Readers, I have a confession: I am no freaking good at sports.

It’s not about fat. I was actually kind of a skinny kid. I was no good at sports then, either. I had balance issues and a fondness for not getting hit in the face with objects hurtling through the air. When the class was taught to play volleyball in the fifth grade, I clearly heard the teacher tell us that the goal was to get the ball over the net and onto the ground on the other team’s side. Twenty-nine other kids heard that the goal was to see how many times they could get the ball to hit Twistie precisely on the top of her head. I can understand the confusion. My head was, in point of fact, a much more precise target than several square feet of asphalt, and we all love a challenge. Still, it made the game Not Fun for me on an epic level.

When we were ‘taught’ baseball in sixth grade, the teacher insisted that everyone already knew all the rules, so we would move straight to the game itself. Nobody took me seriously when I said I had no idea how to play. Everyone has played baseball in the womb! Not me. Then I watched classmate after classmate get up and try to hit a ball the size of the school bully’s fist (and I knew from experience just what size it was and how it felt coming at my nose) out of the way of their faces with a stick. That thing had to be doing forty! No way was I going to let it hit my face even faster than Jeff’s fist! I dropped to the dirt.

Yeah. That went well.

I spent most of my time between the ages of twelve and fifteen with a sprained thumb, ankle, or wrist somewhere on me. I played through the pain and the gym teachers gave me D- for participation, because apparently participation is only proven through competence at the game. You try playing an entire two-week round-robin doubles badminton tournament solo on a sprained ankle and tell me how many teams you beat. Yeah. I beat zero. My partner who didn’t show up to class for those two weeks (yet miraculously arrived every day at our shared Art class) got a better participation grade than I did.

As soon as I got the chance, I ditched gym class forever. And while I have done many things that give me plenty of exercise since then (including Scottish country dance, until a series of knee injuries and a move to a place where I couldn’t find a convenient class pushed that to the side), I have never again participated in organized sports.

I walk. I sometimes just run up and down the stairs in my house because it’s convenient and works up a sweat. I do housework…including things like moving furniture. Dusting might not be a big muscle builder, but putting together that Ikea entertainment center and filling it with many of the contents of the old entertainment center two weeks ago was. Say what you will, the pieces were heavy.

The new entertainment center was to hold our new, larger television which we acquired just in time for me to go into my regularly scheduled Olympic Haze.

You see, I may not play sports. I may not even watch sports (with the exception of figure skating) in between Olympics, but every two years I spend a two week period being a walking stat sheet. Mr. Twistie tears out his hair, because even the Olympics can’t get him caring about organized sports, but he’s remarkably patient when I start spewing times, scores, artistic deductions, etc. at him.

When it all ends, life usually goes back to normal. ESPN never gets a look from me, I don’t know the names of any of the skiers or biathletes or (in the summer) Greco-Roman wrestlers anymore. I may or may not happen to remember to see any skating competitions (though I will probably tell everyone who doesn’t gnaw their own leg off to escape about the time I sold books to Scott Hamilton, who was a really nice guy).

This time, though, I’m hearing the siren call of an actual sport. Curling.

I’ve been watching, and I’m mesmerized. I’m catching on to the strategy. I’m deeply amused by the sweeping, but I’m also starting to get what it’s accomplishing. Even the fact that it’s played on ice which is cold and slippery isn’t daunting me. Even the relentlessly dull polo shirts and sensible shoes aren’t putting me off! Of course, there is that one men’s team in the harlequin diamond pants, but while they aren’t dull, they aren’t exactly the ultimate in tasteful, either. I feel sure Tim Gunn (call me, Tim!) would pronounce them ‘a lot of look.’

But I’m loving the camaraderie, the fact that teams talk about going out for a pizza after the game instead of carefully weighing every calorie vs its specific nutritional value to their sport, the way they usually look genuinely happy to shake hands with the other team at the end no matter who won or lost. I’m loving the fact that it’s a quiet game of precision rather than a hurried race to a finish line or a subjective balance of skill and artistry. I like the fact that it’s something that takes some time to understand. And of course I love the fact that it allows for a range of body types.

