Last Wednesday night I sat in a packed auditorium with my husband and daughter, watching the students of the JROTC receive their annual awards. My son, my small, skinny, sweet little son sat with the other JROTC students, standing only when his name was called. He got an Academic award, as well as some chevrons that go on his shoulders that I still do not fully understand. Unsurprisingly, I was so proud I nearly burst.
I will also admit that I teared up just a tiny bit when the veterans took the stage and led the crowd in the pledges and prayers that typically accompany such a ceremony. I haven't had an occasion to put my hand over my heart and pledge my loyalty to my country in quite some time. It felt good. It felt right. It felt very positive.
That night my son casually mentioned, again, that he might like to change his track in school to JROTC instead of the college track that he's currently on (emphasis on history). I told him that the intent of the "track" that you select is to prepare you for whatever you plan to do after high school. I then asked him, "Are you seriously contemplating a military career?".
"Maybe."
He said maybe.
I will now admit that every patriotic feeling I had during that ceremony only a few hours before fell into my heart and then fell further into my feet. I felt like I was going to puke. None of this felt very positive anymore.
I don't want my son to join the military.
There. I admit it.
I love my country. I support our troops. I have absolutely nothing but the deepest respect for the brave men and women who fight and who have fought for my freedom. My dad is a Vietnam veteran. Other family members have served. Some of my best friends are in, or have been in, the military. I dated a military man and while he was a huge dick, I honestly don't hold it against other service members.
I don't want my son to join the military.
Because he's my son. My son. My only, only son. Even if he weren't my only son, there would never, ever be another boy like him. There is no one else on this planet that makes me laugh the way he does. There is no one in this world who is smart the way he is, no one who is kind just like him. He is incredibly precious. He is my baby. My skinny, little, just as tall as his mama, size 11.5 feet baby. I cannot imagine my baby in harms way.
I know all moms feel this way. I know this. I know every single mom who sends her son or daughter off to the military has these same feelings. I know that every mom thinks "My son is precious. There is no one on this planet like my boy." I know this. I know I'm not alone. I know that no one, no one ever, wants their child in harms way. I know that, God forbid, my child could be killed in an auto accident, could fall ill with some horrible disease, could just slip out of my hands for any number of reasons. Not joining the military won't necessarily keep him safe. I know all this.
The other part of this that I know? Is my dad.
My dad, the Vietnam veteran. The Vietnam veteran I am extremely, extremely proud of.
I say that I know this, that I know my dad, but I only know part of the story. I don't know that I will ever be able to piece together the puzzle that is my dad. I don't know if he can either.
Of course I did not know him before he went to Vietnam, in 1969. He was nineteen.
I cannot even begin to pretend I know what my dad went through. I cannot imagine the things he saw. The things he smelled. What he felt. What he had to live through, when he was only four years older than my little boy. He was just a boy himself, from the coal fields of Virginia. I cannot imagine zipping up a body bag on a friend. I cannot imagine not knowing if you would ever come home to your wife and the baby you hadn't met.
It's been forty-four years. He's still living with this. He's still dealing with this. He still jumps when a loud noise occurs, he still watches every plane that flies over his head. Part of my daddy is still there, in those jungles. I never got to have that part of him. My brother didn't. My sisters didn't. I'm irrationally angry and sad that I never got to have my whole dad because of this horrible war. He worked so hard, still works too much really, and could never escape that horror. That even as a very young child, I knew that I could not ask about his experience. He never, ever talked about it. That he's good and kind and wonderful, and he has to suffer. Every. Single. Day.
As a child I looked at his pictures from Vietnam. There were so many of the children. Little Vietnamese boys and girls who would gather around him, wearing little hats like I'd never seen before in East Tennessee. I remember being maybe eight years old and reading magazines at my grandmother's house. She kept everything, forever, and the magazines were old. There was an advertisement in one of the magazines which for some reason talked about the little Vietnamese children who carried pen bombs into the crowds of soldiers. I don't remember, at all, what the ad was actually for. For weeks I dreamed of those children. I wondered if any of them had exploded. I wondered if my dad was just lucky. If any of those children in those pictures had ever tried to blow my daddy up.
I knew it was horrible. I didn't understand how horrible it was. Still don't. I watched the movie Platoon when I was about twenty-five and I called my dad, in horror, and asked him if this was real, asked him if this was what it was really like. He paused for a long moment and told me yes. It was. I couldn't get that movie out of my head for weeks. For months. I still think about it sometimes.
