Caren Gussoff writer. geek. bon vivant. dot com

I’m officially FUCT (like it? I just thought of it)–a freelance, urban, cat-owning thirty-something.*

That prejudice is alive and well in America.

I’m a big girl. I am. I know I am. No one actually knows it more than I do. But there are reasons for my size, some of which I can’t help (thx, genetics!). I’ve been thinner, never thin—and to maintain chunky-thin nearly killed me. Twice. The first time, I was a barfer. I wouldn’t say I had true bulimia, because I didn’t binge-eat and my disordered eating was forced—but I would throw up, faithfully, every time I ate anything that had more than 200 calories in it. The second time I was thin was because I simply, for all intents and purposes, stopped eating entirely. A whole days’ worth of food during those times was a plain, whole wheat bagel + one glass of orange juice + 25 to 40 baby carrots. That’s it. Not per meal. Per day.

In both those cases, I managed to whittle myself down to 160 pounds.  Not the 90 pounds or 110 pounds one would expect, but 160 pounds, which is still, according to BMI charts, considered overweight for my frame. Now I sure LOOKED thin, drawn even, and a bit scary. I got cavities and I collapsed on more than one occasion.

So. I got better. Which means, for me, weighing considerably more than 160 pounds. I’m big. I don’t need a seatbelt extender. I don’t take up more than one seat on anything, except, maybe a kiddie ride. But, I am a woman of size.

Now, I would never argue that I am at my optimal health right now. There’s a few things I slack on and a few things I could and should do differently. But, overall, I walk everywhere (we don’t have a car right now), I eat lots of vegetables and fruits and whole grains. My blood pressure is awesome. I have low cholesterol. Aside from the shit that is wrong with me—which, incidentally, has nothing to do with weight—I’m a healthy bitch.

But today, today I was informed that I was un-hirable because I was “too unhealthy to look at” and that my “energy level was one of someone half dead.” I was denied a job, essentially, not because of my qualifications (I was, in fact, very qualified) or my personality wasn’t a good fit—no, because I am too fat and therefore, unhealthy. The low energy thing—the only thing I can figure is that it stems from her prejudice about my size. I’m pretty bouncy when I want to be–however, at a job interview at 3pm, that seemed to call for mellow. Apparently, too mellow. So mellow my chins melted into my chest.

This job did not—be aware—have any physical requirements…I mean, it wasn’t for the fire department or the military or something else where having some boom-boom would be an issue. No. This job was to be someone’s personal assistant—a woman who makes her living as a life coach.

Yeah, I’m serious. I may be a fiction writer, but I can’t make this shit up.

I felt bad. I felt really, really bad. Now, I’m angry. I’m mostly angry at myself for allowing this woman to make me feel bad, for allowing me to waste my time (she let me go through the whole hour long in-person interview before bringing this up), and angry that there was nothing I could do or say to change the fact that I was, indeed, just denied a job (albeit one that now I OBVIOUSLY WOULD NEVER, EVER WANT) for that reason*.  What I was most angry about, though, was my own shock at the whole thing.  I mean, the Southwest Airlines/Kevin Smith debacle and the other ten bazillion similar humiliatingly horrible things, as well as colonialism, racism, slavery and other countless injustices** that happen and have happened to people should have kept forefront in my mind that we possess the ability to be astoundingly cruel to one another, and most especially when we are feeling the most vulnerable.

Should she have lied to me? Hell no. But she could have exercised taste and restraint, thanked me very much for my time, and then jotted down in her NO HIRE book “Fatty fat pants!” and never called me back. That’s not a lie. It’s polite. It’s conscientious. It costs nothing and life is hard enough already. And this is, let me reiterate, a woman who wants to coach people. To be their best (cue laugh track/sad trombone).

Why am I telling you this? A few reasons. One, I have to own this. If I don’t, it’s going to eat me up inside and I have a book I’m trying to finish.  I already cried about it like a 14 year old home from a bad day in middle school. Two, to remind all the other FATTY FAT PANTS –as well as my gay, transgender friends and friends of color—that this shit is not over. It still happens. And when it happens to you, you are not alone (what happened to me today pales in comparison, isn’t even the same stadium playing the same sport, to what many of you go through, and for that I am grateful). Three, to consciously remind myself of this lesson, how delicate anyone can be–to be kind to people, to give them a chance when I could otherwise be dismissive, when I may be unthinkingly heartless and cold in my responses, to stop and remember that we are all trying to live a good life.

Here’s to the good life, friends.

*I do not need to work for a crazy, demented boss again. Been there, done that.

**Winking at you, state of Arizona.

A super sweet one line review of my mini space opera in BIG OTHER : “Caren Gussoff offers a fine cyberpunk junket in her story “Correspondence.” ” Thanks, John Madera! I love the word “junket.”

I’ve been having a lot of fun lately guest blogging for Jeff VanderMeer while he is on tour. It’s especially cool because the other guest bloggers are so brilliant that they make me seem much smarter just by posting near them.

Also, in odd news, I’ve become one of the Seattle Literary Scene Examiners for Examiner.com. Kind of a random and strange little gig, but becoming pretty awesome. I’m keeping up with this stuff because it’s uh, my life, so I may as well grow some discipline and write about it. I can see wicked potential to pimp my friends and loved ones in here (because you people do such really cool things, anyway). I’m planning on spotlighting Seattle writers and editors weekly, so drop me a line if you are interested in being featured (caren at spitkitten dot com).

If you live in Seattle and are not attending the Tuesday night Clarion West reading series, you are out of your piehole. Karen Joy Fowler’s reading last night was awesome. Next Tuesday, 7pm, University Bookstore = Elizabeth Bear.
Also: I am working hard. Tonight, there will be no writing. There will be no reading, no laundry, no working on the porchstead, no returned phone calls or emails, not even a shower. I am going to eat 1/2 a pint of chocolate ice cream, lie on the comfy futon, stare at the TV, pat the cats, then pass out gloriously/blissfully, disgustingly early.
I’ll do all that useful stuff Friday, during the day (I have the day off!), before the CW party for KJF.