The Right Size Love
I have a huge confession to make.
I have always been a fat kid.
No, of course that’s not the confession. Everybody with half a functioning eye can see that. My confession is, for someone who has always been fat, in my head I’m just the right size. Not the right size for clothes, definitely. Topshop, Mango and Zara are alien boutiques to me, with their current styles and cuts catering to the toddler-sized up to swallowed-half-a-peach-pit kinda fat (which isn’t fat at all). I’m not the right size for health either, it now turns out. Whenever I go to the doctor, I just nod my head on auto-pilot. They scare me, true, but death doesn’t, so here we have a critical impasse. But to me, I’m just the right size for me.
You wouldn’t agree of course. But you haven’t lived your life comforted by the knowledge that no hearty gale of wind will bring you down. I like the feeling of being firmly on the ground, practically screwed unto it. This works for me because my idea of spreading my wings and flying constitutes of closing my eyes and unleashing my imagination.
I have met people who try to tell me, eating too much is a sin. I don’t feel guilty because, if you look at it, I don’t eat too much as per quantity. I just eat often and without paying heed to calorie-intake. There’s a difference. And I always tell myself, murder is a sin. Darfur is a sin. Running for congress after a presidency is a sin. Eating is a furlong and a hatch away from those things. And besides, I love to cook. It’s one of the things that calms me and soothes me. When I’m cooking, I feel like a goddess about to feed her multitude of worshippers. And when I cook, darn heck of course I’ll eat the feast I prepared.
And my last reason for thinking I’m just right is that I like my own softness. I like my roundness. When I become a skinny bitch, I imagine I’d be drop dead gorgeous (don’t we all?), but that wouldn’t be me. I don’t do gorgeous. I do functioning brain cells and roly-poly jolly.
I’m not saying I don’t want to lose weight. Now that my knees are giving in and my back is prone to aches, it’s my doctors’ imperative. If they succeed in forcing me, let this post remind me though: it’s not about how much you weigh but how much you like yourself. I’ve had my battles with self-image, but I emerged a veteran. Thin or fat, I’d always be just the right size for Olivia.
I have always been a fat kid.
No, of course that’s not the confession. Everybody with half a functioning eye can see that. My confession is, for someone who has always been fat, in my head I’m just the right size. Not the right size for clothes, definitely. Topshop, Mango and Zara are alien boutiques to me, with their current styles and cuts catering to the toddler-sized up to swallowed-half-a-peach-pit kinda fat (which isn’t fat at all). I’m not the right size for health either, it now turns out. Whenever I go to the doctor, I just nod my head on auto-pilot. They scare me, true, but death doesn’t, so here we have a critical impasse. But to me, I’m just the right size for me.
You wouldn’t agree of course. But you haven’t lived your life comforted by the knowledge that no hearty gale of wind will bring you down. I like the feeling of being firmly on the ground, practically screwed unto it. This works for me because my idea of spreading my wings and flying constitutes of closing my eyes and unleashing my imagination.
I have met people who try to tell me, eating too much is a sin. I don’t feel guilty because, if you look at it, I don’t eat too much as per quantity. I just eat often and without paying heed to calorie-intake. There’s a difference. And I always tell myself, murder is a sin. Darfur is a sin. Running for congress after a presidency is a sin. Eating is a furlong and a hatch away from those things. And besides, I love to cook. It’s one of the things that calms me and soothes me. When I’m cooking, I feel like a goddess about to feed her multitude of worshippers. And when I cook, darn heck of course I’ll eat the feast I prepared.
And my last reason for thinking I’m just right is that I like my own softness. I like my roundness. When I become a skinny bitch, I imagine I’d be drop dead gorgeous (don’t we all?), but that wouldn’t be me. I don’t do gorgeous. I do functioning brain cells and roly-poly jolly.
I’m not saying I don’t want to lose weight. Now that my knees are giving in and my back is prone to aches, it’s my doctors’ imperative. If they succeed in forcing me, let this post remind me though: it’s not about how much you weigh but how much you like yourself. I’ve had my battles with self-image, but I emerged a veteran. Thin or fat, I’d always be just the right size for Olivia.
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