Archive for the ‘Just Thoughts’ Category
Part of the reason I decided to make my weight-loss diary public this time around, aside from the beautifully sadistic, self-induced public humiliation potential offered inherently through social media these days, is because I feel compelled to “think out loud” about why I’m here, at this point, in my life, at this time. And for what reason–but that might not come until I’m gone.
I’m tired of thinking all this stuff in the private of my own journals and diaries. Journals and diaries, yes, plural, meaning “more than one” (a grammatical fact my 6th graders have difficulty grasping no matter how often I reteach it). My first diary, a gold-edged beauty with “Diary” in elegant script right above the completely ineffective but cutesy key lock (rendered useless by the slide button to its left), a relic of the 3rd grade era, circa 1981, holds what may possibly be the earliest recorded self-hatred of my current body–the first in a sweeping saga of written accounts of how much I wanted to be (to the point of selling my soul for a can of Coke and a pouch of Pop Rocks) a skinny girl. I’ve written pages, more than enough for a series of novels, drawn illustrations, had dialogue, created “wish pages” with cutouts of girls I wanted to be when I “got skinny”. (Funny enough, I never dreamed much about “growing up”, just “getting skinny”). Looking over the Rubbermaid plastic tub full of these gems has taught me two lessons:
1. Writing in private is accomplishing nothing.
2. Fat girls are like onions
An explanation of number one isn’t necessary. All I do is write, rewrite, lament, cry, whine, hate and come back to writing about why I’m still shopping in the women’s and not the misses sections.
For number two, you may have a niggling voice in the back of your mind telling you you’ve heard that before, somewhere. You have–from Donkey. Remember when he and his best bud Shrek set out on their now-infamous trek across the Swamp and all Creation to reach Princess Fiona and Donkey wants to figure out his newfound companion? He offers Shrek the thought that ogres are like onions (and parfaits, a far tastier but much more calorie-dense comparison). Shrek might disagree where his ilk are concerned, but the more I think about my life as a fat girl at this time-and-place, the more I think Donkey meant to say that fat girls are like onions.
The biggest reason is that like onions, we have layers of hatred and disdain for ourselves all related to our weight issues. We didn’t wake up at age four and hate the chub rub under our Garanimal dresses, but at that point we knew we were slightly different than the girls who had twig legs that looked as if they’d snap under the weight of a heavy pair of tough kid corduroys. We’ve had life experiences skinny girls haven’t had that make us rethink ourselves, that create in our brain a sort of onion skin layer around a dark core capable of bringing us to tears. Some of those layers are created by things our families do or say, others by things we observe around us, life choices we have to make, comparisons we make to ourselves, society’s expectations and disappointments, hormones, genetic dispositions, minimal self-confidence, a media obsession equating waist size with the quality of the woman beneath. For each event or thought we subject ourselves to (or are subjected to) that undermines our love for ourselves, a thin layer of onion skin is created. Each time that thought is reinforced through actions or words–those of ourselves or others–the onion skin thickens.
Imagine almost 40 years of this onion-skin building…and the size of the onion I’m attempting to peel. Yikes. You’re gonna need a gas mask to cut into the heart of this baby. (And no, Martha Stewart, freezing the onion before cutting DOES NOT make you cry less. It just makes the onion slippery and slimy).
Now, for the good comparisons: we can be peeled. One tiny bit at a time, we can pull off one thickened onion petal and, through careful examination, discover the inherent and useful value of that bit of thought regarding ourselves. We can choose to toss it into the garbage disposal or set it aside. I remember one of my earliest experiences in science class with a microscope–examining cells in a sliver of onion. That’s the kind of introspection we’re talking here. Peeling off a layer and blaming it on someone (self or others) isn’t going to get to the core of who I really am, but trying to examine exactly why I’m here and why I’m the way I am is what’s going to get me motivated and going in the right direction.
It’s going to be hard work and it’s going to make me cry, like real onions. It will be dirty, smelly and scary. But the potential of discovering the real me–hidden by layers of journals, diaries and life experiences–is exciting to me. I want to know why I’m fighting this and why I put so much value into my weight determining how I feel about myself when I know damn well that lots of other areas of my life are really fabulous–so why does my pants size negate all that?
