Thursday, January 28, 2010

Cellulite and other dimples in time

When Hubs and I took our road trip in July, something about seeing so many different things and being away from my job for two weeks sparked ideas in my brain. Go figure.

I came up with a couple of ideas for novels, and wrote them down in the notebook I carry with me everywhere. If I hadn't come up with these ideas, I'm not honestly sure I'd be quitting my job on Monday.

And that's not to say that they are brilliant ideas. They are just ideas. They are not going to win me any prizes or blow anyone away. They are not necessarily "deep" or meaningful, although they are not without meaning.

Without giving away the plot, I want to tell you that one of my ideas is about a fat girl.

I've always been obsessed with weight, whether it was mine or other people's. Not that I've always had problems with my weight, but I remember my mom always being concerned about her weight. As a child I was thin, but I assumed I was fat and should worry over my bony frame. Don't ask me why - no one ever told me I was fat.

My first diet was in grade school. I was not overweight, I know that now. I was a school sit-up and jump rope champion. I had a boyfriend named Danny and I thought he was the cutest boy in school. I remember seeing my butt reflected in a window some time around the sixth grade and being surprised because I thought it looked nice, appealing.

In the seventh and eighth grades I could run a 7-minute mile. I didn't have boobs yet and rarely wore a bra (I forgot to wear a bra on the day they were checking our spines for scoliosis, which in hindsight is a really weird thing to be done in a middle school). I was still convinced I was overweight, despite the nice ass sighting in the sixth grade and the fact that there was no proof of me being overweight. I envied a popular girl with long blonde hair.

I'm about to get all "Are You There God, It's Me, Margaret" on you in a second, so consider this fair warning if puberty milestones make you queasy.

I didn't get my period until I was 14 years old. All of my friends had gotten theirs by then. Some of them got theirs when they were only 10 years old (God forbid), shortly after we'd been shown a video about menstruation and babies sometime around the fifth grade. I continued to assume I was a complete freak. If someone were to X-ray my body, I was sure it would look completely fucked up -- unlike any human body that had ever been seen by an X-ray before.

Thank God for the early 90s grunge era, with its oversized everything. I gained weight in high school, inheriting the thighs that were rightly mine, passed down from a long line of big butted German women. And since that time, around sophomore year, when I was suddenly wearing a C-cup, my weight has fluctuated like a motherfucker. I enjoyed a few sweet years in my 20s at a reasonable weight. I felt attractive and happy about my body. The rest of the time I've been at war against myself.

So it stands to reason that I would want to write about a sister in arms, a fellow chub fighter - oh, she of the large thighs that rub together when she walks.

I'll be gathering anecdotes about being a Lady With More To Love and pinning them to the bulletin board that still needs to be obtained and hung in the office where I plan to write. I welcome any observations about those of us fighting the battle of the bulge that you'd like to send. For example, when I lie on my side, my stomach pooches down onto the surface below me, and I rub it and it feels like something foreign that is not a part of me.


  1. "I didn't get my period until I was 14 years old."

    That's good news. Isn't that when eggs started getting spent? That means you have eggs until your 40s.


  2. "And that's not to say that they are brilliant ideas. They are just ideas. They are not going to win me any prizes or blow anyone away. They are not necessarily "deep" or meaningful..."

    Oh, lovely MOAM, I venture to bet you will prove yourself wrong. I also remind you to practice Ridiculous Optimism, as you've promised.