Pheasant under glass, spaghetti in the trash

I just dropped my dinner on the floor. Perfectly good whole wheat spaghetti with incredibly good veg bolognese sauce. Cooked and measured, now in the garbage. SIGH. That's what kind of day it has been. A spaghetti-in-the-garbage kind of day.

I'm having a hard time eating my points this week. I'm either not hungry or totally not into making a lot of food. I used to feel like this all the time, but the huge difference now is that I'm not sporadically shovelling shit food in my mouth out of laziness. Nope, no mashed potato main courses, no bacon and cheese disasters, no shameful phone calls to Domino's, no skipping real food and just eating dessert.

No siree, I'm getting back into vegetables, protein, fruits and yogurt. Reading the labels and using my fucking brain. Being accountable to myself. I know what I'm eating. I know how much exercise I'm getting. I can see the effort I'm making to change my life. I'm sticking with it and I feel good about it.

I was digging around in a forgotten box of books and I found my copy of "Passing for Thin" by Frances Kuffel. Since I've been cutting back on knitting and spinning because of my back and shoulder problems, I decided to read it again, and I am getting way more out of it now than before. So incredibly insightful and inspiring.

It's so well-written and real. She entered a 12-step program when she hit bottom and managed to lose half her body weight. The book isn't a how-to manual, and it's not her patting herself on the back. It's about her struggle to fit in to a completely alien world of fitted clothing, girly life and the attitudes of family and strangers alike.

As I read the stories of her childhood as a fat kid, who took solace in food and loved it like no other, I found myself nodding in recognition of the fact that I did so many of the same things. It made me think about my childhood and acknowledge just how incredibly lost and lonely I really was as a fat kid in a skinny world.

I've been a fat girl for as long as I can remember. There are photos of me from the ages of 2-5 that tell a different story, but as soon as you look at the Mrs. McCumber's Grade 1 class photo circa 1981, you can see the shift as plain as day. I went from the tanned, blonde haired little cutie-pie to a fatter, paler kid with dirt brown pig tails. It only got worse from there and before too long, I was a kid with a problem.

My mom, god rest her soul, tried to help me. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't. My sisters were older and beautiful. Two of them were best of friends and tortured me like all sisters do. I spent a lot of time on my own, a lazy lump in front of the tv or wandering up and down the street visiting the old shut-ins who would give me baked treats. Franklin Ave was awesome for that. Tons of old people with a wicked collective sweet tooth.

When I think back to those days, it brings such a feeling of sadness. Part of me yearns for those simple days, but more of me wants to run back and just hold on to the younger me and tell her it would be alright. Honestly, I would also tell her to smarten up and get outside and play. I would do the same for my teenaged self. Hell, I'd do it if I could even just go back to last week. I need that slap in the head every now and again.

There will always be a bit of that fat kid in me. She'll never leave, and I don't think I want her to. She forced me to be smart, she forced me to develop my brain, my humour and interests that did NOT involve the mall and douchebags with Bennetton shirts and Tretorns. Her fear and sadness gave me strength.

Her struggle is still my struggle, but all these years later, I'm out to finally overcome. Stay with me kiddo, I can't do it without you.


XO
LB