A Fruit Shaped Fruit

Sam Labelle

I look in the mirror. Is it warped? Is it my mind? I’m bottom heavy. Someone once called me a “mammoth” when I was in high school. I liked that better than being referred to as “pear shaped”. I was also referred to as “Big Bird”. I was always loud, tall, obviously queer—but undeniably chubby. I’ve lost weight, I’ve gained weight, I’ve lost weight. Now I’m in the gained weight period of my life again. Weight has always been there, the elephant attached to my body, the spare tire, the dough. At my thinnest, during my adult life, I weighed 200 pounds. I thought of myself as fat when I weighed that much despite what others said. I remember getting attention from peers asking me how I did it. I never really did anything. I was working full time, I was swimming, walking, fucking everyone, I was doing a shit ton of drugs—my life was very active. Today, I stand 300 pounds, in front of my fun house mirror, trying to contort my body to make it more appealing to (me?) the body standards I feel I should conform to. If I stand like this, do I still look 300 pounds? 

I made my best friend take pictures of me, just to see, just to understand what I look like from another’s gaze, rather than from the gay gaze of Grindr and Instagram. It’s there, the big me, in the forest, wearing a cardigan. I compare that photo to another taken a few months before, I think I’ve gained even more weight since I thought I was getting fatter. There are people from the body positivity movement that would say, you’re fine, you’re perfect, you’re beautiful. Then there are the others, “You’re a house”, said one faceless profile on Grindr one day while I was at work. Houses are full of useful things. They have plants, they have comfy couches, beds, books, music, artifacts, places to rest—my body can be a house. I do live in it. I didn’t know how to respond besides, “Well, thanks, I guess. Have a great day.” I suppose that wasn’t the reaction he/she/they/etc. wanted because I was blocked minutes later. The message disappeared from my inbox, as if it were never said. Insults aren’t taken lightly to an English major who regularly analyzes some of the simplest lines of a poem. 

When I’m done trying to convince myself I’m not that fat. When I’ve done the ritualistic sucking in and out of my gut, I let it hang there. My muffin top. I hang there, with a frown. I give my gut one last glance and a slap and then put on my clothes. The slap echoes through the mostly empty bathroom. Sometimes when I run downstairs too quickly, I can hear myself slapping against myself, like a clapping, which is embarrassing, but only if someone besides me is there to hear. And what about those who are there to see me? Those who are there to tell me I’m gaining weight or losing weight, the critics of my body. The ones who want my body to fit their idea of acceptable. I say to myself like a litany, “I’m too fat to be gay”, but in reality it’s not true. 

What is an acceptable body? For anyone, straight, gay, trans, whatever? When I scroll on Instagram, I see gay men with six packs, gay men who claim they only want men who “take care of themselves”. It’s absurd to believe you can tell someone takes “care of themselves” because of how they look on the outside. Many gay porn stars have killed themselves; they took care of themselves. Arpad Miklos comes to mind, mostly because he appears in the music video for “Hood” by Perfume Genius. The beautiful, 6 foot 2, muscley Miklos is holding Michael Alden Hadreas (Perfume Genius), staring at him intently. Hadreas stares into the camera, singing, “You would never call me baby, if you knew me truly”. Later in the video Miklos applies lipstick to Hadreas as the pathos of the song materializes. A year later Miklos killed himself. 

Then there are public figures, like Lizzo, who talk about inclusion, about normalizing being fat. She said in a TikTok video to body shamers, “I’m not working out to have your ideal body type. I’m working out to have my ideal body type.” My body, my type, whatever type that is. I’m not currently working out at all. So, I’m not actually working on any body type. But I emphasize Lizzo’s use of “my”. What is my ideal body? Who’s enforcing that? Me or Instagram gays? Is mental health out of the equation? I suppose if someone took one look at me, they could decide. Do they know that I see a therapist? Do they know that I am happy? Do they know that I eat a plant-based diet? Do I need to keep posing everything as a question? Reality is not always based on empirical truths (or untruths). We are complex, we are amorphous, we are Sesame Street characters, we are fruits, we are houses.