My Identity as Your Fat Friend

I weigh in at just over 300lbs. I have successfully managed to maintain my weight for over six years. Oh! You thought I was going to say I had lost weight? Well, yeah, I lost 40lbs after my son was born three years ago, but I don't count that. No, I am managing my weight with success. Maybe you think I should lose 150lbs, and yes, maybe I should, but I am happy with simply not gaining any.

The most recent selfie.

Wait, you mean you can't imagine being happy with 305lbs? Well, of course not, you can't imagine it because we are surrounded by thin people telling us we should be thinner, and doctors telling us we are obese, and the government telling us we are epidemically fat. And be that as it may, it's difficult to imagine being fat and happy. 

So please, let me explain why I am able to be both fat and happy.

I've been obese since I was in grade school. I started wearing my mother's hand-me-downs in fourth grade before bell-bottoms had come back and I had to wear them to school.At the time, I really hated them, I hated that I had to wear my mother's old clothes instead of my older sister's whose old clothes were amazing and cool (she was three years older than me so everything she did was amazing and cool, including those huge, standing up bangs, remember those?).

In fourth grade, I had one friend, a social reject like me. She was short, thin, and an utter tomboy. The kids in our class didn't like either of us for one reason or another, and we weren't too concerned with them either. We were however, best friends. Our friendship bloomed overnight. We went from strangers to inseparable in a matter of days. I didn't know it then, but now I know it was because I was fat.

Ok, So that was in fourth grade and how could I know it was because of my size?

How about seventh grade?

I really started understanding my role as a human in middle school. I knew I would never be a part of the popular kids clique; I was too interested in learning, too much of a reader, too much of a Christian, and I was too fat. I heard the phrase "fat bitch" a lot during middle school.  A lot. But it never bothered me because I began to understand that I had intrinsic value without having to be valued by every other person in my school. The one person who did value me was my new friend, Nichol. I spent the second half of sixth grade trying to weasel my way into her friendship. I liked her, I liked her friend, and I made my application to her friendship known. I would say hello, see what she was up to, try to be friendly. She wasn't unfriendly with me, but she had her own world she lived in and I was not a part of it. Besides, I was the fat kid and I was grouped with all the rest of the fat kids and social rejects, and she was definitively not in that group.

The thinnest I have ever been.

Things changed in seventh grade. Her best friend moved away, and Nichol was left with me. Suddenly I became a life-preserver to her while she was at school. I couldn't have known at the time because I was too young to understand, but what made our friendship then turn into my longest-lasting friendship now, was that I was comfortable to be with. I was fat, so I couldn't judge her, I would accept her as she was because I had no other social option. She didn't have to work to make me like her, or even really make a huge effort for me to be her friend, and that was a relief! Who wants a friendship that is hard to maintain? Especially after something as traumatic as losing a lifelong friend at an already difficult stage in life (middle school is the worst, isn't it?). Who wants to be required to impress someone else in the name of friendship. I was fat, so I didn't have to be impressed, I was a social reject, so it was a movement up from the losers table to Nichol's company at lunch.

That's just the beginning though. I make friends easily with most people because I am so comfortable to be around. Being fat, people assume I don't judge (which is a safe assumption in my case), and they feel comfortable opening up to me. I don't look like the kind of person who is going to look at you and make all sorts of judgements and assumptions about you. I look matronly, motherly, kind; my roundish face instills people with a sense of ease. Then, after that initial, "Oh, this woman isn't a threat," comes the next stage, where my sparkling personality and wit capture my new audience. Ha. Ha. Actually, I am a really good listener and I empathize well. this skill makes my new friends like me even more, because I am able to make them feel genuinely valuable by hearing them when they speak about themselves.

My listening skills are a result of being fat too. During high school, I thought people didn't want to hear what I had to say because I was fat. So I learned to listen, really listen. It took me going to college and practicing speaking my opinion with my friends before I got over the idea that I wasn't worth listening to. 

A friend posed me and took this picture of me. Beautiful.