It's nothing compared to what is in his head.
I don't want that for my son. I don't want my son to hurt. I don't want him to suffer. I don't want him to be afraid.
I know I can't shield him from everything. I know this.
Am I a horrible person for wanting to shield him from this?
Monday, May 6, 2013
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Open Letters: Only-72-days-until-vacation-edition!
My dear one,
You? Perplex me. Truly.
See, I have what the doctors call the "low self esteem". And by doctors I mean "therapists". And by "low self esteem" I mean "none". So I'm all Girl Powerish and whatnot when it comes to people being proud of themselves and their accomplishments. I think it's super swell, I really do, and I frequently hope some of that jazz will rub off on me.
You, however, have the exact opposite problem. You, my love, are SO very filled with esteem for yourself that it's impossible to convince you otherwise.
It sounds like a terrific problem to have, but honestly? I'm pretty sure it's inhibiting you in every single aspect of your life right now.
You are beautiful. You are not the most beautiful person on the planet. You are talented. You are not the most talented person on the planet. Not every guy you meet wants to sleep with you. Okay, probably most do, but it's because they are guys and not because they are enchanted by you. You know how sometimes people say, "You need to dial it back a notch?" Sweetheart. You need to dial it back like fifty notches. For real.
It's good to be proud of yourself, but stay humble. Reality isn't always as pretty as you might think your prospects are.
Love,
Steph
Dear My Dog,
Okay butthole. Every single time it rains you and I have this problem.
You: WHINE, WHINE, WHINE, WHINE.
Me: Ginger. You don't want to go outside. You don't like going outside when it's raining.
You: WHINE! WHINE! WHINE! WHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINE!
Me: Ginger. You hate the rain. You will be mad. You won't like it. You will want to come inside in two seconds.
You: *running gleefully for the door where you stand. And whine*
Me: Okay, FINE. WHATEVER. *opens the door*
Two seconds later.
You, outside in the pouring rain: WHINE! WHINE! WHINE!
Me: WHAT DID I SAY!?!?!
You: *saddest face ever of all time*
Me: Okay, fine.
You: *bounding in the house getting your wet, nasty paws all over everything*
Me: WHINE! WHINE! WHINE!
Can't you just remember you hate the rain? Or at least take my word for it?
Love you,
Your mom
Dear customer,
Thank you for being sane, kind and decent this morning. You have no idea how rare that is.
Thanks,
Stephanie
Dear fabric store,
Sorry. Pinterest tricks me into trying things that I actually shouldn't try.
Love you anyway,
Stephanie
Dear person I know,
Do you ever, ever, EVER shut up? If you were interesting it MIGHT be tolerable, but all you ever freaking talk about is stupid crap that no one cares about. You know that look that people get on their faces when you're talking? The one where they look akin to trapped rats in a cage? It's because they don't want to hear what you have to say.
STOP IT.
NO. ONE. CARES.
Kisses!
Me
Dear anyone who might send me an email,
Please don't assume you know my political, religious, or social preferences. You might. You might not. Do you really want to risk offending me and the two hundred other people you forwarded the email to? I hope not.
Thanks,
Stephanie
Dear vacation,
COME ON.
Love and hugs,
Stephanie
You? Perplex me. Truly.
See, I have what the doctors call the "low self esteem". And by doctors I mean "therapists". And by "low self esteem" I mean "none". So I'm all Girl Powerish and whatnot when it comes to people being proud of themselves and their accomplishments. I think it's super swell, I really do, and I frequently hope some of that jazz will rub off on me.
You, however, have the exact opposite problem. You, my love, are SO very filled with esteem for yourself that it's impossible to convince you otherwise.
It sounds like a terrific problem to have, but honestly? I'm pretty sure it's inhibiting you in every single aspect of your life right now.
You are beautiful. You are not the most beautiful person on the planet. You are talented. You are not the most talented person on the planet. Not every guy you meet wants to sleep with you. Okay, probably most do, but it's because they are guys and not because they are enchanted by you. You know how sometimes people say, "You need to dial it back a notch?" Sweetheart. You need to dial it back like fifty notches. For real.
It's good to be proud of yourself, but stay humble. Reality isn't always as pretty as you might think your prospects are.
