just a girl from Greencastle, Indiana

I have not blogged here for some time. It's not for a lack of something to say, because I'm always full of words. It's usually that I have so much to say, I cannot confine it to a few paragraphs. That's why I write 100K word novels, right?

In any case, it's been a busy and highly sentimental month for me. My oldest son graduated from high school and my youngest son from elementary school. I made the joke on Facebook that I don't know how this is possible considering I am only 29!

But alas, I just heard from my high school friends that it's time to start planning for our 25 year class reunion, which will be next year.

So in my heightened state of nostalgia, I was thinking about my hometown and home state. I haven't visited since October 2013, and until recently had no plans to go back. I don't feel particularly welcome by certain members of my family, but I did reluctantly decide to participate in the Indies in Indy signing next July. So I have been thinking a lot about my homecoming and whether or not it will include a trip to my hometown, Greencastle.

I was also thinking about high school a lot because of my son graduating and because of my impending 25th. Many of my readers may not know that I attended the Indiana Academy for Science, Mathematics and Humanities, which is a state-funded, residential high school for academically high-achieving juniors and seniors. Not only did I attend (and thus am an official, card-carrying nerd) but I was in the inaugural class.

I remember the local newspaper The Banner Graphic doing a story about me right before I left for my junior year in Muncie. The Banner also did a story about me when I published my first women's fiction novel Green Castles in 2013. I wonder if anyone ever put two and two together that I was the same person?

Now I'm all grown up and graduates of The Academy (as we call it) have dispersed like seeds to the ends of the earth. I think about all the funds that were invested in us and wonder if any of us have considered whether or not the state received a return on its investment. I wonder if people who read about me back in 1990 would think I've done enough now that I'm in my 40's, if they'd think I'm anything special. Have I contributed enough to society using my Indiana Academy education and my degrees from Indiana University through my years working in higher education or the novels I've published?

Because I don't feel all that special or extraordinary. I'm just a wife and mother who works four jobs to take care of her family. I'm just a 40-something who is still plugging away at a dream of writing full-time. For all I know, I'm an utter failure in comparison to other Academy graduates. These are the types of things I think and blog about when I'm supposed to be doing one of my four jobs. (Oops, sorry bosses!)

I wrote a whole book about my hometown, but I still don't know if I've given enough back. Perhaps I will never know. But I do hope when I come to town next year that a few people will come out to see me. I hope a few will have a look at my body of work. I appreciate the few people from the homeland who have supported my writing career by buying my books, following me on social media, or leaving book reviews. It means a lot to me, more than I could ever express in mere words. And words are kinda my thing.

Fat Tax ~ An Excerpt from Fat Girl

An Excerpt from Fat Girl, available on Amazon at http://www.amazon.com/Fat-Girl-K-L-Montgomery-ebook/dp/B00UUMA1MK/

April 17, 2014

The Reinvention by Claire Sterling

Did everyone celebrate the National Holiday this week? Hmmm, everyone is suddenly scrambling to check her calendar to figure what in the world I’m talking about. Now you’re all looking at me like I have two heads. Um, do you remember this past Tuesday? It was Tax Day! April 15th?

Ringing a bell with anyone? It may not be a holiday for you and me, but it sure is for the Internal Revenue Service. I see them doing a New Year’s Eve style countdown with party hats and noisemakers. Probably confetti too.

I had the obligatory Tax Day Fight with my Soon To Be Ex-Husband the other day, followed by an entire bottle of wine, so I certainly feel like my festivities were complete. To commemorate the occasion, I was thinking about that famous quote from Benjamin Franklin: “In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.” You know, I believe old Ben Franklin and I would have gotten on just fine. We both seem to be a just a wee bit cynical. However, I submit that there is one more thing that could be added to his List of Sure Things: Fat Girls.

Nothing is certain in this world except death, taxes, and fat girls.

Of course, Fat Men are also fairly prevalent, but they don’t typically attract much attention. They’re sort of relegated to the background of beer commercials and sit coms, unless, of course, they happen to be particularly amusing or jolly, for example: John Candy, Chris Farley, Kevin James, or Santa Claus. When we talk about Fat Shaming and the Atrocities of Obesity, much of the time we’re thinking about women. Plus, if a fat man happens to have moobs due to excess estrogen, we sort of treat them like Fat Girls anyway. So we’re basically talking about what’s become an Epidemic of Fat Girls.

