I’m fat. I’m pretty happy to be fat. And the more I come out as fat-happy, the more I hear there aren’t many of us around.

Not many people know a whole lot of fierce, politicized fatties. You know, the ones with fabulous style. The ones who live it up and don’t stand for bullshit. The ones who wear horizontal stripes and skinny jeans at the same time. The ones who know that your weight doesn’t determine your health, your attractiveness, your hygiene, or the success or failure of your relationships. The ones who carefully examine which battles to pick, and then pick ‘em all. The ones who order dessert! The ones like Joy Nash.

(My favorite is “are you pregnant?” “No, but the night is young!”)

Luckily for me, I live in a town that’s got plenty of fat positivity to go around! It’s pretty fantastic to have so much community. And it’s a nice respite from comments like “sweetie, if you just suck it in, you can train your muscles to stay that way”; or moments like the physicians assistant wincing before asking, “do you mind if we weigh?”; or ‘compliments’ like “wow! I would not have guessed you could pull that off!”; or ’solutions’ like a homemade drink designed to induce vomiting, courtesy of a loving and otherwise feminist grandmother.

I don’t really have a call to action, or a big analysis to push. I don’t expect to stop hearing those comments, or to start finding way more clothes in way more places, or to suddenly feel at home in the glossy 24 Hour Fitness in the bourgiest parts of town. Mostly, I just want to be able to make a fat joke about myself without hearing someone say, in that cloyingly concerned voice, “sweetie, no,” as if my self-identification were a secret to be kept, or a curse word that might offend those within earshot.

It’s okay–I know what I said. And we all know how I look. So what? So what else?

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