Love,
Steph
Dear My Dog,
Okay butthole. Every single time it rains you and I have this problem.
You: WHINE, WHINE, WHINE, WHINE.
Me: Ginger. You don't want to go outside. You don't like going outside when it's raining.
You: WHINE! WHINE! WHINE! WHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINE!
Me: Ginger. You hate the rain. You will be mad. You won't like it. You will want to come inside in two seconds.
You: *running gleefully for the door where you stand. And whine*
Me: Okay, FINE. WHATEVER. *opens the door*
Two seconds later.
You, outside in the pouring rain: WHINE! WHINE! WHINE!
Me: WHAT DID I SAY!?!?!
You: *saddest face ever of all time*
Me: Okay, fine.
You: *bounding in the house getting your wet, nasty paws all over everything*
Me: WHINE! WHINE! WHINE!
Can't you just remember you hate the rain? Or at least take my word for it?
Love you,
Your mom
Dear customer,
Thank you for being sane, kind and decent this morning. You have no idea how rare that is.
Thanks,
Stephanie
Dear fabric store,
Sorry. Pinterest tricks me into trying things that I actually shouldn't try.
Love you anyway,
Stephanie
Dear person I know,
Do you ever, ever, EVER shut up? If you were interesting it MIGHT be tolerable, but all you ever freaking talk about is stupid crap that no one cares about. You know that look that people get on their faces when you're talking? The one where they look akin to trapped rats in a cage? It's because they don't want to hear what you have to say.
STOP IT.
NO. ONE. CARES.
Kisses!
Me
Dear anyone who might send me an email,
Please don't assume you know my political, religious, or social preferences. You might. You might not. Do you really want to risk offending me and the two hundred other people you forwarded the email to? I hope not.
Thanks,
Stephanie
Dear vacation,
COME ON.
Love and hugs,
Stephanie
Thursday, April 18, 2013
A typical day on Facebook
By Stephanie, age 37
Guy 1: You'll pry my guns out of my cold dead hands!
Girl 1: I cannot believe that anyone would ever want a gun! Wake up America!
Guy 2: Abortion is wrong! No one should ever have an abortion! Abortion is the worst thing ever of all time!
Girl 2: Keep your business out of my uterus!
Guy 1: Here are a number of pictograms that I have taken from various internet sources to show you my feelings on guns.
Guy 3: Gay people should never get married! God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve!
Guy 2: It's MY Facebook page and I can write whatever I WANT on it! I have FREEDOM OF SPEECH.
Girl 3: Everyone has the right to get married!
Girl 4: Going to the gym!
Guy 3: Nuh-uh, Girl 3! The Bible says that they can't, and I believe in God!
Girl 3: You jerk, Guy 3! I believe in God and God loves everyone!
Girl 4: Look at my new haircut!
Guy 4: Everything bad that has ever happened in the history of all time is because of Obama.
Guy 5: Everything bad that ever happened in the history of all time was because of anyone who was president before Obama.
Girl 2: I love Obama!
Girl 4: Two guys at the gym were hitting on me! Going to pay my light bill!
Guy 2: God says abortion is wrong and no one should ever have an abortion.
Girl 5: This is how I feel today! *insert picture of Daffy Duck remarking on how much he loves Fridays*
Girls 6-9: *sharing picture of Daffy Duck from Girl 5* Amen!
Girl 10: Here's a picture of my adorable baby!
Everyone: OMG cutest kid ever!
Girl 4: Time for lunch! *insert photo of lunch*
Girl 2: Please delete me if you don't like what I have to say.
Girl 11: Here is a blog post I read last week that I think really encapsulates everything I feel about being a woman and mother.
Girls 6-9: *sharing blog post from Girl 11* Truth!
Girl 12: OMG, I hate that blog post about being a woman and mother that everyone is sharing. Here's another blog post that encapsulates my feelings on that first blog post.
Girls 6-9: *sharing blog post from Girl 12* Yes!
Girl 4: I wore this outfit last night and three guys hit on me! They thought I was totally younger than I am! LOLZ! *insert photo of girl in snazzy outfit*
Guy 6: None of the tragedies we hear about on the news are actually real. It's all conspiracy theories. Here are several articles from Wikipedia that prove I am right and you are wrong.
Guy 4: Here are several political cartoons which express my feelings regarding Obama.
Girl 4: Look how cute I am in my bathing suit!