I’m really out of good, useful onion analogies, so I’ll leave you with this: you can either use them to bring out the flavor of whatever you’re making or keep burping them up–it’s your choice.
When you see a fat girl, what do you think?
“Ugh. I hope she doesn’t sit next to me.”
“What is she thinking, eating that (insert any food here)? She should be starving herself.”
“I’m so glad that’s not me.”
“She should be ashamed to be alive/be wearing that dress/be out in public…”
When you see a fat girl, what do you think she’s thinking?
I wish I could answer this with an equally glib list of mental thoughts, but the truth is, it’s a trick question. You can never know what a fat girl is thinking unless you’ve been a fat girl. And by fat, I don’t mean all you skinny bitches in the crowd bemoaning the fact that you’ve got to lose “those last ten pounds” or those of you who believe that the Special K Diet is a real godsend around January 1st every year. I mean girls with an X after the number on their clothes tag, girls whose butts fit snugly in an average chair, girls who find themselves in the high twenties (and higher) on the BMI charts.
Girls who hate themselves because society around them has stripped them of the title of “woman” and slapped them instead with the all-loving moniker of “fat girl.”
We know what you think of us–us obese, pork-rind munching, Coca-Cola swilling gluttons that we are who don’t really deserve a second glance–but do you ever wonder what we think of ourselves?
Not to worry, friends. There’s a chip (brain-programmed, not potato) in every one of us fat girls that serves as a two-way radio for your criticisms and judgments to come through loud and clear. We hear you tell us we shouldn’t be eating “that” (which amounts to just about anything aside from celery sticks and water), that we aren’t really beautiful if we can’t cram ourselves into a single-digit size, that the bigger we get, the more disgusting the print should be on the fabric of the clothes we buy, that we have no right to expect men to be nice to us because there are so many other skinny girls out there to impress. That we’re second-class citizens and should be glad you give us disgusted side glances. (Please, ma’am, may I have another?)
What you may not know is that the chip translates your smarmy, self-serving, rude thoughts into our own voice inside our heads–and, despite technological advances that allow us to program our DVRs from our phone during a bank robbery, there is no known way to turn these hateful voices off. You can be assured that rarely is there a moment of our waking hours each day that aren’t filled with hearing your comments in our own voice.
From the moment we wake up, we’re assaulted by a barrage of self-doubting, self-loathing voices. From within our own heads.
“You’re going to wear that? You’ll look like the Sta-Puft marshmallow girl.”
“Pearls make your neck look fat.”
“Walk by mirror fast. Don’t look.”
“You really deserve to eat a bowl of cereal?”
“You’re not taking that for lunch, are you?”
“If you even think about a donut, you’re a loser.”
“Imagine what the kids see when you’re writing on your white board.”
“At least your ass isn’t as big as hers.”
“You’re only giving up your lunch period to walk and not your planning period, too?”
“Eating your apple AND soup for lunch is going to make you fatter.”
“Your ass is NOT getting smaller. The mirror is getting dirtier.”
“What do you mean, you want fifteen minutes to yourself before you work out?”
“Did you do enough today to earn dinner? Or should you just have water instead?”
“Only 500 calories burned? You should be ashamed.”
“Maybe tomorrow you’ll do a better job of starving yourself and losing weight.”
“Those pajamas make you look fat AND sloppy.”
“Why am I not surprised you’re still a size 16, loser?”
(Please note I’ve edited for brevity, content and offensive language. While this isn’t a family blog, lots of F-bombs might get me blacklisted.)
While the list is linear, the comments are circular and constant. Sort of like a mind-tornado, attempting to suck us and our precious self-worth and self-confidence into the vortex of the crapper. Being a fat girl has added a dimension to me over the years that skinny girls don’t have: the voices.
