of my weight and her statements about how I would be so pretty if I would only lose weight?
Looking back at pics of me from when I was a kid and teen, I wasn’t fat. I was thick, yes. I was solid, yes. I was even chubby. But I wasn’t fat. More to the point, I wasn’t ugly. Objectively, I mean. I was cute if not beautiful. More to the point, what a fucked up thing to tell to a child. But that’s my mom for you–fucked up as hell.
Fast-forward to when I was eighteen and about to go to college. I was dating a good guy, but someone I no longer wanted to be dating. I was going to college when I had no interest in going to college. It was expected of me, and I didn’t know how to say I didn’t want to go. I hated myself and everything about me, so I decided to transform myself. Given how much my mother berated me for my weight and how the two cultures I belong to are so fat-phobic, especially for women, it’s no wonder that losing weight was what I latched onto.
The summer before college, I exercised up to 7 hours a day and did hundreds of sit-ups. I also did hours of dancing plus lifting weights. This was all included in that 7 hours. I lost forty pounds in two months and developed a raging eating disorder that continued into my first year of college. In fact, I added another to it. First I had anorexia/addiction to exercise. I added bulimia to it when I went to college and couldn’t keep up the anorexia.
When my mother found out, she had nothing to say about it. She was not encouraging or understanding, and the only comment she had was to say in a tone of envy that my waist was smaller than hers. Many years later, I had to lay down the law that she and my father could not mention my weight because it was hurtful. She said she was just worried about my health. Yeah, right. That’s why she had shit to say when I was anorexic. Believe me. I know the difference between concern for my health and being grossed out because I’m so inhumanely fat.
It’s difficult because I have been thinking about losing weight recently. I could say it’s for health reasons, but it’s not. It’s because I want to look sleeker. But here’s the contradiction. I’m absolutely in love with my ass right now. And my thick thighs.
Some background. I’ve always had muscular thighs. I am a mesomorph who tends to pack on the muscles. I have biceps for days because of my previous weightlifting and my current weapon forms. My last ex was jealous because my biceps were bigger than his. even though he didn’t work out at all. Toxic masculinity FTW!
If given my choices, I’d be hard-muscled all over. I love having muscles. My thighs and calves have been muscled for all my life. I’ve always been a bit ashamed of them because women aren’t supposed to have muscles (another reason I’ve questioned my gender), but I just love them. On the other hand, I also like the softness of my belly and tits, and how squooshy they are.
But, recently, I’m in love with my ass. Here’s more background on that. I did not have an ass for most of my life. I was flat as a board, in part because I’m Asian. It’s a huge shock when my boobs exploded in puberty because Taiwanese women don’t have big boobs. My mom has barely-there As and is jealous of my DDD/FFs. She did say that her grandmother had the equivalent of double Ds so that might be where I got mine from, but at any rate, it was a shock.
It’s why I got my first tattoo–to give people something to look at. It’s on my left boob, and it turned out horribly. PSA: Do not get your first tat 15 minutes before the place closes at midnight by the nephew of the owner who wasn’t there, and the nephew hasn’t done much more than apprenticing. And, if you’re keloid like I am and didn’t know it, heavy on the black ink is not a good idea, either.
I had to have my first tat covered up years later, and now it’s a beautiful lotus blossom in purple and blue, engulfed in flames. It’s gorgeous and I love it. I also love my three other tats, none of which have faded in time. But this is not a paean to my tats–it’s a paean to my ass.
I rued my lack of ass up through my thirties. then, I started Taiji. Not with the intention to get cakes because that’s ridiculous, but a decade or so into my studies, I noticed something weird. I had an ass! It’s not a huge one, but it’s there. It’s rounded and curvy, and it’s firm to the touch. It actually sticks out, though not as far as I would like. It’s from Taiji, and I joke with my teacher that she should put that on her website as a benefit of Taiji.
I would love to have it be bigger than it is, but I’ll take what I can get. Half a cake is better than none and now, baby’s got back.