So, if Fat Girls are such a sure thing, why hasn’t our government figured out how to tax us? Can you imagine how much money there is to be made off of fat people? Look at the diet industry, for example. They’re raking in a staggering $61 BILLION a year; that’s with a “B,” folks! Why can’t good ole Uncle Sam figure out a way to capitalize on this kind of Epic Moolah -- and not by just taxing the hell out of the weight loss industry? There has to be a way to cut out the middle man and get those greedy red, white, and blue hands all over that green!

There’s been a few methods proposed by our infinitely wise (*snicker*) lawmakers about how to accomplish this task. One method is to raise health insurance premiums for the obese. Shouldn’t fat people pay more to carry health insurance than average people do? I mean, it stands to reason we’re more at risk for medical issues and premature death, so shouldn’t we pay more? By that argument, naturally we’d also have to charge more for smokers, drinkers, roller coaster riders, bullfighters, skydivers, people dumb enough to travel to the Middle East, and Black Friday Shoppers.

Method #2 is to tax unhealthy food. Like a Twinkie Tax, a tax on soft drinks, or maybe Ben and Jerry’s. They say that taxing cigarettes has helped to curb smoking-related deaths, but I am ever hopeful that people just got so disgusted by the idea of coating their lungs with tar that it lost its appeal. Sadly, that is almost certainly not the case. While cigarettes are exorbitantly expensive and addictive, new smokers are still born every day. I’m not sure why they think this method would work with unhealthy food items. After all, the idea of coating your arteries with thick, yellow plaque is exponentially more appealing than the tar thing. Plus, fried stuff just tastes a hell of a lot better!

Unfortunately, the simple fact is that as much as obesity costs the country in medical expenses, it also makes corporations and entrepreneurs a lot of money. Someone is making millions off all these new flavors of Oreos I see every damn time I go to the grocery store. And who do you think is buying all those Oreos? Um, Fat Girls, that’s who.

And what about the plus-sized clothing; bigger, sturdier chairs and beds; larger, roomier cars and trucks; and even wider coffins required for our burgeoning populace? Those industries are capitalizing on our expanding waistlines in a Very Big Way, pardon the pun. Not to mention the fact that diabetes supplies, cholesterol drugs, CPAP machines, and all manners of weight loss aids are flying off shelves. Fat Girls pour billions of dollars into the economy, plus we don’t live as long off our pensions and social security. I think you could make the argument that Fat Girls help the economy, not hurt it.

So remind me again why we have such a thing as Fat Shaming? Yeah, that’s right: muffin tops and cottage-cheese thighs are pretty unpleasant to look at. Maybe we should just tax unsightly body parts instead. I guess this year as I suck it up and file my taxes like a dutiful citizen, I should at least be grateful to not be paying a tax for my fat ass and thunder thighs.

God bless America!

#ThisBody and Beyond

Last week I finally had a post on my Facebook page go semi-viral, which was pretty exciting after posting stuff on there faithfully for over three years. By semi-viral, I mean that the post got over 11K views (and still counting), over 600 likes, hundreds of shares and over a hundred comments. That's a lot for a page with only 1500 fans. Fortunately for me, it's resulted in several likes to my page as well as sales of my body positive novel Fat Girl. That makes some of the nasty comments I received a little easier to handle.

The post was regarding the #ThisBody campaign by Lane Bryant and their recent television ad that was rejected by networks: https://www.facebook.com/GreenCastles/posts/1045033795539590

While there is much I'd like to say to those who commented negatively, especially the blatant fat-shamers, in the interest of time (and my attention span) I'm only going to address two groups of people in this blog:

1. To the Men Who Commented

It's not that your opinion doesn't matter to someone, it's just that it doesn't matter to ME. Right at the top of my page, there is a banner that says K.L. Montgomery, Author of Women's Fiction. Did you see that W word? That's not you. That means perhaps you should find something better to do than troll my page with your bigoted and hateful comments. Although you made it very clear that you don't find me attractive, any of the Lane Bryant models attractive, nor anyone else you deem "obese" or "overweight" attractive, I am willing to bet that you're not all that aesthetically pleasing yourselves. I'm also pretty certain that you're not very happy people. If you were, you likely wouldn't be harassing women on a women's fiction author's Facebook page. Happy people don't need to disparage complete strangers. They have better, happier things to do.