After capturing my friends with my pleasant appearance and listening skills, comes the reward, the reason I am ok identifying as your fat friend. So. Much. Love. I love my friends, and they love me, and it is an intense affectionate love all around. Loyalty abounds, compliments fly, entangled lives ensue. I have never had a friend who made me feel less than utterly beautiful. I have always had people in my life who assured me of my value with their words and affection, I can identify as your fat friend and not feel like a clump of worthless mud because you have always made me feel beautiful, at my thinnest and at my fattest, and you have always made my life brighter with your friendship to me as much or more than I have with my friendship to you.

A group of my closest college friends on a spring break in Tampa.

Slam Dunk School: Math is Beautiful

Recently I told Coral it was time to start school (it was about 11 am--late mornings are a Slam Dunk specialty). She replied with, "No, I don't want to do school. Math isn't fun."

I realized immediately I needed to nip that in the bud. Here's why: when Coral was nearing three, before her speech solidified into comprehensibility, she watched a Micky Mouse Clubhouse episode in which Goofy becomes a superhero and saves the day from muffins. By believing in himself he learned how to be fast, strong, and how to "fly." After that episode, I caught Coral running around the back yard, rope in tow across her shoulders, yelling, "I'm a Superpose! I'm a Superpose!" She meant that she was a superhero. It was funny and endearing. Later, it was the reason for a soul-crushing moment between her and me.

She wanted to play dress up and so I dressed her up as Super Coral the Magnificent! She got on my bed and jumped off, realizing a split second later, dressing up like a superhero doesn't give her the power of flight. She said, "Momma! I can't fly! What's wrong with my super suit?" So I had to tell her that people can't fly without the help of machines. I explained helicopters, airplanes, and space shuttles. She was crushed. She cried for a long while in my arms. She wanted to fly. She took off her super suit and decided to never dress up again because there isn't any benefit to it.

She did eventually get over the problem with make-believe and she does play dress-up still, although her dress up has evolved into taking my wireless headphones and pretending to be a pilot. So, when she told me that math wasn't fun, I kind of freaked out inside. I told her that we were going to do math all day.

Here is what we did:

A matching game,

that she spanked me at;

the Golden Ratio:

 Everywhere.

We repeated the Fibonacci sequence so many times that Coral had the first six numbers memorized by the end of the day. We looked at shells, pine cones, our own bodies. We did the addition, the measuring, the drawing. We did everything I could think of to make math fun again. 

And it worked.

Coral hasn't complained about math since then; she does her addition as well as she can and is getting better day-by-day. We do a lot of art reinforcing the beauty of math, and she loves it. She may never be a pilot, but she will have that opportunity if she wants it. I will make sure she has every opportunity to explore as much of the world as she can take, even if it's from our home computer and using Google Earth.

Slam Dunk DIY

I've never had the money to pay for mechanics. They are expensive and a lot are not trustworthy. As a result, I have either had to rely on my dad, my brother, or my own wits. In a turn of life's ironic sense of humor, I recently married a mechanic. So when my van's air conditioner stopping working suddenly, I called my husband (who is in Albuquerque, NM) and explained the situation. He decided that I was capable of fixing it myself with some instruction from him. 

After two YouTube videos, I set to work replacing the a/c relay, checking and replacing the fuses and then, replacing the vacuum tubing. Here is a picture of the owner's manual of where the fuse box is located: 

I looked and looked, searching for that fuse box to no avail! I had a professional look for it, he said it didn't exist. I gave up for a few days until I could get my dad there to see if he could find it. When my dad got under there, it took him thirty seconds to find it. It wasn't anywhere close to where the picture was pointing. It was next to and behind the brake pedal!!  Someone just shoot me. I saw the thing and didn't even register it could have been the fuse box. 

Having replaced that blown fuse, I took apart the center console. It was a trial of strength and treachery. Could I figure out how to get to the bolts in the back without breaking anything or doing more work than necessary? Did I have the right tools for the job and if not, could I finagle  something to work? 

I did. I got the console off, and replaced the vacuum tubing with a little help from my dad to run the tube from the front of the engine to the back. We tested the fix, and my a/c is back to perfect running order. I put it all back together and voila!! It's done. 

This is why I have been and will continue to be a student of the Slam Dunk school of everything: because I WIN.