Let me explain to you what I mean by that term.
*
I was outside the warehouse at oh dark thirty before my first day at hockey bootcamp. I’d lost the contents of my stomach twice, I was so nervous. I had all the baggage of firefighting on my shoulders and I’d never put on hockey gear before.
This hot, athletic teenage hockey star dude was getting me gear. You know what that’s like? Having some eighteen year old athlete go through gear to give you?
“I have a fat ass,” I said. Because I didn’t think any gear they had was going to fit me and I was an out of shape old woman who had never played hockey before.
“Big ass, more power,” he said, and handed me a pair of hockey pants. They fit.
Lesson learned.
*
140 pounds didn’t do me much good for firefighting. I put on weight and started passing agilities. Why? Muscle. Mass, against weight of objects. Physics.
Mental things going on, too. About owning space, and my own size.
Bigness being not something to be ashamed of but something to be desired.
*
When I say “fatass” I mean I am big. I do not mean I am bigger than you. I do not mean you are a bad shape, I certainly do not mean I am a bad shape. I mean that my BMI is obese by the books. I mean I am large, by society’s standards, I mean that I am subject to criticism because of the weight I carry around and I have gotten to a place in my life where
I do not want to become smaller.
*
I have a huge ass.
I have a huge lots of things, and a while ago I thought that princesses and delicate vulnerable pretty people couldn’t be large.
Or muscled.
Or, god forbid “bulky.”
It’s bullshit, it’s lies. Size has zero to do with princessdom or vulnerability. Big huge men can be princesses, and I can be in this five seconds powerful and in the next five seconds vulnerable.
When I truly level up as a human being I’ll learn to be both simultaneously.
*
Do not think that fatass coming out of my mouth is an insult.
I apply it to myself acceptingly.
Proudly.
Lovingly.
Kel Bachus 
Reblogged this on FATtitudes.
Yes, this. All this. I’ve missed your writing, lovely. Bless.
When my teenage friends were my preteen friends, I introduced them to a term I use for my own body, which is “warrior princess thighs.” I have heard women talk about their “thunder thighs” disparagingly. My thighs do not deserve that. My thighs are big compared to the rest of me because of the proportionally quite large amounts of muscle in them. They are my power. When the rest of my body lets me down, goddamn but my legs are strong, because I bike to hell and back on them. And my little friends started thinking about that. I want them to have stuff like that rattling around in their heads now that they’re not so little. That’s the sort of thing that surfaces when you need it, sometimes, maybe.