While I haven’t seen anyone as fat as I am on the ice for curling at the Olympics, there are plenty of players with spare tires, as well as the rail thin. Body type doesn’t matter in the game. It’s about throwing the rock at just the right angle with just the right amount of speed. It’s about sweeping harder, softer, or not at all to get the rock to curl just where it needs to go. It’s about setting up the ice so that the other team’s shot might accidentally do your team some good. Tall or short, fat or thin, it’s about strategy, and about muscle control. It’s a slippery game of chess, and I’m falling in love.

Now, if we could just do something about those shoes….

God. What a week. First Kevin “Too Fat For The Sky” Smith gets kicked off that Southwest flight and yesterday some whackadoo flies his damn plane into a building with some IRS offices in my fair hamlet of Austin, Texas.

I’m pretty much ready to lock my door, turn off all my personal equipment and hunker down for the weekend with a bottle of Basil-Hayden’s and some Almodovar films until everyone has regained what they have lost of their damn minds.

HOWEVER, before I do that we’ve got a little housekeeping to do:

Comments: Do you know who does the comment admin? ME.  And it sucks, because there are always a million spam comments that somehow make it through the filter trying to sell me things that normally would require a fake foreign visa and a cash-only trip to Thailand.  The only thing that’s WORSE than spam is having to go and moderate comments from het up readers whose passionate feelings override their better sense when it comes to what is and is not appropriate on the blog.

Francesca, Twistie and I are fair game. I like Twistie so you take your blogging life in your hands if you go after her, but generally speaking you can have at us.  Don’t go after other readers with ad hominem attacks or telling them to leave.  If your name isn’t on the masthead, you don’t get a say as to who is welcome on this blog.  Sorry! (But not really!)

Keep the profanity to a minimum. I love a well-placed f bomb as much as the next gal, assuming the next gal is a merchant marine, but this is a family blog so keep it clean.

There is a reason James Joyce does not post in comments. Sure, technically that reason is that he’s dead, but ALSO he’s long-winded.  I LOVE that y’all are erudite and clever and put thought into your comments, but when they run to five and six hundred words?  Perhaps a blog with a linkback might be more appropriate. It shows up in the comments field anyway. Also, there is  no excuse for a 1048 word comment –not that I’m naming any names, ROBIN.

If you’re going to flounce, flounce and be quiet about it. Listen, we love each and every one of our readers, but there are a LOT of you. Francesca and Twistie aren’t around enough for the care and keeping of your individual heartstrings and I’m too mean to do it. So if you’re going to get your pwecious feeeeewings hurt and you want to leave forever, then just leave. Don’t throw a big hissy about it. We hate to see you go, but we trust your judgment as an adult enough not to try to convince you to stay.

Don’t troll advertise. Dude. We know what you’re trying to do by putting vapid six word comments on every.single.post. with a link to your own blog. If you want to advertise on the blog we would LOVE to take your money, if you want us to link to your blog, send me an email. I’ll check it out and if I like it, I’ll put it on the roll.

Okay, that’s all the admin for this week! Happy trails, campers! I’ll see you on the other side of the weekend.

Yesterday we chatted a little bit about Kevin Smith being kicked off a Southwest plane because he was what in the medical community is known as a fattyboombalatty and thus a safety risk.

Of course they ignored the fact that he could fit in his seat, fasten the safety belt AND put down the armrests (earlier reports said he couldn’t).

I listened to the SModcast wherein Smith tells his side of the story.

What struck me most was he wasn’t ready to “scorch the earth” as he put it, until after he was seated on the NEXT flight.  Apparently he’d bought two seats and a fat woman was seated at the other side of the three-person row.

Get this.