Guy 7: WOOOOOOOOOOOOO! BEER!!!!!!!!!!!!!! YEAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Girl 13: Why are men such jerks?
Girl 4: Would someone just compliment me for the love of God?
Girl 9: You look really cute in that bathing suit Girl 4.
Girl 4: *frantically sharing fourteen pictures of herself* OMG you guys! People tell me how cute I am ALL THE TIME! It makes me blush!
Girl 14: I am really sad about all those people who died in the tragedy today.
Guy 2: You should be sad about all those babies that die from abortion.
Girl 4: I am so sad. But I don't want to talk about it.
Guy 7: WOOOOOOOOOO! EATING STEAK ON THE LAKE!
Girl 4: Lonely.
Guy 7: Why are women so complicated?
Girl 15: Here are several recipes for delicious foods.
Girl 6: I love all these things! *insert picture of a puppy and a kitten sharing the same teacup*
Girl 13: Does anyone know any nice guys? *changes relationship status to single*
Girl 4: I've never been this sad and lonely, but nobody ask me about it because I don't want to talk about it.
Girl 16: Here goes eleven photos of how drunk I got last night!
Guy 7: WOOOOOOOOOOOOO! GIRL 16 U R HOTTTTTT!
Girl 4: Didn't anyone hear how lonely I am?
Girl 9: I'm sorry you are lonely Girl 4.
Girl 4: I know who my true friends are! Did you see the picture of me in my bathing suit?
Girl 14: I just donated money to XYZ.
Guy 7: Will I ever find true love?
Guy 3: You should never donate money to XYZ. They support abortion and hate puppies and love gay marriage.
Girl 4: Why isn't everyone LOOKING AT ME?!!?!
Girl 16: Here goes my favorite Bible verse.
Guy 7: WOOOOOOOOOOO! MORE BEER!
Me:
Here's a picture of my dog. Wearing a scarf for some reason.
(Won't tell you which of the above I've been guilty of personally. I'm sure if you've ever seen my Facebook page, you already know.)
The end.
Guy 1: You'll pry my guns out of my cold dead hands!
Girl 1: I cannot believe that anyone would ever want a gun! Wake up America!
Guy 2: Abortion is wrong! No one should ever have an abortion! Abortion is the worst thing ever of all time!
Girl 2: Keep your business out of my uterus!
Guy 1: Here are a number of pictograms that I have taken from various internet sources to show you my feelings on guns.
Guy 3: Gay people should never get married! God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve!
Guy 2: It's MY Facebook page and I can write whatever I WANT on it! I have FREEDOM OF SPEECH.
Girl 3: Everyone has the right to get married!
Girl 4: Going to the gym!
Guy 3: Nuh-uh, Girl 3! The Bible says that they can't, and I believe in God!
Girl 3: You jerk, Guy 3! I believe in God and God loves everyone!
Girl 4: Look at my new haircut!
Guy 4: Everything bad that has ever happened in the history of all time is because of Obama.
Guy 5: Everything bad that ever happened in the history of all time was because of anyone who was president before Obama.
Girl 2: I love Obama!
Girl 4: Two guys at the gym were hitting on me! Going to pay my light bill!
Guy 2: God says abortion is wrong and no one should ever have an abortion.
Girl 5: This is how I feel today! *insert picture of Daffy Duck remarking on how much he loves Fridays*
Girls 6-9: *sharing picture of Daffy Duck from Girl 5* Amen!
Girl 10: Here's a picture of my adorable baby!
Everyone: OMG cutest kid ever!
Girl 4: Time for lunch! *insert photo of lunch*
Girl 2: Please delete me if you don't like what I have to say.
Girl 11: Here is a blog post I read last week that I think really encapsulates everything I feel about being a woman and mother.
Girls 6-9: *sharing blog post from Girl 11* Truth!
Girl 12: OMG, I hate that blog post about being a woman and mother that everyone is sharing. Here's another blog post that encapsulates my feelings on that first blog post.
Girls 6-9: *sharing blog post from Girl 12* Yes!
Girl 4: I wore this outfit last night and three guys hit on me! They thought I was totally younger than I am! LOLZ! *insert photo of girl in snazzy outfit*
Guy 6: None of the tragedies we hear about on the news are actually real. It's all conspiracy theories. Here are several articles from Wikipedia that prove I am right and you are wrong.
