I would never call anyone fat. Of course neither would anyone reading this,
so it seems like an odd statement, but it comes up because I was accused of
that by a friend who was angry with me and choosing to misinterpret everything
I said. And it really stung, because, I
know how it feels to be called fat.
I had two nicknames in elementary school: Battleship Becky and Ten Ton Talbot. I wasn’t huge, but I was far bigger than my
peers. I liked to read, I didn’t like to
run. And, sue me, I’ve always like food.
Since we moved every year, it was the one constant in my life, though ceiling cat
knows, my mother’s cooking wouldn’t win prizes. (She tried to eat healthy, but we were poor,
and she was addicted to convenience foods, like Minute Rice, also, didn’t she
season anything.) Church potlucks in the
South, on the other hand, could send a Kindergartner into cardiac arrest. I still want to figure out how to make Mrs.
Joyner’s fried chicken! I went on my
first diet in 7th grade, one I invented myself, where I ate nothing
but Jell-O all day, and had dinner with the family.
Mom said I could do it as long as I had my Tang at breakfast and ate a
decent dinner. I lost 25 lbs, and haven’t
eaten Jell-O since, but I did make the gymnastics team, which was my goal.
This was when I received my next nickname, Chuckie. It was bestowed on me by Cheryl, whose
kindness I will never forget. Despite
the weight loss, I was still not really gymnast sized (have you seen my
shoulders?) and, as the new kid, the butt of teasing. Cheryl faced down my tormentors, and very
firmly said, “She’s not fat. She’s just
a little Chuckie in places.” That
seemed to work. We made one of those
leather ID bracelets in Art Class, and I wore it proudly for the rest of Jr.
High. Make the negative a positive,
right?
I’ve fought with weight ever since, battling between 10 and
50 lbs too many. The 50 lb loss was a
present to myself for my 40th birthday. It was weight I gained mostly in a desk job,
and in trying to get pregnant. It took
10 months and lot of life changes, and I hope never to have to do that
again. If my husband hadn’t done it with
me, I’m sure it wouldn’t have worked, because I had to change the way we cooked
and ate. I’ve tried every diet imaginable,
from the silly fads in college (7 bananas one day, 7 eggs the next, anyone?) to
torturous things with no protein, no fat, or no carb, or whatever. My personal take is that the Weight Watchers
way: sensible portions, increasing exercise, and reasonable food choices, is
the one that works every time.
January is that lovely time of intentions and resolutions,
when gyms make the bulk of their money for the year, when everyone promises
themselves that this time, this time, they will lose that X number of pounds
FOR REAL. It’s a time of hope and
despair. They are running a Biggest
Loser contest at work, because public weigh-ins and group motivation can be
really helpful. Typically, some guy will
win, who managed to eat only egg whites for the last two weeks, and he’ll gain
it all back in a month, which irritates all the people (women) who really tried
to change their lifestyles. Hopefully,
their reward will be keeping the weight off, and being healthier.
I watch overweight people gimp by on their overworked
joints, and I know how easily that could be me.
I’ve watched the growth of my clients in the OR to the point where we
seem to always need a table that will support 300+ lbs at least once a day. Weight increases morbidity. I get it.
I know someone who couldn’t manage a diet, but finally got a gastric bypass,
and made it work (it doesn’t always: you can fill that pouch with wine,
chocolate and fries). I have a good
friend who is really making it happen, with hours in the gym, long walks with
the family, and an eye on the prize:
better health. She looks
fantastic and I couldn’t be prouder of her.
The news natters on endlessly about obesity, to the point
where the word has almost lost its meaning, or become divisive. Look
around the pictures on FB. Not all of the
folks on there look like models, and I sure don’t. We are all in the same battle together. It’s not just a problem with corn syrup, or
desk jobs, or white flour. Once we
become people of a certain age, metabolism shifts, and the pounds just
volunteer to stay. We need to stop being
angry about who pays for whose health care and try to make changes that will
benefit us all. By all means,
incentivize weight loss. And if you
really need two airline seats, perhaps you should buy them. I’m not sure how to measure that, because
pounds and inches are different on everyone.
The thing is, it really is a “there but for the grace of God go I” in a
lot of ways. Yes. I put down the doughnut. I walked past the chip ‘n dip tray. But if our income changed, and we couldn’t
afford fresh produce or a gym membership,
if I got depressed, and sought solace in oral gratification, if I weren’t
skeptical of all TV shows and the ads shown thereon, if we were less educated
or determined….
I want to be like Cheryl.
. I don’t think I’ll ever have the
opportunity to rescue someone from being called fat, and I doubt that our age
being called Chuckie would be endearing.
But I think we can all help to build each other’s self esteem, and
recognize the little victories we win the big fight we face.
I want to try to always tell people they look great, and ask
if they’ve lost weight. It’s amazingly
motivating to be asked that, and wonderfully cheering. I don’t think to do that often enough, and it’s
one of my intentions for this year
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