The Reincarnation.
So, this is my reincarnation of what formerly was, another day, another diaper…which former was, spasticmommyhead. As I’m not paying for this site, I’m hoping that it has some staying power. Well, let’s just hope that those pesky kids don’t start reading and get me in trouble with the family. I mean, dude, I would have gotten away with it too!;)
I thought I’d start off this blog with a rant, one that does not include the words mom, dad, sister, bitch, or the like. Well, maybe bitch. And ya know why? We live in an apartment complex, a fairly upscale apartment complex with rent more than a mortgage where landscapers frolic and play with their loud machines every Thursday when I’m clinging to the hope that I may just be able to sleep in until 8am only to have the waste management company roar down our block with their dumpster treasure-removal aparatus. To which, moments later, Luke arises in a fury — his little blonde head full of wonder and a relentless amount of energy. Energy that wakes up the neighborhood with shreiks of joy and the start of a new day. But I digress….
Now, I have nothing against skinny people. The only way that I can loose weight is if I do not eat. In another day, another diaper…, my life revolved around loosing weight and how fantastic I looked. That was all well and good when all I had to do all day was go to the gym and count my points. Now, a working mother, I barely have time to shower. So, guess what, kids? A lot of that weight attached itself to my hips and gut as if magnetically attracted to the area. And ya know? I’m a lot less self-conscious about the way I look now then I was 40 pounds ago. Afterall, who can feel bad when they’re scarfing down a chocolate glazed donut?
Despite all of this new found enlightenment came the realization that no matter how little I cared about what the short guy with the hairy chest thought about me, I still was not going to go to the community pool this summer. And I did not, even though many days I wanted nothing more than to strip down to my Lane Bryant bikini panties and parachute bra.
I have seen a woman at the pool, lounging alone in a chair for the past several days. I admire her courage and her self-confidence. Ya see, this woman is not a small toothpick-sized Barbie like the rest. She’s curvy and she’s fleshy and she just doesn’t give a shit. As we passed today, I said to David, “Look at her! I wish I could be like her.” That’s when he said, “Society is so fucked up.” He didn’t have to say more, because I understood.
The fat-person is the leper of the 21st Century. As Americans waistlines expand, their preoccupation with thinness and perfection grows along with it. I know firsthand, I was one of them. To the point of making myself ill. To the point where my ex-husband had serious concerns that I was anorexic. To the point where my whole life became about my appearance and my happiness depended on whether or not I could loose the McDevitt saddlebags that my mother so lovingly passed on to me. I vow that next summer, I will not hide behind my flaws. Instead, like cottage-cheese legs by the pool, I’m going to show my own body off and not give a shit too. Because in acceptance of yourself, comes liberty. And besides that, I’m tired of being strangled by Giselle Bunchen’s g-string.
Chubby girls, unite!
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