Fat Days for Boys

My last two short-term sources of relative sexual gratification expressed a surprising amount of angst and insecurity over the ostensible body fat they perceived around their bellies. It turns out that this is a pretty excellent way to land yourself onto my no-go list, as is saying I kiss like an iguana, and as are baboon jokes.


The way I see it, I am the only one who gets to have body angst in a relationship. I win the Fat Day Monopoly.

You may have heard that on October 29, 2015, I turned 30 years old and cancelled all Fat Days from that day forward.

 

This was a nice thought.

 

In fact, I really try to keep my fat days to myself.  Because even on the days when I fail to get myself into the tiny Asian-sized tie-dye pants, the notion that I am at all overweight, is both ridiculous, and obnoxious and just shut up.

I only caused one hole
in these tie-dyed pants
and it's not
in the crotch.

Just shut up is what I feel inclined to say to my dude friends when they exhibit low-grade symptoms of Manorexia.

 

But just as my angst, self-loathing and food belly feel totally real, I’m sure theirs do too.

 

What the fuck should we do about fat days?

 

Last February I showed up in Mysore, India, ready to eat grilled cheese sandwiches. Triggered by a thali in Varanasi (the holy city of auspicious funeral pyres), 1.5 months of persistent liquid shits and an ensuing eating head trip had made a big chunk of me disappear. And there I was, Erica’s version of Emaciated for the 273rd time in my life. 

 

Here I am in Kerala
looking half dead
on a motorcycle.

“Achieving” my champion adolescent weight always comes with a bag of conflicting and tumultuous feelings.

 

Shame is there: Oh here we are again, 22 years since the first time I tried to burn calories by eating a single boiled egg for breakfast and counting six thousand and one steps as I walked the dog. 31 years old. Not menstruating, and an emotional fuck-job.

Overcome by backpacks
and
radiating diarrhea.
(Bangalore)
Photo by the Stunning and Exceptional Photographer, Maansi Jain

And then the quiet and embarrassing pride: Can you see me? I’m so thin. I both crave and abhor the attention I get at my thinnest: “Oh wow! You’re so skinny. What happened?” This one from a former yoga teacher: “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this thin. This must really be your thinnest. Oh, but you look good!” How helpful, and thank you! Though I had kind of been hoping to evoke a cross between a Holocaust victim and cancer patient. Maybe throw in some AIDS. Damn these biceps, this baby face. Even sinewy and gaunt, they can’t pull off Concentration Camp.


In our culture, weight loss is so coveted that sometimes it feels as though nothing could be more riveting than the conversation about how someone got skinnier.

 

“She looks like she’s starving.

How

fucking

fascinating.”

 

Our world often associates being an emaciated bone rack with glamour and sexy. I can only speak for myself, but countless unplanned studies have shown that for Erica J. Schmidt, dropping more than six or seven pounds under a certain comfortable window totally fucks up my already fragile set of precarious coping skills. And this is why I am somewhat of a strong advocate against anorexia or manorexia or any version of fucking up your eating. I can empathize with your manorexic belly angst, but let me tell you, it really gets in the way of the thorough and life-changing fuck we all need.

Also:

 

Leg humping with

a side of squishy belly

is

some of my favourite.

 

Mysore is an interesting choice of refuge for getting your eating back on track. In 2014, I spent three months in this birthplace and mecca of Ashtanga Yoga. For over seven years, I had devoted the mornings of my life to this highly structured, sweaty, dynamic and time-consuming practice. Ashtanga Yoga brought me deep joy, some serenity, a sense of accomplishment, community and belonging, and eventually some rather persistent and hideous sensations and noises in several of my joints. While my three months practicing with the Guru’s grandson, were beautiful and delightful, not long after the end of my trip, I felt compelled to quit just about every stable facet of my life:

 

The Boatman, my favourite ex-boyfriend,

and the former leading man of this blog,

(Who by the way does not have manorexia);

Halifax; and,

Ashtanga Yoga.

 

I was such a junkie,

This was really quite surprising,

But I honestly
don’t miss it
all that much.   

 

I am happy with the varied, flexible and creative movement practice and meditation I have been able to come up with; my spine feels almost wonderful, almost all the time; I enjoy more reasonable amount of sleep; and I now feel free of the OCD that tended to arise when I had the obligation of performing close to the exact same ritual close to every fucking day.