Fat girls can’t do anything–and by that I mean anything–without some type of voice reminding us of our shortcomings. I’d like to follow this with a pithy comment about how I first remember the voices coming into my life, back in and around the 4th grade, but I’ve forgotten. I’m sure they had the sound of Patti’s voice, possibly Grandma Alice’s, maybe another well-meaning but critical adult at first, a startling intrusion into my assumably placid ten-year old thoughts (Oh, he’s cute! Oh, he’s cute! Oh, I can make a fortune teller! Oh, how do I make a cursive S again? Oh, he’s cute!), but then, with repeated exposure, the voices evolved into a part of me I just expected and, in a strange way, comfort me. I can’t make a food, weight or life decision without second-guessing myself these days.
Even though I’ve gone down approximately ten pounds since January (depending on the weighing apparatus du jour), those voices hound me around every single curve and taunt me from every dark corner. There’s even a new dimension to them: sucker! Not only are they laughing and criticizing me, they’re making light of the work I’ve put in to starting one final weight loss journey. They’re sure I’ll fail. They’re convinced of it. After all, if I wasn’t born skinny and haven’t lived much of a skinny life (except that one miraculous size 10 year when I subsisted on carrots, water and five-mile jogs that seems more a fog than a piece of my own reality), what right do I have to expect I’ll ever lose this weight?
I started the journey (again) to lose this weight as a gift to myself on my 40th birthday (so much nicer than a double scoop of self-loathing with that scant piece of birthday cake) and wanted to free myself from the dregs of shopping the plus-sized clearance racks, but in the last few weeks I’ve discovered another goal: to make the voices stop. I can’t even imagine what a quiet, peaceful day in my mind sounds like. I’m sure it’ll be jarring at first, like my friends (or so they say) have abandoned me, but at that point I’ll get the best gift of all from them: silence to hear my own true thoughts.
I don’t know if it will really work like that, if they will *REALLY* take a hike for the long-term, but in my opinion, it’s worth a try. I hope my only question at that point is how to reprogram that chip to hear myself and not others…(instead of…”where’s the guacamole?”)
I had an interesting language and cultural experience with my 6th graders yesterday. What’s sad is that it dovetails right into the whole weight-loss issue and how we, as a culture, are obsessed with skinniness. Not healthy slimming but skinniness.
We’re refreshing our memories about the use and meaning of specific prefixes. One of the prefix groups we’re studying is the MIS-group. You know, misguided, mistake, misunderstand, misbehavior. All words my 6th graders are more than familiar with. I challenged them with a word they didn’t know–misrepresent–to see if they could intellectually apply their knowledge of MIS (wrong or error) to the new word to figure out the definition.
What I first discovered is that they also don’t comprehend root words because they wanted to say “wrong again present”, which lead them to believe this had something to do with Christmas (for my Mexicans) or Eid (for my Somalis). When I confirmed the root was “represent”, they got thinking but never quite mastered the meaning, so I helped them out.
Me: “Thinking about the word, “represent”, what’s one way we can define it?
Various kids who forget, even in the sixth grade, to raise their hands: “To show something about yourself”
Me: (hiding my shock that they remember anything I taught them): “Excellent. So if I come to class and tell you I’m a rich heiress to a bubblegum throne and I have six cars and servants, do you think I’d be misrepresenting myself?”
Various kids: (laughter) “Yes!”
Maico: “You have seeex cars? And you are reeech?”
Me: “So what do you think misrepresent might mean?” (“No, Maico, it was an example. I have one car. And no money. Cuz if I did, I’d be in your home country sipping margaritas by a pool instead of dealing with this crappy Ohio weather, OK?”)
Various kids: “to represent yourself wrong!” (the energy of their replies really does earn an exclamation point.)
Maico: “What ees margarita?”
Me: “Great! Now, can you give me an example of someone misrepresenting something or someone? A time you misrepresented yourself?” (“Maico, I hearby revoke your Mexican heritage based on the content of that question. No Mexican should ever ask what a margarita is. Even if you are in the sixth grade.)
Various kids:
“When someone lies about doing homework.”
“When my mom says she’ll give me allowance but doesn’t.”
“When the guy on TV tells you Oxyclean gets your whites whiter but it doesn’t work.”