By the way, for every man who is physically repulsed by fat women, I can find you another who either doesn't judge a woman's beauty by her weight OR who are especially attracted to women carrying more weight. That's right. Some men prefer fat women. 


2. To People Who Played the "Unhealthy" Card

Another group of commenters that intersected with men were the ones who say the Lane Bryant ad campaign glorifies an unhealthy lifestyle. Or that obesity is an epidemic and we should be very afraid of promoting it with this kind of advertising.

First off, I really doubt anyone who sees this ad is going to think, "Wow, I'm so skinny! I think I'll work on gaining some weight so I can be plus-sized like those models at Lane Bryant." And even if they did, who cares? How does that hurt you?

Secondly, I said this approximately a zillion times in replies to commenters already, but it bears repeating (and shouting from the rooftops): YOU CANNOT DETERMINE SOMEONE'S HEALTH BY THEIR SIZE. For example, I think Ashley Graham looks incredibly healthy, (she's one of the models in the ad, look her up. I think she's gorgeous!), but you can't really tell by looking at her. Last time I checked, I'm not a doctor, and I don't have Ashley Graham's chart in front of me. I've never run blood tests on her or medically examined her, so I really don't have any business commenting on her health. Just like YOU don't have any business commenting on mine. By the way, at a size 18, I have low blood pressure, perfect blood sugar, and perfect cholesterol. I haven't been to the doctor (other than for two minor injuries) for over a year.

Furthermore, if you think underweight, emaciated models are better examples of healthy lifestyles, I beg to differ.

People play the Unhealthy Card to cover up the fact that they're fat-phobic or fat-haters. I get it, Fat People do not speak to your personal aesthetic of beauty. Fine. But don't try to say it's because you're concerned about their health. You're not. I don't see you on cancer patients' posts telling them they're ugly, but you're concerned about their health. I don't see you saying that ads directed to cancer patients glorify an unhealthy lifestyle. Guess what, the Lane Bryant ad is not directed to YOU. It's directed to my size 18 (admittedly fat) ass.

By your logic, we can't find beauty in anyone with a health issue. So cancer patients, or diabetics, or those with heart issues are not worthy of feeling attractive or beautiful either. Oh, man, I hope I don't come down with a cold. That isn't healthy and therefore isn't pretty. It sounds completely ridiculous, doesn't it?

Also by your logic, we shouldn't have to see any advertisements that contradict our aesthetic ideals. Don't like blondes? You shouldn't have to be subjected to pro-blonde advertisements. Don't like older women? Heaven forbid they show up in a commercial. Think bald men are revolting? How about freckles? Then they're definitely not worthy of air-time. If we filled our media with models and actors that every single person deemed attractive, then guess what? We'd have NO humans on televisions or movies or the internet.

Fortunately, there are people who love blondes, and older women, and bald men and people with freckles. There are people who ARE blondes, older women, bald men, and people with freckles. And all those people should see representations of what they love and who they are in the media. By that same token, there are fat people and people who love them. We get our day in the sun too. We won't be ostracized or made to feel like we are lesser human beings just because we carry more weight.

Bottom line: Lane Bryant selling clothing to women who wear a size 14 or greater has nothing to do with health or beauty. It has everything to do with the fact that women exist on this planet who wear those sizes, and they need clothes. Women who are short and tall, young and old, healthy and unhealthy wear those sizes and shop for clothes. I'm sure you don't want us walking around naked (the horror!)  If you think we're not deserving of clothes that make us feel good about ourselves or that we shouldn't be seen in the media or in public, then perhaps you need to examine whether or not someone full of hate, judgement, and bitterness needs to be seen in public.

I'm going to end this by saying one thing. Everyone is worthy of love. It doesn't matter your race, age, gender, nationality, education level, socio-economic status, political viewpoint, religion or size. Everyone is worthy of love. Even you, rude and heartless commenters on my post. Even you.

Mothers Against Body Shaming

MABS? If this is a thing, I'm in.

