Ponderosity and Me

Ponderosity and Me
Image provided by
Lotus Carroll
@ https://www.flickr.com/photos/thelotuscarroll/

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


7 thoughts on “Ponderosity and Me

  1. Knowing your worth/value, what you have to offer and what you should expect in return is a hard equation to master, especially when others are manipulating the numbers. Great post. I had to laugh at the part about not needing a tetanus shot. Those rascals are good for 10 years. I’m 60 and I’ve had at least one in every decade of my life. Hint, once you get out to about year 7 or 8, the docs will give you another anyway.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I only remember getting one tetanus shot and that was at the grade school I was attending. I probably should have had more for good measure because I was riding a bide on dirt trails and always being to curious on the journeys until I because disabled the summer before turning 18.

      Just to let you know, I turned 61 earlier this month. I guess that makes me the senior. 😛

      Liked by 2 people

      1. You have me by a couple of months. My shots were always after the fact but I had at least three within the 10-yr coverage or the previous one. None so far in my 60s but the decade is young.


Please comment on this post.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.