The Right to Bare Arms

Hello, boys and girls. Today I'm going to be talking to you about my big ol' arms.

I am a big girl. This is no secret. I am plus-sized, voluptuous, Ruebenesque, curvy, fluffy, chunky, chubby, husky, big-boned -- you get the idea. Pick your favorite fat-girl colloquialism, because it fits. You're not going to offend me. 

I have battled with wearing things that flatter me for my entire life. Not things that I necessarily liked, but things that made me look... not-so-huge. Do these jeans help conceal that little pooch below my belly button? Does this top fit too snugly across my enormous shoulders? Does this style of bra pinch my back fat and create bulges? Does this skirt minimize my almost-square birthing hips? To Spanx or not to Spanx: that is the question.

Big girls learn "rules" along the way -- how to conceal, minimize, smooth. Lather, rinse, repeat. There's a whole list of them, both spoken (I'm looking at you, fashion magazines) and unspoken.

The very tippy-top item on my personal list, one of the rules to which I have strictly adhered over the years is this --

Do. Not. Show. Your. Upper. Arms.

I hate my upper arms with a passion. I hated them when they weren't even that big (when I lifted 24-packs of canned beverages all day at grocery stores) and I especially hate them now after nearly four years of typing and pencil-pushing at a desk. My arms are huge. They're flabby. They're hideous. I have always, as long as I can remember, owned at least five or six shrugs in varying colors to ensure that I would be able to keep them hidden at all times. Until 2007, my Venn diagram for "people who have seen my upper arms" and "people who have seen me naked" was a circle.

Do you know how much I love my sister? I broke this rule for her wedding in 2007. I cried the day we bought my bridesmaid dress and I cried when I took it off after the wedding -- I loved the dress, but I hated the way it made me feel. I know now, logically, that I must have looked nice, or people wouldn't have been going out of their way to come up to me and hug me and tell me how beautiful I looked. At the time, however, I hated that I couldn't fully accept that; I suspected that they were trying to make me feel better because they shared my opinion of my arms (and my body) and they felt obligated to say nice things because they were just embarrassed for me. (... ... ... I know. I'm ridiculous.)

Me & my arms, my gorgeous sister, my beautiful mother  (photobomb courtesy of my Aunt Joy).

When I looked at this picture in the past, all I could focus on is my tummy pressed against my dress (despite my corset) and my stretch mark-riddled shoulders and fat arms. You probably can't even see the stretch marks unless you zoom in on the photo, but I know they're there, so they light up like a neon sign to my eyes. I would like to mention that this was in the middle of my Target days, too -- when I was walking a retail floor 9-10 hours a day and lifting things non-stop. I've gained about twenty-five pounds since this photo -- at least.

Today, I look at this picture and I see a happy memory. I see a proud mother with her daughters, I see my baby sister growing up, I see the genuine smile on my face. I adore this photo. That's progress, right?

I am a hundred times more confident now than I used to be in these situations -- mostly. I still cover up my arms on most days (because I prefer layering if the temperature allows), and the number of times I've been in public in a strapless/sleeveless dress/top is still in the single digits, but they've all occurred within the past two years (except for the above photo). People have seen my arms -- and the world didn't end. Not one person has given me a second glance, much less an offended/judgmental one. At the very least, I've learned that comfort matters more than other people's opinions. Baby steps, guys.

I have slip-ups some days, like during the week our air conditioning at work was completely broken -- the thermostat was in the mid-nineties in our windowless/fanless office, and I escaped to Burger King for their glorious air conditioning on my lunch break. I was sweating, miserable, and nauseated for the first twenty minutes I was there; on top of that, I was anxious over the fact that people could see my shoulders and my arms (which were splotchy and red from heat rash). I barely even touched my food.

But then, during my moment of negativity and weakness, friends supported and reassured me.

By the end of my lunch break, I didn't give a damn who saw my arms or my shoulders. I was comfortable and I intended to stay that way. My thick cotton shrug was tossed into the back seat of my car and stayed there the rest of the evening.

Baby steps.

If I have learned anything about being body positive, it is this -- nobody can do it for you, because if that were the case then I'd have never questioned my appearance. I did not grow up in a negative atmosphere. My parents have always been wonderful -- they were forever bragging on their beautiful and talented children. My family, my friends, my husband... they've always been nothing short of supportive. Too bad that it took me a solid twenty-eight years to realize that people weren't being nice to me out of obligation; they actually meant what they were saying.

That's a powerful realization.  It's what keeps me smiling on the bad days. It's what keeps me confident in the face of that nagging little voice inside my head. It's what helps me be comfortable in my own skin... finally.