 

Having said that, in all their neuroses, Ashtangis remain some of my favourite people. Ernest, sincere, hardworking, self-deprecating, although they may be disproportionately committed to their cause, they are often quite fun, funny and lovely. I returned to Mysore for the friends, familiarity and trust that most of the restaurants would not cause cholera. Lucky for me, a beautiful long-term Canadian practitioner and excellent Eating Ally was in town.

 

One time over lunch at the Sixth Main, my friend was talking about the struggle to be a healthy role model for newer younger practitioners and the trend to take up radical non-eating regimes in the quest for lightness, purity and the breezy lithe body that seemingly bends and folds and balances with no effort.

 

Slurping up my bowl of noodles I blurted out, “I just don’t find weight-loss inspiring.”

 

“Thanks,” said my friend. “I’ll gonna make sure I remember that.”

 

Me too, I’m gonna make sure I remember that.

Upon returning to Canada, yet again, my cells bounced back to something stronger. This body, it never deserts me, and I am so grateful. Although I would not necessarily reward myself with a trophy for the Poster Girl of Liberated Eating Habits, life has brought me other lovely prizes, and I do feel entirely committed to cutting through the bullshit and arriving at a deeper love, for your cells and for mine.

 

Friends, your Fat Days, they are not inspiring.

Come on people, what else ya got?

The End.

In honour of this blog post,
I took a picture
of myself
with no pants on.


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The Benefits of an Ashtanga Yoga Practice, Part Two
Are You Strong and Are You Skinny?
Finally, and undoubtedly, I feel grateful for my life

You No Look Back: Farewell to 2015.

On Sunday, January 4, 2015, infused with alcohol, my ex-ex boyfriend Simon Girard climbed from his eighth floor apartment all the way up to the 23rd. From there, he made his way to the rooftop, walked to the north-east corner of the building and without pausing, threw himself into the air. Since he was eight years old, he had imagined throwing himself from a great height. I think of him whenever I stand before a vast cliff, or waterfall, or building. His suicide has permeated my mind and my writing. But he got he wanted, and it’s time to move on.

Other things that died this year: my romantic relationship with the Boatman, which I thought was supposed to last forever. My life in Halifax, which had been a strain for some time. My Ashtanga Yoga Practice, something else that despite long-term arthritic like symptoms in my joints, I believed I’d be best to continue for my whole life. Likely losing my legs or breaking my spine, or pushing one to three small humans out of my vagina would have been more disruptive than 2015’s series of events. Still, I feel it has been a pretty thorough ride.

“You no look back, you look future.”

On a trip to Udaipur, India, I ended up at a cooking class, despite the fact that I have absolutely no desire to improve my pitifully minimalist culinary skills. To my surprise, it turned out to be a major highlight. The teacher was a gem of a woman named Shashi.

Shashi

“My English, no perfect,” she told us as she passed out a 12-page hand-out of recipes that some Australians had helped her put together. Even so, she candidly told us her story. When she was 32 years old, her husband died. She didn’t tell us how, but it seemed like it was sudden. Because she belonged to the Brahman caste, Shashi was sentenced to being a widow for the rest of her life. In accordance with the traditional grieving process, for 45 days, she wasn’t allowed to leave the house. With her face covered, she had to sit in the corner of her living room.

“All day, people coming. People going. Crying, crying. Me no talking,” she said. At five o’clock, she was finally allowed to take off her veil and cook. But she was still all alone. For an entire year afterwards, whenever she left the house, she had to cover her face. 32 years old. No husband, no money, and it seemed, no future. Many years later, when her son was closer to college age, he would bring his friends home from school to study. Shashi decided to cook for them.

“Chapathi, paratha, dahl, gobi masala…” As it turned out, her food was quite delicious. One of her son’s friends suggested she start cooking classes for tourists. The only problem was she only spoke Rajasthani. “No English speaking.” This however, did not kill the idea, and Shashi took enough classes to learn the basics. Before long, it was time for her first cooking class.

“Big shaky, big, nervous,” she said as she described standing in front of the table of tourists for the first time. Now Shashi has been giving classes for over six years. Her classes are so outstanding that she made it into the Lonely Planet.  With no skipped beats, she instructed us on how to prepare an unthinkable number of tantalizing dishes. Chai, pakora, chapathi, nan, three kinds of paratha, how to make paneer, how to use it in two different curries, dahl, gobi masala, rice pulao… As she guided us from dish to dish, it seemed like she had her entire handout memorized.  What was also  impressive and very touching was her ability to translate many of the ingredients and recipe terms into other languages.

