I was a fat kid. This wasn’t something I was afflicted with because how much I ate or what I was eating.
My family was on the poor side. I say it that way because we did have a luxury occasionally, which I know some families never have. In fact, there are some who can’t even afford all the necessities, let along any plain wants.
The family budget was tight. My mom would pay the bills and be ecstatic if there was ten dollars left that could go into the pot for something like a short trip to visit family in another state.
One of the strategies in keeping the budget under control was being careful about what was bought at the grocery store. There was never ever any soft drinks. A treat for my brother and I was a glass of Kool-Aid in the middle of the afternoon.
Mind you, we didn’t starve at any time. If one of us was hungry and it wasn’t mealtime yet, Mom would get out a piece of fruit like an apple or orange and split it between us. If it was getting close to time to eat, Mom would bring out raw pieces of vegetables, cut a few up, and let us gnaw on them while we waited for the clock to say, “Dinner time!”
So why was I fat? No one could figure it out to any satisfaction.
I couldn’t eat a whole hamburger until I was nine years old, and that was only if I didn’t have the french fries and let my brother drink most of my lemonade. “Lemonade?” you ask. McDonald’s wasn’t in Denver until I was in high school so our favorite fast food place was Henry’s. (It was one of those luxuries I was talking you about.) They had soft drinks but their lemonade was cheaper. My brother and I didn’t care what was in the paper cup as long as it would quench our thirst.
I battled with ponderosity daily. Yet, I didn’t have a clue as to how to fight it really. Most of it was aim and miss.
I was a tomboy. I was that one with the pixie haircut riding my bike with the neighborhood boys. I loved the vacant lots. I’d peddle up and down the dirty hills, stopping once in a while to observe a bug or pick up something way beyond rusty. (Despite these outings, I never was rushed in for a tetanus shot.) Invariably, I’d find a garter snake and knew I just must take it home to scare my mom out of her wits. (Snakes are her one and only phobia.)
Can you see why my massiveness was such a mystery?
Let’s get completely honesty…
I wasn’t obese. In fact, I was just one size bigger than other girls my age. Yes, I was and am a little on the short side. My full height was five feet, four inches. Now that I’m harboring on retirement age, I’m even shorted.
What wrought the notion into the depths of my psychic was my father’s nickname for me — Big Glyn. In addition, he made sure to mention my weight whenever I would get new clothes.
What kind of hideous monster does this to his or her kid? My mom tried to shelter me from this type of abuse as much as she could without actually punching my father in the mouth. She, also, pointed out all of the worthwhile qualities I had, that my father didn’t, right in front of him. Maybe that wasn’t such a good thing to do because he got his brother and his family to jump onto his bandwagon. I became know as ‘Big Glyn’ at all family gatherings.
When I got pregnant with my son, of course, I gained weight. I was married and out of the house so I didn’t have to listen to anything my father was saying. Before my son was born, my mom divorced him. She was sick and tired of trying to make it work. She kicked him out.
My father got the surprise of his life when he saw me the next time with my baby boy. Somehow during the pregnancy, underneath the layers of fat for my son’s nourishment, I lost weight. I was wearing a size six instead of the size eleven I had worn before. Sure, I wasn’t dinky, but there wasn’t any way my father could insinuate that I was fat.
The ponderosity of misjudgment can be so burdensome that a person can, and often does think death might be better.
Do Not Misjudge
The wrong person won’t think you’re WORTH their love, loyalty or respect. So, they’ll offer you something less. DON’T ACCEPT IT. Know your worth and move on. — Sonya Parker