So today I posted about the mother who called out a saleslady whom she felt body shamed her 13-year-old daughter. Read about it here.  I posted the story on my K.L. Montgomery, Author Facebook page because I often share body image-related news stories with my readers. A couple of hours later, I was surprised to see some pretty mean-spirited and ignorant comments on the same story shared by other news outlets. Basically a lot of people were bashing the mom AND calling the teen girl fat.

After I got over my initial "What the fuck is wrong with these people?" reaction, I started wondering how people could be so misinformed about what body shaming is or what kinds of detrimental effects it can have on victims. Yes, I used the word victims. One of the criticisms of the mom was that she was being a whiny, too-easily-offended "pussy" victim. Not even kidding, the P Word was invoked.

Before I go into how troubling that is and why, I want you to imagine this for a moment:

You're in a store shopping for clothes for your 13-year-old son. The salesman says, "I think his body would look just PERFECT in this outfit if he put on this undergarment."

How would you react? I personally would be having a major WTF moment. That's because men and boys don't typically wear undergarments to perfect their bodies. Men and boys aren't typically sent the message from birth that it is their job to look pretty and to maintain a certain figure while still managing to have big boobs and curves. But wait! Not too curvy! That's why we have Spanx, right?

Body shaming happens when someone is told their body is not normal, not attractive, unlovable, undesirable, or somehow inferior to an arbitrary societal ideal. While there is nothing wrong with wanting to look your best or to dress to flatter your figure, when someone ELSE judges what would be best for your body (telling you to lose weight, tone up, wear shapewear, get breast implants, undergo plastic surgery, etc) then THAT is body shaming.

The reason I applaud the mother for bringing this issue to the saleslady's attention - and really, to everyone's attention - is because it probably was a well-intentioned suggestion. We don't think anything of wearing or selling articles of clothing that flatten, compress, or conceal bulges. But this was a 13-year-old girl, a girl probably still getting used to her newly-minted adult-shaped body. I think we need to be careful what messages we're sending to girls and young women. We need to be more careful what messages we send to every woman. We're so conditioned to try to achieve this narrowly-defined societal ideal of "perfection," we don't even realize when we are body shaming. It's just that prevalent.

Oh and, seriously, if you think this girl is fat, then you have other problems entirely.

Body shaming and its cousin fat shaming produce negative effects. Neither activity results in "shaming" victims into eating healthily or taking care of their bodies. Research shows that this type of bullying reinforces bad habits and has serious psychological consequences. For me personally, being body shamed by my mother and others has led to a lifestyle of weight issues and eating disorders.

I applaud this mother who told her daughter that there is nothing wrong with her body the way it is, and she doesn't need to achieve society's very messed-up perception of "perfection." She is beautiful just the way she is. I know so many girls and women who need to hear that message. I'm so glad this young woman did.

Our Wedding Story

Nearly five years ago I met a man who would change my life. Of course, I didn’t really know to what extent at the time. For a while, I thought God put him in my life to get me writing again, but I fell in love with him too. I fell in deep, relentless, all-consuming love with him, as a matter of fact. And there were so many obstacles in the way of us being together, I thought I was destined to live with a broken heart.

But then things very slowly changed. We began trudging our way up a very high mountain, which is why it was apropos that he proposed to me last fall at the top of Pike’s Peak in Colorado. We began planning an October 3, 2015, wedding.

When you choose a wedding date and subsequently begin to plan said wedding, you create a distinct vision for the event. Oh, it was mapped out so very clearly in my mind: an arbor trailing with fall leaves at the edge of our woods, an aisle delineated by shepherd’s hooks scalloped with romantic tulle and hanging jars of wildflowers. The other side of the backyard would be dotted with round tables draped with ivory cloth and topped by paisley-stamped burlap squares, anchored by centerpieces of wildflowers in glass jars, candles, tiny pumpkins, pinecones and a stack of books. A dance floor would twinkle with lights as stars began to emerge in the darkening skies, and a paisley-piped triple-tiered wedding cake decorated with our monogram would provide a sweet ending for our night.

I’m a writer and librarian, and I love musical theatre; hence, I planned a “story” theme. Our programs looked like Broadway Playbills. Our tables were named for couples from our favorite stories. The hand-lettered chalkboard sign on the way out would read “And they lived happily ever after.”

But about six weeks out from the wedding, that “happily ever after” looked farther and farther away.

