I come from a long line of short, round women. My sister once visited an International Food Festival. She said she noticed something odd as she moved from the France booth, eastward through the Italy booth, pausing at the Germany booth and stopping at the Austria Booth. The women changed from tall and lithe, to squat and plump. I don’t need a 23 And Me test to know where I come from.
Horrible Grandmother Nellie was thinner than Mom but still, no model. However, this did not stop her from criticizing her daughter’s size.
Before Mom died, she asked that I take all her journals. Besides the occasional motherly comments about my latest weird haircut, the pages were filled with starting of diets, ending of diets and in between, all the self-loathing she could fit on a page.
For the first fifty years of my life, I’d only inherited the short part. Now, each year the nefarious fat-stuffing elves add a little more padding to my limbs, my belly, my face.
These evil elves’ antics are a constant surprise to me. Suddenly my favorite shirt won’t button. Abruptly, a muffin top appears above the waist of my jeans. Out of the blue, my skinny jeans are too skinny for my thighs.
I’ve tried Whole 30, Paleo, Keto and counting calories. It all ends with the same image staring back at me – short and round.
Today is Mom’s birthday. In her honor, I surrender to the joy of being short and round. Love you Mom!