TG Wonders when FAT became as scary as a serial killer

I read an article yesterday about a social experiment that was conducted about online dating. A woman using Tinder posted authentic photos of her rather thin self. When she met 5 men, she was wearing make up and a body suit that made her look heavier. She was still blond and bubbly and engaging but she was FAT! And evidently the biggest fear men have about online dating is that the woman they actually meet will be fat. And if the 5 men portrayed in the short clip are a fair representation of how men react to excess weight, men in general should be very ashamed of themselves. One man excused himself to the bathroom and never returned to the table. Another apologized, because he was quite suddenly married. Only one of the men made it to the end of the date.

Let's fast forward a bit, to a man in face makeup and a body suit, who is meeting 5 women. He is also heavier than his photos with a belly so big that his shirt doesn't stay tucked into his jeans. All 5 women stay for the whole date, one kisses him goodbye and he gets second dates, too. Even when expressing surprise in his appearance not one of them was rude, insulting, or hurtful. They laugh with him, engage in conversation and flirt. Maybe that is because the greatest fear of women who use online dating sites is that the man they meet will be a serial killer. Hmmm, serial killer or fat? One seems much more dangerous than the other. Do men think woman who carry extra weight are capable of smothering them? Is that from where their fear stems? Though my snarky self is quite sure if the extra weight were presented as larger boobs or a bouncier ass they might not complain. But I digress, I should be taking that fear of fat far more seriously.

If you'd like to see the videos and read the original article, please click here. You may learn something, I certainly did. I wish it was more enlightening than reinforcing my opinion that women are the kinder, more gracious sex and that many (not ALL) men are far too attached to emaciated bodies and have no clue what they are missing by dating someone who is bright, witty, and fun but does not wear a single dress size. I have decided I am less afraid of potential serial killers than I am of shallow, narrow-minded men. Phew, I need a drink  - or an ice cream cone!

An additional note, I find this outrageous, in a most horrific way. Perhaps I shouldn't have looked for a picture to include?

TG As Mom

For those of you who know me personally, you know my greatest joys and most frequent insecurities come from being a mother. I wonder about my older son, placed for adoption at birth, all the time. I want to know the sound of his voice and know what his hands look like. I question if the space I am trying to respect is what he needs or if I should be trying to contact him, reaching out to him, reiterating my love for him. And for my 17 year old son I worry about his safety and happiness and homework and... everything.

A huge part of my worry and concern is because of the many years I was not a very good mom. I have been treated for most of my life for depression and anxiety and the worst of it was from about 2005 - 2010. My younger son was 8 when I was hospitalized for the first time in his life. Two more hospitalizations followed as did lots of therapy. He was aware of as much was age-appropriate and there weren't secrets kept from him. His little world had essentially turned upside down and he had many, many questions. My family and I tried to address each one in an honest way that wouldn't confuse him or scare him any further.

In 2014, I am much healthier. I take my medication, I have an incredible support system, and a caring, available team of therapists. I am in remission and I am well. I am hopeful that this will last; I have tools I never did before and I am active in my recovery. Yet the worry about the damage I may have done lingers.

I recently asked my younger son if he feels like a character in a TV show we watch. The young man on the program has a mother who has schizophrenia and there are some episodes that touch on the impact her illness has had on his life. My son was quiet for quite some time after I asked and then said he wasn't sure how to answer the question. It seems that even handling a bad situation in the best way possible you still aren't able to change it to a good one. And while my son will have empathy and understanding and patience that was born from my illness, I wish he didn't have to have them. I wish he didn't know the difference between a psychiatrist and a therapist. I wish that his life hadn't been infringed upon by my depression, my anxieties, my illness. But he does know and it did affect him. So I am grateful for the amazing, compassionate, easy-going young man he is. And I am blessed beyond measure to be his mom.