Seven beginnings

It was

The sudden feel of a warm hand taking mine.

An arm gently encircling from behind.

An awkward kiss in a quiet, sunlit room.

A searching look beside a merry-go-round.

A kiss at the front gate.

A hand softly coming to rest on the back of a neck.

Two foreheads touching after a bout of tickling.

Holding each other by the piano in the dark; lying back to back after an argument; stroking my hair late at night until I fall asleep; reading a tear-soaked letter from the homesick boy in the army; lying on park benches watching the leaves move; fishing on the jetty; stroking his fever-soaked forehead; the first scent of our breaths entwining; the terror of first-proclaimed love; the feel of fingers tracing grooves on my arm; the smell of fresh soap just before making love; an eleventh-hour silent confession; countless hours on the phone, long-distance; singing to him as he falls asleep; terminal dilemma, torn between two loves; kissing in the club, not caring who looks; driving in tender silence as the rain envelopes the car; seeing my hair on his pillow; discussing who to invite to our wedding; the boy on his knees begging me to forgive him; watching the lone figure walk away for the last time; the self-inflicted wound of cutting away love; weeping my soul away, clinging to him in futility; weeping alone, knowing he's gone.

Time lines, clear at first, get jumbled up. Memories mingle, jostling for prominence. Moments beginning, moments during.

And then, moments ending.

All beginnings must end alone.

Aren't we sick of obsessing over fat?

Hands up: How many of you, even though you know it's mean and not politically correct, have looked at someone you consider fat and thought, "Eww, what a fatso", or "Fat people just should not appear in public"?

I just saw a piece of news that being fat may now be illegal in Japan, and had the unfortunate curiosity to see what people were commenting on that video. The small-mindedness of some ignoramuses reminded me of this girl I once knew.

A 14-year-old girl, standing at 1.62 metres tall, weighing 47 kilogrammes, with a waistline of 26 inches, bending over backwards from standing into a wheel posture during a cheerleading routine for the school Sports Day.

That girl was convinced she was fat and unfit.

Why was she fat and unfit? Because she had the thickest waistline in the cheerleading team, because a small amount of flesh bulged over the top of her skirt, because she couldn't do a split like some of the other girls, and because she ached after playing ball games. Is it just me, or was that teenage sucker out of touch with what is normal?

That girl was me.

I grew up hyper aware of the issue of fat, because 1) I was underweight as a child, 2) I almost became overweight as an adolescent, and 3) thick waistlines run in the family.

Back to ignorant commenters. I see things like "I'm tired of seeing fat shits everywhere I look" and "Totally sick of seeing fat fuck ass girls everywhere and claiming they are happy being like that. Delusional idiots."

The person I love more than anyone else in the world is considered fat by many. When we go out together (at least in Singapore), it hurts to see people with their judgmental stares and smirks. Do they really know what it's like to have a lifelong struggle with weight? Do they know how it is to try your best and still feel thwarted at times?

Yes, sometimes, being fat is the result of laziness and poor lifestyle choices. However, in most cases I know of, it's a result of complex patterns and occurrences in the course of life, and, I believe, genetics in some cases (the converse is true too - how many people do you know are perennially skinny even though they regularly eat like food is going out of fashion?). Even then, poor choices are also often the result of patterns in our psyche, which is why behaviour modification is a common tool in long-term weight loss.

Let me present two people I know:

Person A: She weighs about 200 pounds, approx 1.65 metres tall. She can lift more weight than most women can. She goes to the gym regularly - I went with her for fitness classes before, and my body was screaming for reprieve while she was still happily pumping away. She's got a butt that defies gravity. She cooks low-carb pasta with organic vegetables. Her kitchen is always stocked with loads of fruit, muesli and whole-wheat English muffins for breakfast. She's diabetic so she keeps her sugar intake low. She has a good sense of style and knows how to dress to flatter (and get attention with cute accessories).

Person B: She weighs about 105 pounds, approx 1.63 metres tall. She eats only two small pieces of pastry each day. She doesn't work out. She's so deathly insecure in her clothes that she never stops looking uncomfortable and tugging at her clothes.

Don't judge. Being fat isn't always because the person can't be arsed to care about their health or make positive changes. Don't say a fat person who loves herself/himself as they are is being delusional or dumb. It means they accept that they're beautiful people even though some people just can't look beyond their physical appearance, having obviously never heard of the notion that attractiveness has more to do with personality than looks.