First, I suffered a freak accident getting a pedicure. When I climbed into the chair, I slammed my foot into the plastic faucet of the soaking basin. I cut a chunk from my right foot which later required antibiotics to treat. For several weeks, I was unsure if I’d be able to wear shoes on the Big Day! The doctor even threatened me with hospitalization if the antibiotics didn’t work. While I was recovering from that, I had an unfortunate encounter with a poisonous millipede which left chemical burns on my left foot. I’m not even making this up; I promise! In the coming weeks I also dropped a heavy gun belt on my foot and a metal keyboard tray fell on my foot too. It was looking like someone didn’t want me to walk down the aisle!

But that’s not all that went wrong.

First one bridesmaid canceled due to her husband’s medical issues. I was sad, but my motto was “The Show Must Go On!” A week after that, another bridesmaid, traveling internationally, told me she was unable to commit. So I was scrambling around figuring out how we would rearrange the bridal party. No big deal. I wasn’t going to be Bridezilla. I had it all under control. Or so I thought.

Then the bartender announced he was backing out. At that point, I thought I was going to lose it, but friends helped me find a replacement. Things were looking up for a brief, shining moment.

Very brief. Because then my fiancé hurt his shoulder playing rugby. For a while, we were afraid he was going to need surgery, but after consultation with an orthopedist, he learned he simply needed to avoid using his arm for several weeks. This was another crushing blow to our wedding agenda. He had a week vacation from work during which he was supposed to be finishing last minute projects around the house. Thank goodness for a friend who helped us finish tiling and pull the downstairs bathroom together just in time.

Two weeks before the wedding, my fiancé had a meltdown. He wasn’t sure if he could go through with it. Even though we’d lived together for two years, the financial ramifications of the union were – for lack of a better term – freaking him out. He had a terrible case of cold feet, which was sort of ironic considering my earlier foot issues (cases of hot feet?) But we sat down and discussed his fears and together we figured everything out. So I was still down two bridesmaids, but my feet were healed and I had a new bartender and an on board groom. What could go wrong now?

A week out from the wedding, the weather forecast looked okay: partly cloudy and 67 degrees. Not bad, I thought. I’ll take it. But in the coming days things began to look bleak. Devastatingly bleak.

We soon discovered that Hurricane Joaquin was heading right for us, and the Tuesday and Wednesday before the Big Day became two of the worst days of my life. The place at which we had reserved tents refused to put them up in bad weather (which, duh, was why I had reserved them in the first place.) We called around all over Delmarva and no one had a tent to spare. At that point I wondered how in the world we were going to pull this off, but then we found two tents for a reasonable price online and paid extra for two day shipping.

But the forecast worsened.

My fiancé said that he wasn’t getting married if his family from New York didn’t feel comfortable braving the storm to drive down. One by one he called his sisters and his two out-of-town groomsmen to ask what they’d like to do. The latter decided to stay home, as did another of my bridesmaids. I spent two hours biting off what was left of my nails as I waited to learn if I’d be getting married or if the fourteen pounds of frozen meatless meatballs in my fridge were going to be staying there for a long while.

We did consider rescheduling. They were predicting 5-8 inches of rain between Wednesday and Saturday with wind gusts up to 50-60 mph as a nor’easter pounded the coastline in advance of the hurricane. But trying to get 80 people together in one place with only a few weeks’ notice is no easy task. Not to mention we had a marriage license only good for another week, a crap ton of food and drink, rental items already paid for, and I had told everyone I knew I was getting married. The thought of not getting married on October 3^rd was soul-crushing.

Finally my fiancé got off the phone and announced he had found a solution. Most of his family was not willing to make the trip. However, his parents agreed to come down no matter what, which was good enough for him. And all of the sudden, the wedding was on!

Because of the uncertainty and the rain, I wasn’t able to do a lot of set-up in advance. Much of the festivities needed to be moved indoors, so we were trying to figure out where to put 40-50 people (down from our original guest list of 80) in our 2500 square feet house. We decided to do the ceremony outside with umbrellas and erect one tent for the bar and at least two tables. Everything else would go inside. I scrapped my extensive seating plan (which had changed approximately 100 times in the prior weeks) as well as half of my décor. I still had my (now terribly wrong) Playbill programs and the cute wedding games (Mad Libs anyone?) I’d created along with the plantable seed-paper bookmarks we used as favors. I was committed to making this work.