Maico: “When my dad went to the Hummer man to buy a Hummer in the paper because of low price and the Hummer man try to sell him more expensive Hummer.” (“Maico, your parents are shopping for Hummers and you haven’t had a margarita yet? What’s wrong with your family?”)
Me: “Perfect! Now, playing off the idea of the Oxyclean commercial, what are some other commercials that misrepresent their products?”
Various kids: “You don’t get a leprechaun with Lucky Charms!”
“Certain clothes don’t make you popular.”
“Shoes with lights in the soles are the coolest things you can wear!!”
Maico: “Bood Light does not make girls like you. And Snoogies make people laugh at you.” (Ahh, Maico. Welcome to American culture.)
One girl: “Diet pills don’t make you skinny.”
While the cacophony of little voices discussed amongst themselves examples of misrepresented advertisements going bad, I sought out the girl who’d mentioned diet pills. I asked her what she’d meant, wondering how she’d come to her conclusion and wisdom at such a young age–and jealous that I’d spent thousands of dollars over the years believing.
“So, Madina. I have a question about your comment on diet pills. What makes you so sure they don’t work?”
She shrugged, her cute pink polkadot hijab sliding around her face. “My mom told me. One of my friends told me I was fat and I wanted to try them to get skinny. I liked how the girl was skinnier in the second picture, but my mom said skinny is ugly.”
Madina is about as fat as I am thin. Just to clarify, Wii Fit Plus considers me obese. I’m guessing that a BMI measurement in the 30s is not a good place to be, even with a fabricated cartoon character. She’s a beautiful little sixth grade girl whose wrists are about the size of three of my fingers put together.
“You’ve got a smart mom.” I wish Patti had told me that growing up. Where would I be if I’d have not grown up believing all the things commercials led me to believe on Saturday mornings between cartoons–when cartoon were good? Maybe I wouldn’t have had a fascination with stuffing myself with sugary cereals, spent my babysitting money on a Chia Pet or have believed I was less than popular if my jeans didn’t say Jordache and my shoes didn’t say Nike.
What a radical departure from my current state of thinking that would have produced. With a little shot of reality, a little rebuking of the commercial message, would I be a different person today? How much of who I am and what I think is a result of those early advertising sessions? Subliminally, of course. I’m too smart logically to believe anything I see on TV anymore, hence the reason I rarely watch (except soaps, of course. And QVC.)
How much of my life and time on Earth has been spent believing and buying the next perfect gadget to get me thin? (Don’t answer that, really. It’s beyond embarrassing.)
By the time I was told that there is no such thing as a quick fix (“If it’s too good to be true, it is. And you’re a fool to have believed it,” so said my senior Consumer Ec teacher Mrs. Bell), it was too late. I had already spent allowance and lawnmowing money on Dexatrim and those little chewy chocolate square diet pills that promised rapid weight loss. I’d already snuck diuretics from my mom’s stash to see if it would help me lose the bulge. I’d already bought a cassette that promised me strong abs and a body every teen boy would envy because the manufacturer had misrepresented the product and American society had determined it was OK to promote the lie with very colorful commercials.
Where would I be today without all that?
Poolside in the Mexican jungle with a personal waiter, double-salted rims and the perfect margarita on ice, all paid for by my bubblegum inheritance, that’s where. Without a Maico in sight…
In contemplating the many reasons for my diets (if you want to call them that) failing in the past, one of the biggest, IMHO (which is all that matters here on my blog) is the need, the necessity and the basic human compulsion to get results right away. By results, I don’t mean progress. I mean 60 pounds of excess weight gained over the course of 38 odd years being shed in nine days.
There’s something ingrained in the human mind–perhaps the result of genetic coding, perhaps with the advent of instant sea monkeys you can reconstitute as soon as you tear open the package–that makes us believe that if we do x for any extended period of time (and, by ‘extended period of time’, I mean longer than it takes a laptop to reboot), Y and Z will happen miraculously, instantaneously before our eyes. We can’t help it. We can’t fight it. Even if we say that we are patient, there are times we’re not. Even if we believe we’re in for the long hall, we still want a little bit o’that instant gratification we believe is our birthright.
