Okay ... so this has really got to be my least favorite thing about being fat. First of all, if you have ever asked a woman something along the lines of the following: (a) are you having a boy or girl; (b) what's your due date; or (c) how far along are you ... and you had no way of being 100% certain she was pregnant ... SHAME ON YOU!!!! Your mother obviously did not bring you up properly and/or you are a man.
There is nothing in the world that can pop the balloon of one's self-esteem faster than having a stranger or not-so-close acquaintance ask you one of the above-mentioned questions. For future reference, unless the woman whose fertility you are questioning has a sonogram picture pinned to her blouse or is sporting a T-shirt that says "Baby on Board," don't even think of uttering any of the above-referenced phrases within that woman's vicinity ... ever.
The "peeps" and I have numerous names for the layer of fat that a woman carries in her midsection. For example, my BFF refers to hers as the "bread box," as she believes that this is where all the bread she eats goes to live after entering her body. Other endearing names for this super attractive piece of fat are ... "pooch," "paunch," "butt in front," "jelly belly," etc. Women go to great lengths to hide their "pooches." There are entire industries dedicated to making various forms of knight-like armor to squeeze this layer of fat into in order to create a more stream-lined effect under clothing. There are girdles, control-top pantyhose and my armor of choice, Spanx. I believe the act of applying one of these highly attractive undergarments to your overweight body could be an Olympic sport. It takes a lot of muscle, dexterity and maneuvering to get these things into their proper position. Most days it is my main source of cardio and strength training. Once in place, a multitude of sins can be smoothed over ... no more muffin top, a less prominent outline of the pooch and the jelly belly no longer jiggles when you walk. Well, it does, but it's less noticeable. It's also a great way to hide the "cottage cheese" dimples of one's buttocks ... just sayin'.
A man carries his "pooch" with pride. They call it a "beer belly." They laugh when anyone makes a comment in regard to its presence. They say things like, "working on my six pack," while smiling and either patting it lovingly or rubbing it like it's a Buddha. What the Hell is wrong with them?
The first time (yes, I said the first time) someone asked me one of the never to be asked questions above was the summer that I was 35. My husband and I had bought a new home earlier in the winter and I was working on redecorating my son's room. We were at the mall and I was shopping for curtains. He went to Ruby Tuesday's to order our lunch while I ran upstairs to the home section of a major department store. I found the curtains I was looking for and had the salesperson (a woman) get the proper number of panels for me. She met me at the counter after collecting them and while she was ringing them up she said, and I quote, "So, you must be having a boy ... when are you due?" Seriously? I was shocked and rendered speechless. For those of you who know me, you realize that being rendered speechless is not a condition to which I am accustomed. I cocked my head slightly to the right, looked her square in the eyes and said ... "Yes, I did have a boy. He's 12." She was mortified. And she should have been. But actually, my comment made it much worse. She kept apologizing and apologizing and the more she went on and on about how sorry she was, the more I wanted the floor to open and swallow me up.
I left the department store, curtains in hand, and proceeded down the escalator and into the Ruby Tuesday's where my husband was waiting for me. Waiting along with him was an order of deep-fried mozzarella sticks, buffalo wings, french fries and a loaded baked potato. Our lunch. I slid into the booth across from him, looked at the food, and nearly burst into tears. I told him what had transpired, collected the car keys and promptly went to our vehicle and cried in peace. My husband, being the man that he is, finished his lunch, boxed up the leftovers and then decided to come and join me. My husband is not an insensitive man. He's really not. But in his "man" world (remember my "six pack comment) this incident was not quite the Category 6 storm that it was in mine. I, however, was upset and irrational and proceeded to be mad at him for the rest of the day. Actually, mad isn't a strong enough word ... furious would be more accurate. This poor man who was sitting in a booth, minding his own business, eating his lunch, completely oblivious to what was being said upstairs in the department store next door had the distinct honor of bearing the brunt of my anger for the whole rest of that day. I have since apologized.
The second time I had an experience like this, I was at a work function. I work for the state and was at the capital building for a two-day conference. One of my co-workers and I were sharing a hotel room and were getting ready for the first morning of the conference. I put on one of the blouses I had brought for this occasion and looked myself up and down in the mirror. I turned to my co-worker and asked her, "Does this blouse kind of make me look pregnant?" She said, "Of course not." Remember that.
