Landwhale

CHAPTER 1

This Was All Just a Big Mistake

I AM AN impressively terrible businesswoman.

I became “Jes, The Militant Baker: conspicuous fat chick, beauty-myth challenger, shit talker, petty blocker, Twitter amateur, and internet human with more followers than any person from Tucson deserves” by complete accident. The fact that you’re holding this book in your hands right now? Total fluke. In fact, I keep expecting someone important who is in charge of something big (Google? Amazon maybe? Even Kmart would do) to come out and say, “Sorry guys, this was all just one big mistake! Jes, delete everything you’ve written online. Everyone else, carry on.”

I’m still not ruling that out.

So, no. I never imagined, back when I started typing center-justified blog posts (I still have serious internet shame around this) on a shoddily designed Blogger site—first about vintage kitchenware *yawn* and then about my plus-size body—that it would lead to this. “This” being becoming a somewhat well-known fat person on the internet whom thousands of people praise and even more people pray an untimely death for. “This” being a future containing invitations to participate in documentaries, film corporate campaigns and offers to write Upworthy articles (which no doubt require hours of editing on their end). “This” being a creepily detailed Wikipedia page about my past written by strangers, a delightfully scathing shout-out on Breitbart, the chance to lecture at universities about why being nice is a really good thing, and the opportunity to be in the same room as (and the inexplicable privilege to be ignored by) the accomplished actress Danielle Brooks. When I started writing online, none of this crossed my baby blogger mind.

I just wanted a couple dozen people (honestly, I would have settled for five—friends included) to read my hastily typed fat-girl feels and the opportunity to take lots of pictures of myself using my DLSR, which I fondly named Midge. I was bored by my deteriorating relationship and needed a hobby because watching River Monster marathons every single night with a lifeless partner who only liked eating chicken nuggets, wearing Tapout shorts, and refusing to let me drive just wasn’t doing it for me anymore.

So, I sat on my bed, opened my computer, shoved an SD card into my camera, and started blogging for no other reason than to distract myself from the toothy perils that apparently lurk in every body of water (also: is Jeremy Wade even his real name? As the host of a show filmed in bodies of water, it just… seems awfully convenient) and a person who would rather stare blankly at a screen than interact with another human. Especially me.

Oh, the glamour. Oh, the life.

And somehow, five years later… here I am: two books published, innumerable conference and college lectures given, and hundreds of thousands of followers who have formed an incredible community and have taught me more about body politics, fat empowerment, and mental health than I could have ever imagined. I’m still hastily typing and taking lots of pictures, but now I am both existing and producing content under a shockingly hot spotlight that comes with the un-ditchable (trust me, I’ve tried) requirement of being what some adults like to call a businesswoman. That’s what they call someone who identifies as a lady person and makes some money doing things on their own when they’re a grown-up, right?

If so, I suppose that’s what I am, like it or not.

And the reality is that I suck at all of it.

I’ll own that the success is both startling and exciting. A large part of my visibility can be attributed to my dedication to authenticity, challenging social norms, bad jokes, critical thinking in a world that prefers the easy way out, as well as undeniable privilege and sheer luck. I’m pretty great at continuing to excel in all of these things. The business part though? Not so much.

I’m not aiming for self-deprecation. I’m simply stating a fact—one that is well known by any volunteer who has helped me run a “successful” (to others, anyway; it was a clusterfuck behind the scenes) five-hundred-person conference when I had no idea what a conference should look like or what intersectionality was.¹ You can also poll anyone who has emailed me in the last five years; I would imagine that 87 percent of them would agree with my statement after having waited nine months for a reply. And I’m being generous.

To be fair, though, I do receive anywhere from 21 to 198² emails a day, and every single one of them (besides the Blue Apron shipping update that reminds me I forgot to cancel my overpriced subscription again) contains something complicated that requires me to either write an essay in reply, link multiple items I’ve lost on my unorganized desktop, or schedule a Skype-oriented meeting. Given that the thought of having to make a phone call causes a panic attack, the Skype requests consequently leave me in a frenzied state where a benzo seems like the only way through.

It’s stressful AF. That’s what I’m trying to say here.

So stressful that it’s caused me to get a cold and break out in hives more than I ever broke out in teenage acne.

I solved this problem (though far too late in my career) by creating the best auto-response in the existence of the internet. It goes something like this:

True to form, I just found a typo in a response that has already been sent to hundreds of influential contacts. No big deal.