It’s part of the reason I decided that my weight loss goal wasn’t even going to be met in this calendar year. When I went back and assessed (and obsessed) over why I haven’t lost and/or managed to keep off the weight before, that time factor came back to bite me in my very fleshy ass. It occurred to me that in setting my goals within a specific (read: short) time frame, I was unintentionally setting myself up for failure in one huge way–miss a target, give up on a goal. I’m an all-or-nothing thinker (something else I’m also working on this year) and to set a close (I even consider six months “close”) goal, I expected myself to have this absolutely 100% perfect start and continuation of my goals right out of the gate. I didn’t give myself any time whatsoever to adjust my bad habits into good ones. There was no room for experimenting, no room for really even reflecting. When I woke up in the morning, I had to work out. I could only eat salads. I must be in size 14s in two months. Those were ultimatums I gave myself for measuring progress but I didn’t give myself the tool–the mental adjustments and time–required to get there.
If I could have changed my behavior and habits that easily, don’t you think I would have?
I’m more about taking notice of the small things on this particular fat-burning journey. I’m enjoying taking my lunch to school in all my Ziplock containers. Finding fun in portion control. Feeling a sense of accomplishment by working out in 20 minute increments rather than a hunk of an hour. And observing the fact that my body is changing–ever so slightly–in the direction that I want.
Yesterday I had a day-long teacher’s meeting which equates to jeans and a sweatshirt. Normally I stuff myself into a pair of jeans and wear something long enough to hide the muffin top because, let’s face it, the only attractive muffin top is one with a pat of butter melting down the sides. Instead of the usual long sweater, at the suggestion of Stacy and Clinton, I chose something with a little bit of shape and a shorter hemline. (and because it was clean and because it was pink, but don’t tell Stacy. She’ll yell at me.) This seemed like a good choice until I’d been sitting for about two hours at the meeting and we got a potty break. I realized I’d not worn a belt–under normal circumstances, an activity to cause abject horror and blindness in anyone who witnessed a chunky girl in low-cut jeans (stupidest things invented, BTW. I only kept mine because I’m too cheap to throw them out) try to get herself and her muffin top back together incognito.
When I reached down to my waist line (as inconspicuously as a fat girl can fix her clothes) to fold up my waistband that had surely been flattened by my gut as usual, I was pleased to discover no rollover. The denim band holding my pants to my body had not been assaulted by my baby fat. (So what if the baby just turned 18?). My pants were still happy. I could stand up from the chair in my shorter fleece and jeans and not be petrified every eye was on my gut and my rearranging myself to get presentable again.
And that was just the kind of progress I needed. Sure, it’d be nice to fit into a size 10 for my sorority’s 20 year reunion on Saturday night, but I’ll take the little bits of progress I can find here and there. Besides, I’d have had to start in December to lose those 60 pounds by this weekend….
Over the course of achieving any worthy goal, there are going to be baby problems and massive obstacles. The key to success is to plan ahead for the baby problems on a daily basis–preparing both mentally and physically–thereby building your strength to face the massive obstacles when they arise. If it’s done right, it can be a really powerful 1-2 punch in your quest to win glory and fame by making your goals.
This has always worked for me in other areas of my life, and during the one period of time when I lost 40 pounds. (Of course, I gained it all back and then some, that’s why I’m here). I’d intended to do the same this time. Baby problems to me are always preparation-related: having healthy food when I’m hungry, working out like I plan to, keeping a tight rein on emotional eating and staying away from situations when I know my defenses will be low. Those are givens, the little speedbumps that should serve to make us stop and question our committment on a regular basis–they’re not necessarily the big problems that could derail us from winning.
Part of the reason I started another (hopefully, the last) weight-loss journey in January had nothing to do with the giddy ridiculousness of New Year’s Day and everything to do with the ebb of my calendar year. This is normally a slow time for me. Busy on the part of hubby’s basketball calendar but slow for me–few meetings, little reason to go outside, friends don’t normally visit or come into town. Time to focus on me and making myself better.
