There I was, happy to be on my my first set, completely manifested by my talent and determined positivity. Who cares that Adobe charged me 20 dollars for the app, which I do not own? I will fight for my reimbursement later. I could care less that I have no money to eat or that my dog’s separation anxiety got to a level of a husband demanding his wife stay at home and cook for him. I was where I wanted to be … where I was meant to be. That is why when the stylist, whispered announced that I had too much hips for a pretty face,” I ignored the former and took that latter.
There is nothing a thin stylist hates more than a plus-sized model or actress. It feels like a breaking of some hidden agreement. They get me the finest, waif-sized fashions that hit like Zendaya at a red carpet, and, in exchange, I stop eating wafers… period. Walking in, I could see she dreaded my size 12 ass. The other models were trying Moschino while she had gotten me the best of Old Navy. Yet, for some reason, I was still too happy, too excited to take to heart how another female stylist used ¨designed for women by men¨ garments to absolutely conclude that my body was as feminine as a sack of logs tied to a truck. It always made me curious how so many stylists were female and so many men were designers in a sort of ¨keeping of the guard¨ dynamic. No one knew the actual reality of a woman’s body and size like a woman, and yet no one can quite cut you down to size like a woman or rather your own community. I swear some of the worst bullying I have ever gotten was via family * cough my abusive dad* . The stylist was proud that at 45 she had the waist and tits of a 13 year old boy who barely hit puberty. Meanwhile, I had the waists and boobs of a woman that probably has had her period since age 7, which, technically, I got it at age 8.
Growing up, I was always deemed a big girl: with my nickname por el caserio being Gorda, while my cousin’s name was Gordo. For him, the name was ironic: a pun considering he, literally, was the size of a Wheat Thin. There was not one Puerto Rican home that was not offering him an abundance of food with the command, “Come! Que estas flaco!” Meanwhile, if I entered the room, I had to get full on water and dietary advice. The assumption was that I must have eaten everything in site, including the table the plate was laid upon, of which their disgust was veiled by one of my favorite quotes from anyone with fat prejudice, “I just want you to be healthy and happy:” ignoring their tactic was to consistenly fat-shame me into a misery that still kept me the same size.
From absolute strangers to my own parents, my life has been defined by how people assumed I was pretty but damaged, ie pretty damaged. I could have been so much prettier had I not spent my entire life choosing Flaming Hot Cheetos over grilled vegetables. It was a core manipulation tactic of my father to turn my mother against me. He would take me to Cheesecake Factory, and return me home to tell her I had literally eaten an entire Cheesecake Factory. My mother glared at me and I could see the wheels of her mind churning another dietary restriction. Of course, when I called them out on it, they were insulted that I could not see they were trying to save my beauty from the grips of excess fat and stress eating, but the world was the only one stressed about my eating. The problem is the times I have ever been thin were via absolute starvation, which, of course, launched their pride. Finally, I was beautiful and had an understanding of discipline. Good for me and my diminishing, hungry ass!
I always loved dancing and working out. I have the energy of 15 people in a party busy celebrating the last night of singlehood of their bestie about to marry a d-bag. In knowing, she will become unfun and dominated by the very man they red flagged by Day 1, they really try to give her one final twerk show before they, possibly, see her again at her first child´s christening or when their marriage begins its divorce proceedings. Thus, the world concluded that for some reason, despite doing 100 pound lifts, I was eating enough for a 200 pound gorilla, which meant not one of my plates went without a portion monitor. It sucked and it made me hate the only body I would ever have, and have an absolutely horrible relationship with the very thing that sustains it: food.
When the stylist did what most people do to style a plus- sized gal, put her in oversized jeggings and a patterned shirt, I smiled because I was okay and no longer overthinking when the world concluded patterned shirts, long hair, and over-sized sports pants were the perfect way to cover a body that was plus. I was where I wanted to be in the body that got me there and I felt really proud at my personal development. Old Diandra would have fantasized punching her in the face and called her mother who would have concluded that, somehow, the stylist was right, and I had to understand a little something called sacrifice. Yet, on that day, l still fantasized punching her and tossing her across the room like we were in a WWE match, but instead of doing it out of anger, I did it out of peace: a serenity you gain out of realizing that if a lifetime of exercise and crash-dieting still earns you the same body,maybe, it’s time to just love it.