The crew asked the fat woman to come with them, and then had a conversation with her, and very nearly did the same thing to her as they’d done to Smith earlier that day.  Plus they made her ASK him if it was okay that she was seated next to his completely empty seat.

What broke my heart was what Smith said about the look on that woman’s face. “It was like she’d been through Fat ‘Nam.” She’d suffered every humiliation, had every judgmental look, and the one big of her dignity she could still hold onto was that she could put her armrest down.

THAT’S when he decided to go on his rampage. Until then he thought that some guy –NOT the captain or the flight attendant– just didn’t like his movies and decided it would be funny to bounce him from the plane. It was when he saw the humiliation of the face of that unfortunate fat woman that he decided to lay siege.

Let me tell you something about Kevin Smith:

In the Fall of 1998 I got to spend an afternoon with him when he came to my university to discuss…Chasing Amy I think.  You might not believe it if you’ve only seen his movies, but he is absolutely a scholar and a gentleman and could give any of the traditionally gracious Sons of the South a run for their confederate money in the manners department. So when in his most recent SModcast he said his motto has always been “death before discourtesy” he’s not lying.  He’s better behaved than some Anglican Bishops I know.

What bothers me so much about this whole thing other than it’s just ANOTHER indignity to heap on the pile is this problem just isn’t going to go away.

“The average legroom in coach is getting smaller. The seat width remains unchanged in decades even as Americans get bigger. Airlines are increasingly using small regional planes to serve less-popular destinations. To combat slow demand, they’ve eliminated capacity, resulting in fuller planes and stiffer competition for upgrades. And airlines’ rules requiring obese passengers to pay for an extra seat are being enforced more strictly.

[...]

Macsata says airlines’ “fat tax” overlooks the fact that seat size hasn’t kept up with increasing girth. From 1960 to 2002, Americans have become on average of about 25 pounds heavier. The typical seat width — at 17 inches to 18.5 inches — hasn’t changed since 1958, he says.

Tealer says she has never been asked to buy another ticket but says coach seats can be painful. “Your hips are pressing against the armrest. I’ve had bruises, muscle pain.”

The armrest test to determine who should buy a second ticket also is discriminatory against women, says Tealer, who’s a board member of the National Association to Advance Fat Acceptance, which is battling the second-ticket rule. “Women carry weight more in the hip area. People of color tend to be bigger.”

The federal Air Carrier Access Act prohibits discrimination on the basis of disability in air travel but doesn’t cover size. But obesity can result from debilitating or chronic medical conditions, Macsata says.”

–Smaller Jets Squeeze Big and Tall Fliers –Roger Yu, USA Today

So basically people are fatter and taller than in 1958 but the seat size? Still the same.

I don’t fly often –as I said, I’m a road-trippin’ kinda gal–  but when I was flying back and forth to New York a lot with Andre we always took Jet Blue into the JFK Terminal 5 and it was always pleasant. Yes, actually actively pleasant. And Jet Blue isn’t even paying me to say that (although they totally should!  Cough it up Jet Blue! Mama needs a vacation!)

Fun fact: Jet Blue was founded by David Neeleman, a former member of Southwest. Neeleman’s idea in creating the Jet Blue identity was to –catch this– “to bring humanity back to air travel.”

What a novel idea.

ZAPPOS has finally made their site more user-friendly and less “busy” looking, and now it is much easier to shop not only for shoes but also for their plus-sized clothing (most of which is super-casual, but there are business and party pieces as well. Liz Claiborne addicts will be happy they visited.) Remember, free shipping both ways, always. Francesca’s Pick.

ANNA SCHOLZ, too, has relaunched her website. The photography is excellent and Francesca enjoyed perusing. What she appreciates about the new labels is that everyone can find something they like; if they are willing to pay for it.

CHADWICKS is having a clearance sale.

FIGLEAVES has new items in outlet.