Only life thought it would be funny this time. Instead of starting slow, building momentum and confidence, it threw the biggest obstacle possible in my path just ten days into the new year. I’m not going to mention what it is because I’m still grappling with it, it’s hugely painful in an emotional sorta way and frankly, it’s nobody else’s business. Except when it come in the way of meeting my goals.
Even with this “issue”, I still want to hit my 40th birthday (and beyond) in a body I like. This time, the pull and the possibility of finally losing the weight was stronger than falling prey to the emotion of an “issue” that will, without question, change my life in one way or another.
Instead of crumbling into a mass of cake-seeking cells, I pulled myself together and made myself exercise–within ten minutes of finding out this little tidbit of information. I won’t lie–my initial inclination was to go upstairs, climb into bed and take this week off of work to cry myself into a stupor. But one of the changes I’m trying to make isn’t just with what I’m eating–it’s with what I’m thinking. I’ve realized that I’m a highly emotional decision-maker. In a nutshell, what that means is that when I’m faced with the decision of working to meet a goal or doing something against that goal that would feel better in that moment (not just eating here–exercise vs. watching tv, sleeping vs. planning, making dinner vs. eating out), almost exclusively to this point in life I’ve chosen the emotional reaction–no matter how stupid it might be. (The Great Donut Debacle of Easter ’09 is a prime example of that). I didn’t come to realize this on my own–it’s a little bit of a lesson I learned about myself as a writer from a recent writing workshop that seemed to make crystal-clear logical sense when I applied it to my life.
So, in trying to be more conscious and making more logical and less emotional decisions on this path, once I stopped shaking and tamped down the nausea, I sat down, took a deep breath and reflected. Let’s see…I was dressed for a workout. I’d just stopped to check something on my way to burn calories when this popped up. I had a choice and I truly felt as though I were at two major crossroads, one being my weight loss goals: I could sit with all kinds of horrible thoughts in my head, make myself achingly miserable over those thoughts and let it lead to a day of binging on sleep and Kleenex, which would only lead me to feel doubly bad after I came out of the stupor because not only would I have to face this demon head-on sooner or later, I’d also have skipped my part of the plan that I’d worked so hard to set.
After collecting myself, I worked out. I’ll be honest–it was more an attempt to do something with my body, a way to force my mind off the problem for a bit of perspective and fresh air and new blood cells than it was a wholly concerted attempt to be thinner by next April. There were moments of crying during the workout, and moments when my intensity was firecracker-hot crazy mad.
In the end, the important thing was that I focused on myself. This is a first. I mean, my focusing on myself usually means I give in to whatever pain reducer I can muster–sleep, crying, lethargy–but that never helps “myself” do anything but feel worse. After the workout, the sweating had a somewhat cleansing effect. I wasn’t over my anger by any means–hell, I’m still getting familiar with it because my tendency is to ignore and move on–but I knew I’d done something good for me. And that was good for me.
This demon is the number one issue I’ve faced in my life and the way I see it, if I can look him (demons are always male LOL) in the eye and stare him down, there’s really no excuse for not being able to move my fat ass and lose this weight. What doesn’t kill us can only make us stronger, right…?
Don’t revolt. My title’s not referring to the F word you’re thinking of. (Potty mouth!) I’m thinking of the other F word–
Fat.
Most of my adult life (for me, it began at age 19, when I got married), I’ve thought of and referred to myself as fat. The fat girl, fatso, fatty-licious. Even my dad calls me Fat Girl (and I call him Shorty). I know it’s negative and self-defeating, according to all the shrinks and self-help gurus. On one hand, I agree with them–if you don’t like something about yourself, you probably shouldn’t refer to yourself with that nickname. Like nerds calling themselves nerds (I am a nerd at times too but my knowledge is a good thing.) (Only a nerd would think so…)
But, in all honesty, I’m also comfortable calling myself Fat Girl. On a superficial level, it doesn’t bother me. I actually find it somewhat funny. So when I sat down and started thinking about the history of how I got here, how I came to see myself as fat (for the record, I am always corrected by friends when I say I’m fat. None of them agree with me–since I’m not busting-out-of-my-jeans obese, I guess they don’t think I’m fat. Maybe they should compare my BMI with the insurance charts–they’d probably wonder how I’m still living, in that case), I came to a startling realization:
I created the F word–fat–in reference to myself. Meaning that in all my reflection on childhood and growing up, no one ever called me fat (that I remember). I decided that myself.