See? Sure, I run a “business,” but I’m an amazing failure at it even when bragging about my best work. I don’t know if going back and fixing the typo would defeat my compelling argument that I’ve just spent twenty paragraphs writing. (Don’t count them; that was a sloppy estimate.)

However, this automatic reply has served its purpose. I’ve yet to catch a cold or break out in email-induced hives since implementing my brilliant riposte. The feedback has consisted of just a few “Your auto-reply is amazing, can I copy it?” (Yes, you can. I didn’t come up with something this clever without help) and “It’s really effing annoying to get this kick-back every time I email you” responses. I feel you, my friend; getting an email wishing you magic and a wonderful day (with genuinely misspelled, for God’s sakes) sucks.

Sometimes, I do trudge through the answering of seven thousand emails, though. Eventually, the guilt adds up, the number in bold next to the word “inbox” increases, and the dates that the emails were sent are shoved in my face by Gmail (“Hey, asshole, they sent this three and a half weeks ago. Get your shit together”), and it all becomes impossible to ignore.

On these special occasions, my custom is often to audibly sigh, dig in… and skim.

Last year, I opened my inbox and read (just kidding, skimmed) this guy:

Did I click the link? I don’t remember.

Things I did remember:

I fucking love NYC. I was in.

When the shooting day arrived, it was summer in the city, and I was walking toward the Loeb Boathouse and cursing the fact that the construction inside Central Park had forced my Uber to drop me off several avenues (not streets, avenues; there is a lengthy difference) from our lakeside meeting location. Didn’t the city planners realize it was 160 degrees, with the same amount of humidity? Probably. But they also probably didn’t care. After all, this is the magical city that never sleeps—if you can make it there, you can make it anywhere—that also had mountains of garbage lining every sidewalk and was over capacity with people who would shoulder check you for walking too slow (I’ve visited enough to become one of those proud shoulder-checking assholes). Being dropped off so far away meant I had to hustle, which didn’t bode well with the suffocating humidity, which quickly becomes messy when combined with the amazing amount of sweat I normally produce on a daily basis. The daily amount? Let’s just say it’s a lot.

Already drenched and barely on time, I met the producer (wiping my hand on my suffocating layered dress—who wears multiple layers in NYC in the summer? What was I thinking?—before shaking hers) and waited for our television host. I informed the filming team that I had a rash from an unknown cause on my right arm that I had covered up with foundation, so if they could film from the left, that would be great. I’m sure at that point the makeup had melted off, but they nodded good-naturedly as I internally groaned about how much of a glamorous superstar I continuously failed to be.³ The host arrived, seemingly twelve feet tall, svelte, with long blonde hair flowing behind her graceful frame, which was dressed effortlessly in white shorts and a knotted chambray top (didn’t she know that all chambray clothing highlights sweat? Maybe she didn’t sweat?⁴). We greeted each other with another (dress-wiped) handshake. I had too much empathy to force her into a sweaty hug.

“It’s so wonderful to meet you!” she grinned. “I have to tell you that I never research who I’m meeting, though. I love to get to know them in person.”

To which I replied, “I also have no idea who you are, but I love NYC, and although your producer just said your name, I already forgot it, but you seem like a really nice human.”

Yeah, right. I said something about how wonderful that was and how I was thrilled to meet her and thanks for thinking of me for the show.

The next hour was spent on a fucking rowboat in the middle of a goddamn lake with maximum humidity causing me to sweat so much it looked like I had fallen out and climbed back in. If she needed a single tissue blot I certainly didn’t see it, whereas I would have sold my car for anything absorbent (a bath sheet, maybe?) that I could use to wipe my neck.

As we swung our oars the wrong way for sixty minutes, the producers (also not sweating—what sort of genetic anomalies were we dealing with here? Do New Zealanders not have sweat glands?) followed us in another boat, bellowing instructions like “Talk about the fifth graders who hate their bodies!” and “You’re going the wrong way again, Jes; try rowing backward!” Somehow, we managed to chat about how harmful it is to idolize one body type.

At one point, she stopped rowing for a moment and somberly confessed, “Sometimes, I wonder how many people I harmed by being visible and part of that idealized demographic.” I surveyed her for a moment, with her golden hair slightly moving with the wind (that I certainly didn’t feel) and her long and slender arms clutching her stationary paddle.