Guy 4: Here are several political cartoons which express my feelings regarding Obama.
Girl 4: Look how cute I am in my bathing suit!
Guy 7: WOOOOOOOOOOOOO! BEER!!!!!!!!!!!!!! YEAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Girl 13: Why are men such jerks?
Girl 4: Would someone just compliment me for the love of God?
Girl 9: You look really cute in that bathing suit Girl 4.
Girl 4: *frantically sharing fourteen pictures of herself* OMG you guys! People tell me how cute I am ALL THE TIME! It makes me blush!
Girl 14: I am really sad about all those people who died in the tragedy today.
Guy 2: You should be sad about all those babies that die from abortion.
Girl 4: I am so sad. But I don't want to talk about it.
Guy 7: WOOOOOOOOOO! EATING STEAK ON THE LAKE!
Girl 4: Lonely.
Guy 7: Why are women so complicated?
Girl 15: Here are several recipes for delicious foods.
Girl 6: I love all these things! *insert picture of a puppy and a kitten sharing the same teacup*
Girl 13: Does anyone know any nice guys? *changes relationship status to single*
Girl 4: I've never been this sad and lonely, but nobody ask me about it because I don't want to talk about it.
Girl 16: Here goes eleven photos of how drunk I got last night!
Guy 7: WOOOOOOOOOOOOO! GIRL 16 U R HOTTTTTT!
Girl 4: Didn't anyone hear how lonely I am?
Girl 9: I'm sorry you are lonely Girl 4.
Girl 4: I know who my true friends are! Did you see the picture of me in my bathing suit?
Girl 14: I just donated money to XYZ.
Guy 7: Will I ever find true love?
Guy 3: You should never donate money to XYZ. They support abortion and hate puppies and love gay marriage.
Girl 4: Why isn't everyone LOOKING AT ME?!!?!
Girl 16: Here goes my favorite Bible verse.
Guy 7: WOOOOOOOOOOO! MORE BEER!
Me:
Here's a picture of my dog. Wearing a scarf for some reason.
(Won't tell you which of the above I've been guilty of personally. I'm sure if you've ever seen my Facebook page, you already know.)
The end.
Monday, April 8, 2013
Places I remember
Ten years ago I was living in a small townhouse in the very same town I live in now. I scrimped and saved to buy that little house. I was taking classes at the local community college. I had two kids and a job. I had a boyfriend. We were getting married in July.
One day I walked to the shared mailboxes, turned my key, and retrieved a larger pile of mail than usual. Among the things I received that day was a booklet which was put together by the people who were planning my ten-year high school reunion.
The booklet wasn't a surprise. I had submitted my own information a few months prior. I honestly don't have any idea how the reunion committee found me. I lived almost 7 hours away from my hometown and thought about little else than my children, my job, this guy I was in love with, and surviving. I wasn't lost exactly, but I wasn't looking to be found either.
After my children were asleep I sat down in my recliner and started flipping through the book. I wish I could tell you how I felt as I turned each page, but I can't. I can't because I don't think I could ever describe the aching pit in my stomach which gaped larger and larger with every passing page.
Before that book arrived, I thought I was okay. I was working hard. I was twenty-seven years old...still a baby. There was still time for me to be something amazing. I was gainfully employed. Okay, so I had a marriage that hadn't quite worked out the way I hoped, but I had found the right guy and we were totally in love with each other. I didn't have a college degree, but I was working on it. I had bought a house completely by myself. Okay, a townhouse. But still. There was food in my fridge and my children had clothes and I seriously thought I was okay.
But I? I was a huge loser. The book proved it.
All these people were the same age as me, but they were doing amazing things. They were doctors and lawyers. They had college degrees and real houses and as many children as they wanted, and random things like farms. They had first husbands, only husbands. They were saving animals in Africa, saving lives in the emergency room. I was trying to save enough to buy some new towels for the upstairs bathroom.
When Jason came home and found me sitting in a puddle of my own tears, he took the book from me. He told me, as he always does, all the things I was doing right. I think he threw the booklet of shame away. I never saw it again, I know that. A few months later we were married in what I like to call the Worst Wedding Ceremony Ever, and if I recall correctly the class reunion happened while I was on my honeymoon. I sent my regrets.
It's been ten years. Ten extremely eventful years.