There is no indelible moment when someone called me fattie or fatso that scarred my subconscious. We reserved that nickname for B.C., the kid in town who always smelled of his mom’s bait shop and dirty clothes. B.C. was round, and for some reason, his mom always put him in horizontally striped shirts–not a good combination. I wasn’t round (and didn’t have Garanimals with stripes), I was just big. Not in a giant, overactive glandular kind of way, either. I don’t stand out in any of my elementary school photos like Shaq (I’m trying to find one, use your imagination). When my Playskool Plastic kKtchen girlfriends were frying imaginary eggs for their pretend husbands in kindergarten wearing size 2 elastic pants, I was in the 6X pants–but no one noticed. When we got our uniforms for Jr. High volleyball, I could never get anything lower than 13 since that’s where the Large tops started. I couldn’t borrow a pair of shorts if I forgot them and I wondered why the girls in A and B cups even bothered to snap on that medieval torture device known as a bra if they didn’t need a C cup to corral their “girls.”
Never did any of those times produce discussions about my weight. It was more my observations of myself in comparison to them that started me along the mental path of thinking I wasn’t “normal” like them. When we shopped for homecoming dresses, I knew better than to even turn my head toward the Juniors section. I started in Misses and occasionally ended up in Women’s. When money was tight and we borrowed from family friends whose daughters had graduated five or more years ahead of us, there was only one girl I could borrow from–my sister had her pick of racks of hand-me-downs, but I had to fall in love with the 1978 powder blue fashion sensation covered in crocheted lace or stay home. (and I hate all forms of blue. Especially powder blue). My girlfriends showed up at the pool in a bikini, I had two one-pieces to choose from. (I actually did wear a bikini once. I was four. Mom has a photo to prove it, but I wonder if the back wasn’t held together with duct tape. My memory fades after so long…)
So how did I get “fat”? I remember pictures of myself as a kid: feeding our pet goat, standing in front of dad’s Volkswagen ‘Thing’ with all my cousins, standing next to my cousin Casey and Mickey Mouse in Disneyland and I don’t look –fat–. I look strong and healthy and like I should have been born into a farming family (I was one generation too late). I don’t have the rolls I have today, but I do have the chub rub that I’ve never been without. There’s no bra overhang in those photos, but I am bigger than my oldest male cousin who played football. (I’m the oldest of this generation of kids; he’s three years younger than me). In team photos, J.B. is bigger than me (but my heinous home perm is the ugliest thing going).
I think what I’m searching for is that very first moment someone called me ‘fat’ so that I have a crutch to fall back on, a place to lay blame for my feeling as though my body has kept me from getting involved in life in a more assertive way. My weight doesn’t stop me from doing anything (except sky-diving and bungee-jumping, which I fully intend to do before I kick the bucket) but it does keep me more on the sidelines than the real game. I’m content being quiet, because when I’m in the spotlight, I get nervous about what people think.
It’s a very odd nervousness, too. Like I think people can’t see past my size 16 ass to realize that I’ve got solid knowledge and that I”m a really great person. I don’t ever judge the abilities and knowledge of other people based on their weight–so why do I constantly second-guess my own self on criteria I don’t use for others? Makes no sense. I know there are shallow, self-centered people who like to think they’re better than the fat girl because they’re skinny, but most of the time they’re just genetically gifted in the body and not the brain. If you can’t see past a person’s size to the heart of the matter, then no amount of knowledge you possess is valuable.
I think there’s more to the advent of the F word–in relationship to me–than I’ve said, but I’m going to be thinking more about it now that that train of thought has left the station (toot toot!). In the meantime…I have a date with the Wii. He better go easy on me today–he gave me sore thighs yesterday (if only that were as dirty as it sounded….).
