God Loves You, Fatass
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For the past several days I have been engaged in a rigorous battle for my self-esteem with Facebook Ads. Apparently they cull the information on your profile and posts in order to tailor ads to your interests. This may be well and good for people like my dance teacher mother, who takes ads for yoga and pilates at face-value: they know she dances, they suggest she stretch, no harm done. But for people like me, (i.e., people who, despite their firm belief in a take-you-as-you-are type God, have serious body– and perhaps mental– issues) this has potential to become wildly insulting.
Monday, 7:23 p.m.: A Facebook ad is informing me that moms who make less than $55k have the option to remove more than half. Of what, it does not say. I think I will exercise my option to remove more than half of my fat ass. Does that work, Facebook ad?
Monday, 10:28 p.m.: Apparently the Facebook ads have now picked up on my ass-size dilemma. They are currently suggesting I do Workout for Moms. Leave me alone, Facebook! Leave me alone!
Tuesday, 10:48 p.m.: Alright, that’s it– Facebook is officially out to get me. It’s now taunting me, “Don’t be SCARED of getting OLD.” Screw you, Facebook. Didn’t anyone tell you 30 is the new 20? Pfft.
Tuesday, 11:01 p.m.: Now Facebook is asking me if a “relaxing vacation” to the Bahamas is on my “horizon.” Well, no, Facebook, not now that you’ve convinced me I’m an old fatass. But thanks for asking.
Wednesday, 8:55 a.m.: Ok, Facebook, I forgive you. It just kissed and made up with an ad suggesting I might be an author. A “Mad Author,” mind you, but an author nonetheless. Flattery will get you everywhere.
So this tells me two things. First, marketing has become frighteningly Big Brotheresque. Second, I have a teensy-weensy problem with vanity. I suppose this second revelation shouldn’t really come as a surprise to a person who changes her shirt three times before going to the gym, but there you have it.
And I have to wonder, if I really trust that God loves and accepts me in all my ugliness, then how can I get so bent out of shape by a pudgy chin? Why does stupid shit matter to me so much?
This is the best I can come up with: He’s not done.
Jesus finished his work on the cross, but there’s still a hell of a lot going on in me, going on in this world. I trust him when he says we’ll get there, when he promises that one day it’s going to be All Right. But in the meantime, there will be war. There will be literal war in certain parts of the world, and there will be many miniwars in certain parts of my soul.
I don’t like it, but that’s the way it is. So although I wish you wouldn’t, Facebook, I guess you can go ahead and keep on bringing it. Because you might be winning the battles, but I have an awesome Big Brother who’s going to win the war.