“Well, perhaps. You are a traditionally attractive person.” I stated the obvious nonchalantly while wiping the sweat out of my eyes, trying to say it in a complimentary way. “But this has been going on for centuries and is systemic… y’know?” I added desperately in an attempt to not exacerbate her obvious guilt.

After overhearing me beg one of the cameramen for something to tie back my dripping hair with (they had nothing—nothing), the producer called the row-boating section a wrap. Whether this decision was made out of a gracious amount of pity or concern for their sweat-covered electrical equipment, I’m still not sure.

It took us an embarrassingly long time to dock the boat in its designated area, but I was relieved to be out of that hellish wooden torture device and on land, where at least I could use my hands to fan myself with the production script while we moved to the center of the park for a few more scenes.

We started filming the “beginning” of the episode, which included her theatrical entrance into Central Park. I watched as they captured the slender host delicately sauntering down the flights of concrete stairs “on her way to meet me,” and from the sidelines I couldn’t help but notice groups of people stopping and whispering to each other as they took pictures from afar. The Official TV Host Tissue Blotter (unnecessary; also, where was mine?) waved them away, and the cameras continued to film as she stopped to fix a bride’s dress while a couple was having their picture taken.

“Great!” the producer said. We moved to the fountain for another shot (at this point, I should have realized that they had no compassion for my body’s inability to cope with humidity while standing near any water source in hundred-degree heat). “Now, Jes, this is where you are meeting her for the first time. I want both of you to walk toward each other and then greet enthusiastically. And Jes—make sure you start from that corner and hug before you introduce yourself.”

I tottered (my chub rub was in full rage mode at this point) over to my designated spot, still drenched, and faced the woman who was already airily striding toward me in a way that made me think that she might be Gwyneth Paltrow’s sister. In comparison, I felt like I was capable of only lumbering in her direction, my fat body (the blessed reason I was there) seeming more cumbersome than ever. I kept a smile on my face for the camera, but I’m sure my eyes showed my growing dread about the fact that I had to wrap my salty and sticky body around this unfortunate, elegant woman.

We greeted. We hugged. We took a picture that I was instructed not to share until the episode aired, the filmographers called it a wrap, and then, with a visible air of relief, the crew left.

I too felt relief, wanting nothing more than some goddamn air myself.

I started to walk through the park, wondering why in the hell I had signed up for something like this, and then joined an awestruck crowd that was circled around a man using a rope to completely encompass himself in a six-foot bubble.

I chose a bench next to a young and seemingly charming family with two small children and pulled out my phone to reread the original email and see what I had just participated in.

Nonplussed and still uncertain about the show I had just filmed, I googled Rachel Hunter.

I am the kind of millennial people write disparaging articles about.

I scrolled through images, dumbfounded. Our boat conversation and the unwelcome groups of paparazzi were starting to make more sense. On the one hand, it was pleasant to get to know someone without pretenses. On the other hand, I might have just given Rachel Goddamn Hunter bedbugs.

The toddler next to me projectile vomited all over his parents and, incapable of handling anything else that day, I took it as a sign that it was time to leave.

Lost in thought about my impressive lack of research when it came to the projects I sign up for, I slowly walked back through Central Park, narrowly missing a bicyclist. He was wearing a helmet but it felt like the both of us barely escaped dramatic deaths. “God, I should wear a helmet when I ride a bike too,” I thought as I started to rapidly run through a mental list of things fully functioning adults do that I don’t. “Yes. I’m definitely going to buy a helmet,” I promised myself. “I’m also going to get that year-long-overdue oil change, return those Amazon packages, and organize the mountain of clothes on my bedroom floor.”

“Lord,” I thought, as the list continued to grow, “I really need to get my shit together.”

Of course, I didn’t buy a helmet when I got home. I also didn’t change my oil, visit UPS, or sort the ninety-two black outfits strewn across the floor of my room. That would have been alarmingly responsible. But I did learn perhaps one of the most important lessons to date: a real businesswoman doesn’t skim through emails once and say yes.

A real businesswoman skims through at least twice.

¹. Permission to burn me alive at the Activist Stake granted.

². Lazy estimate because: terrible businesswoman.

³. I had visited urgent care a few days before to try to figure out how to make the conspicuous rash disappear and left with a handful of prescriptions to help with the swelling, prescribed by a baffled nurse. I found out months later that it was from a nightmare-inducing infestation of bedbugs. I should have been quarantined, not traveling across the country.

⁴. She didn’t.