Hold the Slurs--Fat Is Not a Four-Letter Word : Health: Of course we should eat right, stay active and trim down. But to think that we can all resemble Venus and Adonis is 100% fat-headed madness.
It’s time to ‘fess up. I can no longer hide the truth with untucked shirts and loose-fitting sweat suits. Time and calories have caught up with me: I’ve become fat.
How could this have happened to me, of all people? I was always the scrappy kid who ping-ponged about like Roger Rabbit. Though I remain an 18-year-old at heart, I’m now facing the fact that, with fierce suddenness, time has dumped me in my mid-30s, and Roger Rabbit has become Porky Pig.
Perhaps if I had been more of a gourmet, I might not feel so despairing. But no, I had to fall in with America’s junk food brigade. And I got away with it for years with nary an extra pound. Until now. Mea gulpa !
OK, so I’m exaggerating. In truth, I now weigh 18 pounds more than I did in my mid-20s. Not a monstrous gain, but in a society that worships thin, those 18 pounds are more than enough to have me excommunicated from the body culture.
And what a strange culture it is. The Body Perfect has gone retail. Gyms, fitness emporiums and weight-loss centers compete for mall space with Famous Amos and Ben & Jerry’s. What Mrs. Field’s giveth, Jenny Craig taketh away.
Temptation is everywhere. Grocery shelves are lined with processed foods from Hell. We fill our carts with pre-sweetened, deep-fried dreck fortified with oat bran (which, according to my nutritionist, Dan Rather, ain’t so special anymore). There are no empty calories. They all take up lots of room.
Despite appeals from the food industry to sample any manner of effluvia they put forth, and despite being told, as in one ice cream ad, to “enjoy the guilt,” we cannot escape a gnawing sense of shame. How can we possibly savor our Teddy Grahams with Cher yelling at us from the TV screen?
Well, we can’t. So we attempt an end-run around our national fit-or-fat schizophrenia. Americans love Roseanne Barr not only because she’s funny, but also because she’s one superstar most of us can point to and mutter smugly, “At least I’m not that big.”
Not as big, maybe, but always, it seems, dangerously close. We compare our bellies and thighs to every passer-by and magazine model. We scan every article and news report on thinology, but usually to no avail. After the daylong battle with the boss, who wouldn’t want to turn to Haagen-Dazs for a loving spoonful?
Though I try, my dieting efforts frequently fail. If you average out the days that I’m good and the days I cheat, it’s probably a wash. I forgo that brownie today in a futile effort to reclaim a long-gone physique. Futile, because tomorrow I’ll eat the brownie.
I’ve decided that the quest for the perfect body is not a noble aim. Of course we should take care of ourselves, eat right, stay active and trim down for health’s sake. But to expect that we can live in so diverse and stressful a society, yet all resemble Venus and Adonis, is 100% fat-headed madness. Let’s face it: Some of us got it, and some of us have more of it.
We must accept ourselves for who we are. We must fight the reflex to judge harshly the love-handle set. Having cellulite isn’t the same as committing child abuse. Wide hips do not sink ships. The many casualties of the fat wars--anorexics, bulimics, steroid junkies--should have taught us by now that this is a war that cannot be won and should never be fought.
As for me, despite my best efforts, if it’s my time to lay down adipose cells, then so be it. Experiencing an evolving body while rumbling through life is the centerpiece of our inner lives, and it’s not a bad thing. Actually, I think it’s a rather good thing, and though I’m not a kid anymore, life can be just as sweet trapped in the body of an aging nosh-crazed Baby Boomer.
Did I mention I’m losing my hair?