charts be damned

Yesterday I walked the mile or so to my local bike shop, as I needed a derailleur cable for to get Jolene back to running. I hadn't done this walk in quite a while, as I've been a working machine, which makes me a biking machine. So as I made my way through the neighborhood, I was struck by this sensation of lightness, of my body feeling smaller, springier, different. It was muggy out, and I was wearing my Short Man's Pants, but I still felt like I was moving along easily. This was a new version of walking through the 'hood, and it left me thinking:

I feel skinny. I may not be skinny. But I feel skinny.

It comes back to the "numbers" misleading us. I'm at the top of, or off most of the recommended weight charts. At least for women. Yes, I still glance at them periodically, less to see if I've finally reached their splendiferous stats, than to see if they've changed to include My Kind. You know, big, active girls with big tits and hips and muscles who will never grace the pages of the Title Nine Catalog because they're just too damn big and gay, oh, and many of the clothes in there won't fit them any way, because there is no XL, and L stops at 12 or something ridiculous like that.

You know what, I am LARGE. I am even EXTRA LARGE. I know this because I see all the smalls and mediums of the world, and that ain't me. It ain't meant to be me. I'm tired of the stigma attached to L and XL. I'm taller than many men I know. I have bigger muscles than some of them, and I exercise more than most of them. I've earned my L/XL status. It isn't just size, it's energy.