“Mélangez!” she told my Quebecois buddy Hugo, who stood before the magic masala sauce with a wooden spoon. She knew all the words for the vegetables in French. I found this to be both lovely and inspiring. So much can be gained when you open yourself up to learning something new, without the fear of not being perfect. 

 

Hugo stunningly stirs. Perhaps next I could use a photography course!

“You no look back, you look future,” Shashi said as she reflected on how her life had changed since her husband had died. Surely, as a young woman, Shashi would never have imagined that she’d become a widow and wind up teaching world famous cooking classes to foreigners. But that is how her life turned out. You no look back.

Although I will probably never become an excellent cook, Shashi was an excellent teacher. Her words and presence and spirit will remain with me a long time. A year ago, I would never have imagined that I’d have given up Ashtanga Yoga, that I’d have become single and nomadic and taken to prancing around India with no real itinerary. And yet, this is my life right now.

Having always struggled with making decisions and with changes in routine, I have been amazed at my ability to be adaptable and somewhat chill.  To bathe, I squat under faucets of cold water and to shit, over holes in the ground. I have also had to observe myself through periods during which I am rather embarrassingly shrill and obnoxious. As though my intense preferences might possess the capacity to change some of India’s most frustrating attributes. And perhaps the most amazing part is my body’s ability to shit liquid for such an extended period of time. Luckily, things have solidified since I arrived further south. Oh Varanasi, I will never ever forget you…

Varanasi, The Land of Limitless Boatmen and Liquid Shits.

I fluctuate between viewing myself and my life as a hopeless disaster and then realizing that I might be on the verge of becoming super strong.

After bailing on Day Two of a Ten-day vipassana meditation retreat, I found myself in Pondicherry for New Year’s Eve.  Though aimless, I was craving some sort of symbolic ritual that would help me move on from this crazy year. Pondicherry was noisier than I’d imagined, and my travelling companions were somewhat into beer and cigarettes. As midnight approached, I could feel myself becoming disappointed and angsty. Surrounded by smelly hungover boys, I would wake up in 2016 and everything would be messy and the same. Well, isn’t that always the case.  Every morning, still Erica.

But beer and cigarettes don’t always rule out depth. An Australian friend shared his family’s New Year’s custom. On one piece of paper, you were supposed to write down something from the year before that you wanted to let go of. On the other, you wrote something you wanted to chase after. Right around midnight, you were supposed to burn the paper with the thing you wanted to let go of, and let the other paper fly into the wind.

Without overthinking it, I picked WORRY for the thing to burn. The beach was windy and crowded. I had to get some Indian dudes to help light my worries with matches.

“It is taking too long to burn all your worry,” one dude said. Luckily, it all burned away. At midnight, everyone wanted a Happy New Year selfie. It seemed like Happy New Year in India was an occasion for handshakes and hugs. I started to decline after someone tried to grope my now devastatingly tiny eternal right tit. The scene reminded me of New Year’s 2011 in Montreal. Simon and I walked down Prince Arthur Street towards the building that Simon would one day jump off. Both of us drunk, but Simon, drunker than I, insisted on shaking everyone’s hand. “Happy New Year!” he’d wish to everyone, almost compulsively. I remember feeling super embarrassed as everyone looked at him weirdly. Too bad we hadn’t been in Pondicherry. Simon would have fit right in.

For the thing to chase after in 2016, I picked Self-Love. As I threw the paper out into the wind, I knew I would have to chase after it fast.

But you no look back.

 

 

One Morning in Rishakesh

The End.

Happy New Year to All. Much love.  

Whatever your struggle, you are not alone.

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook: I've been posting a bunch of photos and updates there! We'll see about more blogging... I may need some coaxing from my fan club!

Twitter: @mypelvicfloor ...

 

More On Shashi's Cooking Classes. Come one! Come all! Highly recommended.

Most viewed new post of 2015: The Where is Emma Fillipoff Series And we still don't know where she is.

Some of my favourite posts of the year:

The Benefits of an Ashtanga Yoga Practice, Part Two
Guillaume, Part Two (Asking People About Their Lives)
Why You Are a Hermaphrodite (Asking People About Their Lives)
What a Beautiful Face
Not Separate From All That Is
How I am violent, by Erica J. Schmidt