There’s an advertisement put out by the anti-smoking campaigners which reads, “Smoking keeps on giving.”Â It shows a man smoking and the smoke drifting past four other persons.Â The idea is to show how second-hand smoke affects those around us.Â Continue reading “The Fat Effect”
I stare at myself in the full-length mirror.Â “Fat may be what I am, but not who I am,” I say. It doesn’t work.
There is nothing more terrifying for a fat person than to look into a full-length mirror.Â Multiple times a day, I traverse the Walk of Shameâ€”also known as the hallway in my homeâ€”where at the far end the tormentor hangs.Â My dearest Pa noticed I didn’t have a proper mirror and kindly gave me a full-length one he had lying about.Â He even came around with the picture hooks and hammer to hang it.Â What could I do-refuse his well-meaning gift?Â Until then, I mercifully had just a small face mirror in the bathroom, which allowed me to avoid viewing parts of me I prefer to keep out of sight.
Most days, I make the Walk of Shame with eyes lowered, but try as I may to NOT to look, sometimes I just canâ€™t help myselfâ€”like now. I am a sucker for self-torment.
“Being fat doesn’t define me.Â It’s simply extra baggage which I carry and I won’t carry it forever,” I tell the bloated image, trying to sound convincing but I’m not so sure.Â I know all too well the hard work which goes into “losing” extra baggage. And not just a few pieces of luggageâ€”it’s a cargo load.
The tormentor reveals all.Â A huge flabby apron hangs around my mid section. Thunder thighs with Jell-O cellulite glisten and wink in the sun.Â More gelatinous mass hangs under my arms, which wobbles and rolls and juts out whenever my arms are flush against my body.Â It’s a hard task to not get lost in the disgust of it all.Â I mean, who wants to look at my fat ugly rolls and love handles?Â Ironic name, since nobody actually loves them.
But I do have amazing eyes and a great smile, complete with two cheeky dimples.Â I inherited my best physical features from both parents: my late Polynesian mother’s caramel-latte skin, high cheekbones, perfectly oval face and full, pouty lips; and my Pa’s glittering emerald-shaped eyes and unruly curly hair.
“I am a strong, beautiful, confident woman, mother and friend.Â My weight does not enslave me,â€ I pronounce to the woman in the mirror.Â “Hello, who am I kidding?” I sigh, shoulders slumped.Â My weight rears its ugly, embarrassing head all the time.Â To say it doesn’t enslave me is highly optimistic at best, a lie at worst.Â It has been the bane of my existence for most of my 30 years.Â I stop short at saying affirmations are a waste of time, but some days it’s easier to believe them than others.Â Today is not one of those days.
Defeated, I resumed my usual activity of picking up after my two darling but messy preschoolers.Â With eyes cast down, I work while trying to avoid the hippopotamus at the end of the hallway.Â Even still, I nearly trip over an open photo album lying in the doorway to the kids’ room.Â Fi loved to look through the albums.Â This one contained pictures from university through Fi’s birth. Continue reading “Sneek Peak~~Chapter 3”