Workers from cities and towns all over the state were in attendance at this conference so the conference organizers thought that they should start with an "ice-breaker" game. This game entailed everyone receiving a list of identification clues (i.e., find someone who is wearing yellow) wherein you found someone you didn't already know who fit the description and wrote down their name, location and one fact about them to help you get acquainted. Line 7 of this sheet said ... "Find someone who is pregnant." Do I even need to continue???
I looked around the room and did not see ONE person that even looked like they might be expecting. Now, being that women read things like Emily Post and Dear Abby ... not one woman in the room approached another woman in the room regarding the dreaded #7 and left that one blank. However ... there were 4 men in attendance. I was approached by all 4. The first gentleman got a small smile and a shake of the head no, the second a shake of the head, the third got a sharp "no" after asking and the last got a "no, I'm not pregnant," before he even opened his mouth the whole way. I didn't cry that day ... but I did throw that blouse in the garbage in my hotel room during my dinner break.
The last time I had an experience such as this was the worst! I had my identity stolen and someone had used my credit card to purchase electronics at Best Buy. I had to file a police report before I could have the credit card reimbursed. While waiting for an officer to take my statement, the woman behind the intake desk who resembled Jabba the Hutt (which sounds mean but you won't think so in a moment), asked me the following statement which is forever burned into my brain ... "Are you pregnant or just fat?" Yea, "Are you pregnant or just fat?" WTF??????? I said, "Ummmm ... just fat I guess." And she proceeded to try and sell me some herbal diet drug she was hawking. I'm not kidding. Jabba the Hutt whose fat was hanging down both sides of her office chair and had heavy, labored breathing was trying to make a buck off of me for diet pills!!!!! Ugh!
My sister-in-law has experienced the same kind of comments since giving birth to her twins 5 years ago. Her twins were not the tiny 4 to 5 pound babies you would expect ... heck no. They were both full size babies weighing between 7 and 8 pounds each. Weeks before delivery her skin had stretched beyond anything I ever dreamed possible and the weight of these precious bundles left her with not only a "pooch" but a hernia as well. She got sick and tired of people asking her if she was pregnant. Today whenever someone asks when she is due she responds by smiling and saying "About the same time you are." I'm told it's very effective.
I can't tell you verbatim how I responded to my particular incidents of horror the days following their occurrence. I imagine they prompted me to re-enlist in the WW army and/or schedule an emergency visit with my therapist. Obviously had these comments had any real long-term damaging effects on my ego, I would have shed the paunch for good by now. I haven't. I have a loyal reader who messaged me and told me her turning point came when she became tired of looking five months pregnant and has since rid herself of the unwanted pounds. I applaud her effort. I'm a little slower to the punch.
The thing is, the jelly belly is a very small (or very large depending on what angle you are viewing me from) part of who I am. I may not like it being there, I may torture it on a daily basis by stuffing it into uncomfortable undergarments and I may sigh every time I see myself naked in a full length mirror and my eyes are automatically drawn to that particular area of my body. But it's there. I'm working to make it disappear or at the very least dwindle in size.
There's a wonderful part in the movie Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason, wherein Renee Zellweger's character is sneaking out of bed in the morning after spending a particular passionate night with the always delicious Colin Firth. She's crawling out of bed quietly while wrapping the sheet around her on the way. Colin Firth wakes up and asks her what she's doing ... she says she doesn't want him to see her "wobbly bits." His response? "I happen to be rather fond of your wobbly bits." She says, "Really?" He nods yes. And the next move makes it into my all time favorite movie moments ... she drops the sheet with a huge toothy grin and flashes him her "wobbly bits."
Go ahead and make the changes necessary for you to be the best person you can be and don't let the "pooch," "paunch," etc stop you from loving who you are right now. I promise you that the people who matter love you just as you are ... and if they don't, then they don't really matter.
So my dear friends ... drop the sheets, smile wide and flaunt your "wobbly bits" ...
© 2010-2011 Melanie L. Miller All Rights Reserved
No comments:
Post a Comment