I can't really explain why my stomach felt icy when I opened the email detailing my 20th class reunion. All I know was that in two seconds, I was that girl from ten years ago again. Hell, I was that seventeen year old girl in that moment, with no hope beyond wanting my mom to live. No plans. I was suddenly every struggle I've ever had, every failure, every bad hair day.
I do get that this makes no sense. I do. For just that one moment though, I felt it. Bad.
I'm not that 17 year old girl anymore. I'm not the 27 year old woman either. I've come to realize that my first husband leaving me was the best thing that ever happened to me, for a myriad of reasons, not even the least of which being that it made me get up, get off my dead ass, and do things I never even imagined I could do. Things other people take for granted, like getting a college degree, or getting a job that can support your entire family, or feeling like you can do it all by yourself and don't need a man. I really don't care if someone I knew twenty years ago is skinnier than me, or has a nicer car or more children. A more comfortable or exciting life. I don't care that I've never saved anyone or anything and I've come to realize that I probably couldn't, even with appropriate training. I can't even keep houseplants alive most of the time and that's okay. The competition, so to speak, is not with anyone else.
It's with me. It's all with me.
I don't know what I have to do to make it all be enough.
Years ago I was in the Franklin Planner Cult and I made lists obsessively. I still make lists obsessively, but these were different. These lists were goals and dreams and what I was going to do with my life. Which is great in some ways, and complete cheese in others. I know this.
I found some of my lists when we moved here a year ago. The only things on the list that I haven't accomplished, hell exceeded, are the spiritual things. Sorry Jesus. I'm trying. Really.
Yet, it's not enough. It's never enough. It's not about how much money I make, it's not about the house, or the job (believe me, it's not glamorous). It's not about the kids. It's not about the husband (who, when listing my attributes says, "You have great kids and an okay husband"). It's not about how skinny or how fat I am. It's not about the book that I wrote a hundred million lifetimes ago. It's really not.
I just can't figure out what it's about.
I cannot figure out where the gaping hole in my heart comes from. I just can't.
I look good on paper now. I have the degree, the real house, the accomplishments. If there was another booklet, I probably wouldn't throw it away.
Even though I know it doesn't mean anything. Not until I figure the rest of this out.
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
Fat like me.
This weekend I spent some time with someone I don't know very well. I still don't know her very well. In some ways I know more about her now than she probably realizes.
She was nice, really. I've always thought this person was nice. She told me lots of things about her life, said lots of things to me that made me realize what other people are saying about me. Overall, the conversation was fine. Really, the only problem I can think of about the whole thing was that she kept telling me how fat I was.
Not in those words of course. She kept referring to herself and saying to others, "Well, when you are fat like me and Stephanie" or "I need to lose weight. Stephanie knows what I'm talking about."
This is not unusual, actually. I used to do a whole lot of looking-around-the-room-verifying-if-I-was-the-fattest-person. It's comforting in some way to feel like you're not the only one that needs to step away from the cupcakes. I stopped caring as much when I met friends who were, you know, actual friends. Smart women who cared more about things like nurturing their children and kicking ass at work than they did about what number was on the inside of their jeans. I didn't need to compete with these women. It was a good thing. It is a good thing.
I don't need to compete with myself either, but I find that much harder. I guess that's all part of being fat like me.
The funny thing about all this is, I didn't really realize the other woman was fat. Honestly, I didn't. Maybe I'm just desensitized, or maybe I just don't care. I just didn't see what the big deal was. Still don't.
I suppose I shouldn't care that she kept calling me fat either. It's not a secret. It's a descriptive word, not some judgement of my moral character and who I am. I cannot hide the extra fifty or so pounds I'm carting around, no matter how many pairs of Spanx I own. I have a belly. I have thighs that just won't quit (even though I ask them nicely). I have a butt. I jiggle in places I don't want to jiggle. Maybe in those ways, and a million others, she's fat like me.
And really, I don't know her very well. Maybe she's lost over a 100 pounds, and she still has to deal with the fact that are people in the world that will never ever see that she's smart and funny and pretty and a great mom and a hard worker because all they see is the next fifty pounds that she still needs to lose. Maybe she's afraid to meet new people, because she can't exactly explain, "Well, see, I used to be even fatter than I am now". Maybe she's met people who have said to her, "You'd be so pretty if you just lost some weight". Maybe it hurt her inside because those people had no idea how hard she'd been working, and for how long. Maybe she's aware that every bite she ever eats is watched and calculated and criticized. If she knows about all that, then really. Who am I too judge her motives? She's fat just like me.