The day of the wedding was just plain crazy. I ran all over the county gathering last minute things and my friends and fiancé tirelessly cleaned, set up, got food ready, put up the tent and secured it against the ferocious wind. Amidst all that chaos, we had to call a tow truck to pull his parents’ car out of the mud in our front yard. We also had to wait to hear from our photographer who had missed the rehearsal due to flooding in his neighborhood. A few hours before showtime, he assured me he could get out at low tide.

We were running out of time so I threw on my makeup, didn’t bother to fix my hair, and got into my dress without any assistance. My ladies were running around trying to get themselves together so there was not a bit of relaxation! I wore rain boots under my dress – my something borrowed.

Next thing I knew, my youngest son and my last-minute flower girl (appointed the night before at the rehearsal based on the fact she owned a purple dress) were heading into the backyard. My older sons flanked me, ready to escort me into the angry, swirling wind. As soon as we arrived at the leaf-covered arbor where my betrothed waited, there was a sudden downburst of wind and rain as if to punctuate the commencement of our vows.

The ceremony was beautiful despite the wind, rain, and shivering, umbrella-canopied guests. Even in my sleeveless gown, I felt warm and glowing the entire time, with a smile perpetually tugging my lips upward. The words my dear friend Phather Phil wrote were breathtaking, and I was completely in the moment as I looked into my beloved’s eyes and promised to be his “till death do us part.”

Twenty minutes later, we had said our “I do’s” and kissed. We headed down the aisle, a newly minted Mr. and Mrs., to the Star Wars Theme, crossing underneath a light saber arch. We had made it! Despite all the odds we faced from injured shoulders, to canceling bridesmaids and bartenders, to millipede burns, to tents threatening to blow away, we emerged victorious. And wed.

It was not the wedding I envisioned, not by a long shot. But as I told the minister at the rehearsal: “If we end up married by the end of the night, it’s a success.” It was not the beautiful, sun-kissed early fall wedding with dancing under the emerging stars I had dreamed of; it was blowing and muddy – tow trucks and begging neighbors to use their driveways were involved. We didn’t have the 80 guests I’d planned for surrounding us, but we had 30-something loved ones who proved they would be there for us no matter what.

In the end, it was not at all what I’d imagined or planned, but it was so US. We have overcome so many struggles in our relationship, and the events leading up to our “I Do’s” were just a few more to overcome. We’ve always climbed every mountain that stood in our path. I can’t help but believe our wedding day was just exactly as it should be. It was completely ours, and it was perfect. And now we are finally living our happily ever after, secure in the knowledge we can not only climb any mountain but we can also weather any storm.

Reflections on New Kids

I've been trying to get my thoughts together in a coherent fashion ever since I sat in the Grandstand at the Delaware State Fair on Sunday night with three of my girlfriends. I was offered free tickets by my friend Dawn, who instant messaged me last week and asked "Did you like New Kids on the Block back in the day?"

I'm five or six years younger than Dawn and the other two girlfriends who accompanied us, so I was the one "ripe" for New Kids at the tender age of fourteen when I attended my first concert at the Indiana State Fair. The headliner was Tiffany, but it's safe to say that the boy band from Boston stole the show. I went on to see them two more times: once the following summer when they returned to the Indiana State Fair, this time with Tiffany as their opening act, then again at Market Square Arena in downtown Indy. I believe it was January 1990. I even have the photo evidence:

I'm in the back row, second from the left, and I'm quite certain my hair has never been more voluminous.

 

 

As I sat there on Sunday, I had so many thoughts I could barely enjoy the show. Which, was, I'll be honest just okay. It was obvious they were actually singing, at least the lead vocals, and there was some straining involved at times. But they were definitely still entertaining, and I applaud them for getting out there and still calling themselves "New Kids" when they are all around 45. That takes some balls. Seriously.

I was thinking about the fact that my father escorted my girlfriends and me to the three concerts back in the day. What a good sport! It might truly be the most selfless thing my father ever did for me. We don't talk anymore. It's been about a year since I've heard anything from him, and that was after he sent me an email telling me he vowed to do better at communicating with me. Oh well. I can look back on those 2 years of him attending concerts with me and my girlfriends and really feel appreciative. I hope I thanked him enough back in the day.

