(Have you entered this week’s giveaway of fun Cupcake themed stuff from FunSlurp.com?)
This week’s Totally Topless Tuesday post comes from Joolie! <3
Hijacking Tank Top Tuesday as Totally Topless Tuesday is very timely for me. I grew up in a household where nearly every meal was homemade (even when it was just gross leftovers, lol) and from the time I was old enough to take direction, I started learning how to cook by my mom’s side. I would stand on a chair as she’d dictate each step, and feel a sense of pride when the dish “I cooked” was served. I didn’t just learn how to read recipes–I learned techniques, flavor profiles, and the chemistry behind why ingredients like eggs or corn starch are essential. My family is from east Tennessee (though I grew up in Florida) so the foods we made were very earthy, whole, comforting–and dripping in butter. Oh, the rants my mother and grandmother would go on about the evils of margarine. How it didn’t work right in biscuits. How it tasted “off” on vegetables or bread. My mom instilled in me a real love and respect for food–and for the simple joys in life, like having chocolate cake for breakfast (rarely, it was a real treat) or whipping a U-turn because the “Hot Now” light was on at Krispy Kreme.
During my teenage years, both my parents started dieting and decided that since I was larger than most of my classmates, I needed to diet, too. Goodbye butter, hello boiled skinless, boneless chicken breasts. Every. Single. Night. I developed a bit of an eating disorder–there was no food at home that gave me joy in preparation or flavor. Boil. Steam. Microwave. Yawn. And school food was terrible. So I just…stopped. I mean, I’ve got all this horrible, unsightly fat on me, right? I don’t deserve to eat, dammit! Once my parents realized what I was doing, the menu shifted back to the middle–and butter came back into my life. I discussed getting a “body by butter” lower back tattoo with friends jokingly, but when I mentioned my silly idea in a tattoo shop one day, a young apprentice loved the idea so much that he offered to do it for probably half the price of what it would have been elsewhere. I jumped on the opportunity. And yeah, the tattoo isn’t perfect, and I’d like to get it fixed up a little bit one day, but I love my silly tribute to my mom and grandma and our mutual love of food and cooking.
As an adult, I vowed to keep that middle path–sensible indulgence. Intuitive eating. It’s worked out pretty well for me. Metabolically speaking, I’m very healthy. My doctor recently changed some of my medications, and a total lack of appetite has been an unfortunate side effect. I was telling my mother this morning how hard it was to make myself eat anything, but that I was about to have a delicious sour cream cake doughnut because it actually looked tasty.
WEEE-OOO-WEEE-OOO HERE COMES THE FOOD POLICE!
“You should have a banana instead.”
WTF? I’ve barely eaten anything in DAYS but NO U HAZ TEH FATZ, MUST NOT EAT DOUGHNUT.
Know what? Fuck that. She has my permission to bounce from fad diet to fad diet (never changing size, might I add–she’s clearly in the 95% of people for whom diets do not work and does not care. MUST. ATTEMPT. SKINNY.) but she does not have my permission to make me feel bad about my choices, or to make my choices for me. If I want a fucking doughnut, I will eat a fucking doughnut. Y’all, my mom is 70 years old. Should I live to be 70, I assure you, I will be giving zero fucks about dieting. I will relish every culinary experience from now til then, from the humble Zebra Cake to the finest caviar. This is not to say I will punish my body with foods that are terrible for a health condition I may develop, but life is hard enough without denying yourself the simple pleasures. Having a crap day? It’s nice to go home and pan-fry a gorgeous sirloin while cooking some squash and zucchini and carrots with butter and garlic, and maybe a big fat brownie for dessert.
To me, life seems pointless without quality of life. I won’t go into my health issues here, but suffice to say, they’ve stolen large chunks of my quality of life as is. I’ve fought to get some of that back. Hard. I refuse to let anything fuck with my hard-earned peace with my body and all of its perfect imperfections. Especially the hang-ups of others.
HOLD YOUR DOUGHNUT HIGH, THEN EAT THAT MOTHERFUCKER!!!!
I am always looking for submissions from anyone who wants to exercise their right to Bare Arms for future Tank Top Tuesday posts! Email your pics here: firstname.lastname@example.org,please include the name you’d like in the post, a blog or etsy shop you wanna plug, your thoughts on bare arms or other fatty philosophies. It does not have to be in a tank top, just have fun with it! And thank you to all who have submitted and continue to do so. These posts make my week! They are so fun and empowering, too! So keep ‘em comin’ and keep baring those arms!