Maybe she's been called names, honked at, moo-ed at, afraid...hurt. Maybe after she got called those names she kept walking. Kept her chin up and didn't shed one tear. Kept going even though she didn't want to. She didn't eat the cookie when she got home either. If so? Then she's fat like me.
Maybe she eats the salad when she wants the burger. Maybe she struggles with her demons. Maybe she's still hungry when she goes to bed. Maybe she stands on the scale, curses and cries and then keeps on doing the right things. Because she knows what the right things are. Knows that the right things aren't diet pills and quick fixes. She knows that plateaus are depressing and sometimes last a year. She has a doctor who cheers her on because she keeps on trying...a doctor who is the only one ever to point out the success instead of the failures. She keeps on going. She knows those miles aren't getting the fat off her butt, but appreciates that at least they are putting distance between her and the aching sadness in her heart that just won't go away. So she goes.
Maybe she still gets called fat by people who are only trying to make themselves feel better. But she goes on. She keeps going.
Then, I just can't fault her. She's fat like me.
She was nice, really. I've always thought this person was nice. She told me lots of things about her life, said lots of things to me that made me realize what other people are saying about me. Overall, the conversation was fine. Really, the only problem I can think of about the whole thing was that she kept telling me how fat I was.
Not in those words of course. She kept referring to herself and saying to others, "Well, when you are fat like me and Stephanie" or "I need to lose weight. Stephanie knows what I'm talking about."
This is not unusual, actually. I used to do a whole lot of looking-around-the-room-verifying-if-I-was-the-fattest-person. It's comforting in some way to feel like you're not the only one that needs to step away from the cupcakes. I stopped caring as much when I met friends who were, you know, actual friends. Smart women who cared more about things like nurturing their children and kicking ass at work than they did about what number was on the inside of their jeans. I didn't need to compete with these women. It was a good thing. It is a good thing.
I don't need to compete with myself either, but I find that much harder. I guess that's all part of being fat like me.
The funny thing about all this is, I didn't really realize the other woman was fat. Honestly, I didn't. Maybe I'm just desensitized, or maybe I just don't care. I just didn't see what the big deal was. Still don't.
I suppose I shouldn't care that she kept calling me fat either. It's not a secret. It's a descriptive word, not some judgement of my moral character and who I am. I cannot hide the extra fifty or so pounds I'm carting around, no matter how many pairs of Spanx I own. I have a belly. I have thighs that just won't quit (even though I ask them nicely). I have a butt. I jiggle in places I don't want to jiggle. Maybe in those ways, and a million others, she's fat like me.
And really, I don't know her very well. Maybe she's lost over a 100 pounds, and she still has to deal with the fact that are people in the world that will never ever see that she's smart and funny and pretty and a great mom and a hard worker because all they see is the next fifty pounds that she still needs to lose. Maybe she's afraid to meet new people, because she can't exactly explain, "Well, see, I used to be even fatter than I am now". Maybe she's met people who have said to her, "You'd be so pretty if you just lost some weight". Maybe it hurt her inside because those people had no idea how hard she'd been working, and for how long. Maybe she's aware that every bite she ever eats is watched and calculated and criticized. If she knows about all that, then really. Who am I too judge her motives? She's fat just like me.
Maybe she's been called names, honked at, moo-ed at, afraid...hurt. Maybe after she got called those names she kept walking. Kept her chin up and didn't shed one tear. Kept going even though she didn't want to. She didn't eat the cookie when she got home either. If so? Then she's fat like me.
Maybe she eats the salad when she wants the burger. Maybe she struggles with her demons. Maybe she's still hungry when she goes to bed. Maybe she stands on the scale, curses and cries and then keeps on doing the right things. Because she knows what the right things are. Knows that the right things aren't diet pills and quick fixes. She knows that plateaus are depressing and sometimes last a year. She has a doctor who cheers her on because she keeps on trying...a doctor who is the only one ever to point out the success instead of the failures. She keeps on going. She knows those miles aren't getting the fat off her butt, but appreciates that at least they are putting distance between her and the aching sadness in her heart that just won't go away. So she goes.
Maybe she still gets called fat by people who are only trying to make themselves feel better. But she goes on. She keeps going.
Then, I just can't fault her. She's fat like me.
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