IGIGI has come out with a new maxi dress (pictured), and through Feb.20 is offering a free gift and free shipping with purchases of $150 or more. Francesca does not know what the free gift is, but the email implies that it is a set of pretty earrings that match the dress.

SILHOUETTES will take $30 off your purchase of $125, or $50 off your purchase of $200, through Feb. 22, with code  SBE3.

LORD & TAYLOR is offering free shipping through Feb. 18, and is having a clearance event. Also, print this coupon for in-store savings, or use code PRES for 20% off your purchase. (If you have a L&T card, use that and code PRESPLUS for 30% off.) Plus-sizes here.

EVANS is offering free shipping in the UK through tomorrow. Also they have taken 20% off all coats, jackets, and knitwear.

So filmmaker Kevin Smith got kicked off a Southwest Airlines plane for being too fat.

He was able to get his buckle done, but he couldn’t put the armrest down beside him, so the pilot said no go.

He’s a big dude, but he’s not like, Richard-Simmons-Crying-in-Patriotic-Hot-Pants big. He’s about 5’8″ -5’9″ and looks what, maybe 250-300?

That is not the sort of big that I associate with getting kicked off commercial flights.

His story:

I was told 5:20 flight was packed, but I could go Standby. They sent me to gate. Told lady whole story, and she said there wouldn’t be two seats on that earlier flight. I said I only needed one seat & that I didn’t buy an extra seat because I’m fat (which I am), but because I’m anti-social and didn’t want to sit next to someone & possibly have to make convo (in person, I’m very shy). She said she understood. I was issued the solo ticket. I get on the plane: open seat in the front row. Put my bag away, the sit between two ladies. As I’m about to buckle my extender-less seatbelt, the woman who issued the ticket to me appeared in the doorway of the plane, came over to me and said the Captain said I wasn’t going to be allowed to sit there because I was a safety risk. I asked for clarification and was given none (also asked “Please don’t do this” but that, too, fell on deaf ears.

Ladies on either side said I wasn’t a problem. SWA-lady said arm-rests the decider. Arm-rests come down, and voila! I’m legit! I’ve passed the stinkin’ arm-rest-test. And still, the lady asks me to get up and come with her off the plane. I get up without a fuss at all, quietly grab my bag, make eye contact with a fellow Fatty who was praying he’d pass, and leave. You think I wanna f— around on an airplane? I was right: I fit in that seat. But I can’t risk not complying: I’m more afraid of AirFeds. (via Twitter)

Yeah.

I can’t even tell you the anxiety I got when I read that. I don’t fly much, because I much prefer driving (your pal Plummy here loves nothing more than Seeing America. I’m totally that person who, if I was your dad, would make you stop at The World’s Largest Collection of Ear Wax Scupltures In The Shape of Abe Lincoln) but when I was doing quite a bit of air travel, I would always pray and magically think myself thin enough to fit in the seat.

As I’ve said before, I’m 5’10 and a size 20/22. That’s big, but again, not the sort of big I’d associate with getting kicked off planes.

Also, I’m curious as to what exact safety risk not being able to put your armrest down entails. I’m serious.  Will your little mask thing not drop down? Will your under-seat flotation device not dislodge? I really want to know.

I never flew Southwest that often to begin with but you can damn well be sure that Southwest won’t get the chance to do to me what they did to Kevin Smith (who, fun story, burned a hole in the carpet of my first apartment in 1997).  The only money they’ll EVER get from me is the cost of a postage stamp because I’ve got a nice letter brewing.

Perhaps you’d like the address too?

Southwest Airlines
P.O. Box 36647 – 1CR
Dallas, Texas 75235-1647

My friends, Francesca has been beside herself over the death of Alexander McQueen.

May his soul rest in peace.

Wishing you chocolates, jewelry, designer clothes, and all kinds of love. If you’re not getting these things from someone else, give them to yourselves. Valentine’s Day or not, you’re worth it.