Have you ever had a problem and not known you’ve had a problem until someone mentions it? Maybe you’re always tapping your pencil when you think. Or pacing the room when you’re nervous. Or randomly stealing silverware from fancy restaurants. Whatever your vice, when it’s brought up, brought out into the open, it’s almost see it as a problem at first. After all, this is how I behave. It happens for some subconscious reason to keep me safe (even the kleptomania). And it’s very hard to change.
I know you’re thinking that I steal things for fun. Not true. My problem is that I have been, for much of my natural-born life, unable to accept personal compliments. There are very, very few things that, when commented upon by an outside person in a positive manner, I am able to take at face value. My writing skills and creativity are the only things I can accept. (why? Because I’m a creative genius and I’m underappreciated).
Retrieving my mail Tuesday after school, the secretary commented on how I look like I’m ‘thinning in the middle’. She’s shorter than me, so I didn’t assume I had a growing bald spot. She made curvy motions down the length of her torso, so common sense led me to deduce she meant my lump of clay was being shaped into something slightly human.
“Are you sure you don’t need new glasses?”
She giggled. “I’m sure. I actually noticed it earlier today but was too busy to say anything.”
“I’m not sure what there is to notice.”
She punched my arm. You’re looking thinner through the middle. Like something’s going on.”
“Something’s going on for sure,” I said. “Trying not to buy a bigger pant size after the holidays is what’s going on.”
She shook her head at me. “No, I mean it. You’re looking good. Whatever you’re doing is working.”
I’d just spent two weeks scarfing too much food and doing zero exercise. True, I’d walked twice since Monday, but doubted it had anything to do with her perception.
“Great! I’ll keep eating junk food in front of the tv! I’m so glad you gave me the go-ahead!”
She leveled a serious stare at me. “Hey. Just say ‘thank you’ and get it over with, ok? You look good. Stop trying to convince me to change my mind.”
Her words were painfully familiar. I’d heard them from a friend once, years ago, when I lost forty pounds through hard work. He’d complimented me, I’d trashed myself in some form and he’d chastised me for not accepting the compliment. “Just say ‘thank you,’” he’d said. “If you make a smart-ass compliment, it’s like you don’t trust my judgment to notice things.”
I didn’t want to second-guess his observation, so I’d quietly thanked him and moved on with my day. Likewise, I thanked the secretary and headed back to my room, deep in thought why I can’t take compliments. I came up with a two-fold reason: one, if I don’t feel the compliment is true, I can’t agree with it. I generally don’t go along with things in general that I don’t agree with without some type of feedback, so why would I agree that I look thinner if I feel like a beached whale? And the second reason, I think, goes way back: protection. Mean girls in school gave compliments only to have them twisted when you accepted them. If they said your hair looked nice today, they’d follow it with “nice for a rat’s nest, that is.” Or if they mentioned your eyeshadow color, you immediately ran to the bathroom and scrubbed it off with those lovely sandpaper-based paper towels. The worst were weight comments: love those pants! (they make them in your size?). Love that sweater! (look what the thrift store has now!). Pretty prom dress! (I know it’s a hand-me-down, I’ve seen it before.) Your cookies are delicious! (and you shouldn’t be eating them.)
The smarminess of their tone still echoes in my head. When anyone–even an honestly nice adult person far removed from my growing-up days makes a positive comment, I hold my breath and wait for the punch line, expecting a rim shot and howling laughter from the other mean girls in a pack (ever notice they can’t travel alone?). It’s easier for me to hate on myself and control the situation than it is for me to allow their compliment to glimmer, even if for a second, with the potential for belief only to have it snapped away by their slobbery jaws.
If I’d only have lost a fraction of a pound or not have felt I was bursting at the seams I might have smiled and agreed, if only half. But there’s more to being a fat girl than just the weight. There’s all kinds of mental baggage, ingrained habits, ways of thinking and behaving that come from years of protecting ourselves from bullies that takes just as long to undo as it takes to take off the weight. One without the other will never lead to success, so not only do I need to start acting and eating like a healthy person, I need to start thinking like one. Far easier said than done.
As for the kleptomania…