One Way or Another

I leave for Morgantown in two days. If you had asked me five months ago, whether I thought I would ever return there, I would have answered probably not. But there's a theater there and I'm getting paid to do what I love. So off I go.

We actually stopped there twice on the last tour. I fell slightly in love with the city, its small town feel. The hotel had the best french onion soup I'd ever eaten. The bars we crawled in and out of were some of the most fun I had in that three months on the road; in one, a night of mountain song - a huge jamboree of men and women sitting in the round, making loud music on whatever instruments they could find. Banjos, violins, guitars, mandolins. Even spoons from the kitchen served as percussion to the rally. The other bar held beer. So much beer. And boys. One particular boy.

The karaoke was loud and all the cast were taking their turns. For the first time in my life, I sang something other than Build Me Up Buttercup, my usual song of choice. I wanted to try something new. To be unafraid. Karaoke unnerves me. It's unrehearsed. You never know what key you're going to be in, what your voice might do. I've never been sure of myself singing in that way, and it reads on stage, even in front of a bunch of drunk college kids and cast mates. So I picked something low, something I could growl into, One Way or Another by Blondie. I didn't think this would be much of a gamble, but just badass enough for passing.

One way or another I'm gonna find ya 
I'm gonna getcha getcha getcha getcha

The later it got, the deeper into pitchers we ran. And this was good beer, made right there at the bar; gleaming bronze tanks towering next to us as we drank the cold night away. We made friends with the locals who took their turn screaming songs above the loudspeakers. And I met this boy. I can't remember his name, but he was at the university studying Poli-sci; very much the nerdy type that I tend to go for. A few cast mates who saw what was going on tried encouraging me. This young blondie was an easy target, and he just kept getting closer into my space, but never pushing me.

It was closing time and one of our own was puking in the bathroom. There was no better time for me to escape with an excuse. I don't know why I didn't bring him back with me. He was cute. I would have had fun. But he was definitely beyond inebriated and no man is ever that good. And honestly, I wasn't in the mood to be a teacher that night. And those kinds of boys need to be lead.

The thought did cross my mind though. What if? What if I did bring him back with me? It wouldn't hurt anyone. My tour roomie was gone for those few days so I had my room to myself. But what if I ever came back through this town again? It would be awkward. So I stopped. I didn't even let him kiss me.

And here we are five months later, and I'm actually returning.
And you can bet I'll be going back to those same two bars.

But here's the thing: If I run into him, I might make the same decision I made back in February.

The friends who have known me for a long time would be shocked. To them, I am still the boy-crazy, loud, flirty woman that I was in college. They see me look at a handsome man across the room and assume that I will jump straight for him with all the desperation and pent-up sexual frustration I can muster. But that's not me anymore.

A few weekends ago, I hit it off with a guy. We spent so many hours talking at the bar that my friends had to pull me away. You know you don't have to be like that. You're such an amazing person. I didn't understand. I wasn't doing anything wrong. I wasn't hung up on this guy. Sure, I enjoyed his company, but I wasn't flirting with him incessantly like I used to. Actually, I don't think I flirted with him at all. It was just nice to finally connect with someone without all the awkwardness that usually applies.

Then came the little pin prick: We don't know where you get your confidence from. She meant it in a positive way, that people admire that side of me. But in honesty, a small part of me was crushed. Of course I'm confident. Why wouldn't I be? I'm awesome! Smart, funny, talented. Pretty in my own way. But the underlying thought that I shouldn't naturally feel this way hurt. I may be a fat girl, but that doesn't mean I don't know what I'm doing as a woman. I mean, I'm 35 for god's sake. I've been through things that no woman should have to endure.

So I went home alone that night. The old me would have tried harder, would have felt depressed that nothing happened. The person I am now knows better, that I deserve someone who's as interested in me as I am in them. Over the years, I have learned to let go. And quickly too. I'm not one for wasting time or energy. There is so much to do and experience in this life. I will not waste a second. But I will waste a lifetime with the right one when he comes along.

The Comfort Question

Yesterday morning, I was asked a question that I never thought I would have to answer: Are you comfortable doing nude scenes?

My first reaction was shock. The women on set with me had been talking about the casting call notice during our lunch break. A few of them submitted. I know of at least one who actually got a call back. Most of these women are small. I however, am not. And this is one of the beautiful things about working on a show like Orange is the New Black. They use all body types, all skin types, all sexual types, all women types. I could not be more proud to be doing my small part as an extra on this show.

I posted my funny little experience on Facebook. I love sharing my life with people, but sometimes it comes at a cost. Most people just press like and go on about their day. A handful usually leave supportive comments of their pride in me or a joke about the situation. One of my favorite responses this time around was my friend Carl who wrote, If you want to desensitize yourself to the prospect by sending out selfies, I would be willing to assist you in the furtherance of your art. LOL. His wife, Andi (who I've known since high school), promptly followed with Always the helpful one, Carl! Lol! I have the most amazing group of supportive friends that I could ever ask for.

But then came a few responses of support that jarred me, the ones that pushed me to do it. Go for it! Do it for the art! You are a beautiful woman who shouldn't be ashamed of her body. It could lead to something! And that's where the truth started to hit me in the face and I wished that I hadn't said anything. I understand that these people are only wanting me to succeed, what they think is best for me. But getting naked for a few million people isn't going to do any of that.

To be honest, if I were 50 pounds lighter, I would have considered it. If I were 100 pounds lighter, I would have submitted before the email could even finish downloading to my phone inbox. But I'm not. I am the size I am right now. And I am the only one who has to live my life with my body.

It isn't a question of art. It isn't a question of my beauty. It isn't a question of pay or experience. It's a question of my comfort level. Mine. My own.

I rarely let anyone see me naked. Not my roommates. Not my theater friends. Not even my lovers. Not anyone. I am a lights-off-in-the-bedroom kind of girl. But don't get me wrong. I have confidence. Otherwise, I couldn't succeed in this business (or get laid). There are, however, some very strong points that lead me to the decision I made (that I am more than happy to film scenes in a towel, but that would the extent of my nakey time on screen).

You'd think in this day and age that people would be more sensitive and have manners. It's not true however. At least once or twice a week, I am harassed in some way about my weight. From the pedi-cab driver telling me to lose some weight fatty! to the anonymous Twitter asshole telling me I won't have a problem when I tweeted about being afraid to date using the YesAllWomen hashtag. Have you ever had a cast mate of the opposite sex look at you in complete disgust when you talk about having a sex life? I have. And it weighs on you...even now, months later.

But here's the thing: I'm confident. I have parts of my body that I love. I have two mini skirts that actually turned a man's head. My tits are big and my waist, a nice hour-glass shape. I have jeans that make me look like I have an ass that won't quit. When I have a night out in Harlem, I get stopped by strange men on the street asking for my number.
But Harlem isn't Hollywood.

Do you know the cruelest thing you can say to a single fat girl? That she isn't fat. That she is beautiful. There was an entire Louis C.K. episode about dating a fat girl with an amazing monologue at the end that pretty much sums up what my life is like:



There are women on the internet who are proud of their bodies, just the way they are. Denise Jolly is a writer and poet that I truly admire. Her work with body issues and fat shaming is something that I do not have the courage to do. But I am extremely grateful that she does. Maybe someday, society will change and I won't be seen as something to be mocked or to be disgusted with. But that day isn't today.

None of this however, changes the fact that my comfort level just isn't as open. I would love to be able to say that I'm not afraid of being judged. But I am. Every day of my life. So while the chance to have more on screen time would be amazing, the extra $50 or $100 just isn't worth it to me. Like my friend Paul said, that's not even dinner and a movie.