Secondly, since I have sons the same age that the New Kids were "back in the day," I tried to imagine what my life would be like if I were the mother of pop stars. At least three of the New Kids came from huge families. I mean the Wahlbergs had like a dozen kids or something. I really can't imagine what it would have been like for their parents or even for the teens themselves to grow up with that kind of life. The fact that they all seem like relatively well-adjusted adults now is pretty awesome, honestly.

And thirdly...probably most importantly, I thought about the innocence I lost between the first time I saw them and the second. At the time of the first concert, I was entering 9th grade, a pudgy nerd who hadn't really had a boyfriend. By the second concert, I was at the height of my eating disorder. I'd shed forty pounds and I'd lost my virginity — against my will — but nevertheless. But even then I didn't really understand "boys" or my sexuality. I was all swoony over these semi-fictional characters on a stage, and I didn't get that they were really the same as all the other young men in my life. Now they're grown up and have wives and kids of their own. They were mere mortals after all, who knew?

They say, and I've said so many times, that "you can never go home," but Sunday night was a strange opportunity to sit in the seat my fourteen-year-old self had once occupied. I was able to channel some of the exact thoughts I had twenty-seven years ago and to recognize how naive and childlike I still was at fourteen. From my vantage twenty-seven years ago, I would have never imagined that I'd grow up to get a masters in library science, to have three sons, to get married, divorced and remarried, move to the East Coast, or that I'd become a famous author.

Okay, so I'm still waiting for that last one to happen.
 

Coming Out

I'm officially coming out.

Yes, I've been in the closet for most of my life. It's a big dark closet, and there's a wide range of clothing sizes hung in it. It's the Fat Closet.

I was thinking the other day about what a huge step it is for me to be able to write about my personal experiences with being fat and having an eating disorder, to even admit I've suffered from an eating disorder. But it was an even *bigger* step to boldly call my book FAT GIRL.

What's the big deal, you ask?

Well, I've spent most of my life, since about age eight, trying to disguise, downplay and hide the fact that I'm fat. It sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? Because, naturally, you only have so much power over how your body is perceived by others. And there's only so much you can do to conceal your blubber. It's not like you can wear a "skinny suit."

But I was in denial.

Maybe if I just didn't draw attention to myself by eating in front of people, they wouldn't know I was fat? I literally starved myself for hundreds, maybe thousands, of meals between the ages of 12 and hell, probably as late as 2014, all because I didn't want people to think I was fat because I ate a lot.

I didn't really do the whole "baggy clothes to hide my fat" kind of thing but I did, have, and still spend way too much money in my endless pursuit of fashion that will accentuate the positive and de-emphasize the negative. Like "Maybe if I just wear the perfect outfit people won't notice that I weigh over 200 pounds?"

And finally, there were years I didn't talk about it. I didn't talk about my weight, dieting, what I ate, how much I worked out (which was often excessively) because all I wanted to do was appear normal, average, medium. When I was at the height of my eating disorder, I wasn't striving to be some size 2 model-thin waif, because I know these thick thighs and big butt will never go there. I just wanted to be normal. I just wanted to not be fat.

It's like being fat was the worst fate I could imagine.

But the older I get, the more I realize that, although my weight may still be above average or more than recommended for my height, I am normal. In fact, I have been normal this whole time, at every weight I've been. I am not, and have never been, some freak with a body to be ashamed of. At every point in that range, from 135 pounds to 275 pounds, I've been a remarkably smart, compassionate, and yes, even beautiful woman.

More important is the other thing I've discovered: the demons I've fended off for most of my life are pervasive and ubiquitous. Though my story is deeply personal, the threads of it are woven through the stories of millions of other people. There's not been one person - man or woman - I have spoken with about my book who couldn't identify with Claire's -- and by extension -- my struggles.

Knowing how heavily the book draws from my own life, several people have asked me to separate out truth from fiction. Claire's family situation and her ex-husband are rather different than mine, but her experiences with weight, dieting, bullying, and fat shaming? Yeah, all of that is me. Those painful memories? Those happened. And I'm still coming to terms with them.

The biggest difference between Claire and myself? She's a hell of a lot funnier than me.

See for yourself: http://www.amazon.com/Fat-Girl-K-L-Montgomery-ebook/dp/B00UUMA1MK/

It feels good to finally be out in the light.