Fat

I was fat, oh yes I was!

In my house, I was the fattest one. My father, once filled-out and hale, had grown thin and gaunt as his disease progressed. My mother, a diabetic who took her care very seriously, kept her weight at the proper level. My sister was a pipsqueak, bony and small. For some reason, the role of Waldman family fat person was bestowed upon me.

My clothes always managed to grow too small too quickly, my pants wore out between the thighs, shirts strained at their seams. Most of my fatness came after my father died; before that, photos of me showed a normal-looking little girl, but my mother had always insisted that I had begun life fat and had never been any other way. All that began to change when I was 16.

But until then, I lived life as a fat girl. Boys teased me relentlessly; girls, too. I wonder what it is about fatness that makes people hate you. Perhaps being far is the same as wearing outdated clothes or hair - people think that you can do something about it, you just choose not to.

Most people are fat for very good reasons. Whether these reasons include a medical issue or just a lack of ability to stop eating, they are still valid. When people get fat, they do so, not because they are trying to ruin their bodies, but because they may not understand how not to. It was that way with me. I was hurt and confused at the passing of my father and with no one to talk to and nowhere to put those feelings, I turned to what felt good to me. It may have been drugs had I been older, or shopping or gambling or smoking (which I did later). But food was always within my grasp and it always did the trick, at least for the immediate moment.

I remember sitting in the living room as a child, watching beauty pageants with my family. I always looked forward to those nights of Miss America and Miss Universe; we would gather to watch all of the beautiful young women parade up and down the stage in their glamorous dresses and swimsuits, hair and makeup perfect, smiles practiced and natural-looking all at the same time. After each pageant I grew new resolve: beginning the next morning I would go on a diet, a strict diet, and I would lose all of the weight that was holding me back from popularity among my classmates and the favor of my mother, both which I craved. But, by the next day my dreams were forgotten for the slices of buttery toast and sugar-laden oatmeal, tater tots and cheeseburgers, stolen cookies carried off to bed hidden in the folds of my nightgown.

At 16 I dated a boy named Jeff who broke up with me in the middle of a song, leaving me crying on the dance floor. I vowed that the next time I ran into him I would be thin and he would take one look at me and rue the day he let me go. I starved myself for a month straight, allowing myself a strawberry here, a scoop of salad there. Cold, weak and dizzy, I got through my days propelled by the thought that I was going to come out the other side thin, skinny, and stick-like, all of the traits expected of those who were meant to be popular and respected. I dreamed of food every night and actually woke up feeling full. I was proud of my sense of complete control and even hoped I would continue on to full-fledged anorexia. That, I failed at. And Jeff and I never did get back together.

So, my weight has continued to be a lifelong battle. There are so many better things to worry about, and I've come to realize that the older I get. But those feelings of inadequacy that plagued me because I did not look like "those" skinny girls continue to show up in my life. I have finally arrived at a place of peace with myself in almost all other ways, but fat cells still seem to have an amazing hold over me.

I have always said that when I am 80 I will let myself go and eat to my heart's content, growing round and flabby enough for my grandchildren to sink into and fall into contented slumbers. I hope that by then they are still making double-knit polyester pants with elastic waistbands.