I’ve always been “bigger”.[1]
I had boobs in fifth grade. I had guys checking out way sooner than they should have. I shudder to think about that now that I have a daughter.
I can vividly remember an uncle of mine carrying me up the stairs of his house as I played opossum and him remarking to my aunt, “She’s so damn heavy!” I was seven.
I’ve felt like shit about my weight my entire life. I’ve written about it here a couple of times. I’ve started and stopped exercising a couple of times. I’ve drastically cut my calorie intake. I’ve eaten everything in sight. I’ve berated myself. I’ve refused to look in mirrors. I’ve been in a bad, bad place in my head because of my weight.
And I finally realized this routine of self-flagellation had to stop. And it has. Part of my problem was I was blaming everyone other than myself. I finally admitted I was the only one who could work my ass down to a more manageable size. For a perfect example of what it takes to man up, look to Renee.[2] That woman has the drive of a…insert some sort of fast car here.[3]
I woke up one morning, looked in the mirror and said, “Wow. You really are fat.” Then I put on my clothes and went on with my day. Somehow, my brain realized I could change all that and I’ve made piece with how I look because it isn’t permanent.
So when we were sitting at the dinner table and Cara told me she wanted to be, “fat like you,” it didn’t bother me; I was surprised it didn’t hurt my feelings. Hell. She was just pointing out the obvious and what three year old doesn’t want to be just like her mother?
There’s a fine line to walk here.
The concept of “hurt feelings” is hard to explain to Cara right now. She almost gets it but isn’t there quite yet. If it’s true then what’s wrong with saying the truth? Also, why does it hurt people’s feelings when you call them fat?
Damn.
All we can do right now is keep with the occasionally healthy food and the family outdoor activities and wait for her to develop the brain power to “get” what we’re trying to teach her.
There’s no moral to this story. Things are as they are and we’re in a holding pattern.
At least I don’t hate myself as much as I used to. That’s good.