That's the other thing. Being 'fat' is such a subjective notion. Imagine how thrilled I was the first time I visited the US as an adult, and the locals were marvelling at how slim I was at 120 pounds. Meanwhile, in Singapore, I'm considered a big girl.

I say work with what you've got. No one can be perfect, even if they seem perfect on the surface. If you work towards being healthy, balanced and self-aware, I say you're lovelier than that starving mess of chopsticks they call a runway model (that's a whole other weight issue; let's not go there today).

And for goodness' sake, the next time I hear a skinny person (I define skinny as I-can-see-your-ribcage-through-your-top) say they're getting fat, I might just not be able to stop myself from slugging them.

To those who'd sneer at fat people, I have this to say to you: If looking at a fat person disgusts you, be grateful they can't see your soul and get more disgusted at YOU.

Confessions of a Disney girl

I was Snow White dressed in the wrong colours. I was Cinderella with throw pillows under her skirt. I was the princess who sat atop the step-ladder throne. I was decked in plastic jewels with flaking silver paint. I held court perched upon a huge bean bag.

I was a Disney girl. A big time Disney girl.

I quoted dialogue from my favourite Disney cartoons. I'd hum So This Is Love as I clambered up the side of our garden swing - I never sat on the swing, I only climbed - and draped over the top bar until my mum yelled at me to get down.

Even as I ogled Transformers and GI Joe figurines at toy stores, I'd probably have a pink Barbie dress under one arm - I had more hope of getting girly toys from my parents than boy toys (little did they foresee the future...).

I wore lots of pink.

I wanted to be pretty, and be loved for being pretty. I wanted to wear the fluffy dresses and lipstick. But I'd never be pretty and princess-like. Which princess prefers climbing to preening? Which princess can't talk to mice, birds and other wildlife? Which princess prefers computer lessons to modelling lessons? Which princess slouches and sits with her legs open? Which princess gets bored at her prom when her friends want to do nothing but pose for pictures while she prefers to jive with the band? Which princess pays for every compliment with the pain that inevitably follows when a vulnerable, insecure girl can't tell the difference between angels and sharks? Which princess wonders why real mothers and evil stepmothers sometimes don't seem to feel all that different? Which princess feels unhappy, fat, trapped, and never good nor smart nor talented enough?

And then, one day, a man looked straight into my eyes and said, "Daph, you are a very, very attractive woman", and wasn't trying to get into my pants. I was 22.

That same month I got my first job, based purely on talent as I had no academic qualification that supported that line of work and only had an interview and a written test to prove myself.

Two years later I was an editor of a magazine. (I didn't have the appropriate pay increase, but hey, a promo is a promo).

Two years later I took a leap and did all the things that people told me were foolish and impossible to live on, and I've proved them all wrong.

And then, one day, I realised I was beautiful and talented.

The kind of princess that Disney has been veering towards in recent years has evolved - the ballsy, eccentric chicks who have the upper body strength to haul in a huge beast teetering on the edge of a balcony, battle crocodiles and (gasp) be non-Caucasian...but they are still pretty in gowns - Disney will never sell a plain Jane. Though I now own gowns and believe myself to be beautiful, I'm still no Cinderella (though I'm occasionally a Sleeping Beauty).

Today, an older and fatter me still thinks I'll never be a Disney princess, but that's OK because I'm fabulous nonetheless, and wiser to boot. Moreover, if I were perfect like a Disney princess, wouldn't I have nowhere to grow?

The beauty of not being good enough is knowing there's better to come. So yes, I'm not good enough. And that's an exciting thought.

Dedicated to those who (think they) want to die

Why do we love the smell of rain, knowing it brings wet and cold?

Why do we long for love even as it stabs and maims?

Why do we have children, knowing they won't be ours for long?

Why does a starving child hunt for food, knowing that the pain of hunger will come back?

Why do we enjoy the view from high places, knowing that to fall is to die?

Why, even with the will to die driving us to the edge, do we allow life to call us back?

The price to pay for the joy of life is pain, but a lifetime's payment of struggle, tears and wounds is worth the reward of being alive to smell, love, eat, gaze, live.

Being so fleetingly yet blazingly alive.