How many times have I asked that question? In my life? Too many times to count.
Heck, I asked it just this morning of my youngest son, before I left for work.
I’ve always been overweight. I had a few years in my late teens and twenties when I was, what I realize now, were “thin,” but I was an overweight child. Not huge, but overweight enough for mean boys in school to make fun of me and forever imprint me with the knowlege that I had a weight problem. I can remember my pediatrician telling my mother that I was overweight, but it never sank in until Robert Watkins taunted me while walking home from school, calling me “Maya the elephant,” in front of my friends. In front of other kids that I didn’t know, who walked the same route. In front of the world, in front of the universe, as far as I was concerned.
I slimmed down a little when I hit puberty, but not enough, apparently, because I can remember the doctor at my first gynecologist appointment, telling my mother (once again), that I was “obese.” Obese, being 10 pounds over the “ideal” weight on the chart on the wall. It didn’t seem to matter that I was healthy, that I was active. My mom didn’t drive so I walked nearly 4 miles to and from school or anyplace else that I wanted to go. I rode my bike. I ran the laps and did the squat thrusts in gym class. But none of that mattered. I was obese.
It didn’t help my self-esteem any, that my best friend, who’d always been fat like me, betrayed me, not only by getting her period before me, but along with it, becoming positively skinny without even trying. Overnight. She, whose mother made homemade pasta and chocolate cakes from scratch which she could now eat with abandon. My daily food intake, on the other hand, was strictly overseen by my mother, who by now, didn’t want to take me to anymore doctors appointments and hear how she’d failed as a mother by having an obese daughter. I had been left behind by the only person who understood how I felt. We had always been fat together and now I was fat, alone. She moved on to discover boys and have them discover her. I discovered boys too, only they weren’t interested. The biggest insult came when one of my other thin friends started “going out” with a boy she knew I had a mad crush on.
I became, a “Weight Watcher.” My mother, who had a weight problem of her own, and I, joined Weight Watchers. Weight Watchers back then was far different than the Weight Watchers of today. Weight Watchers today is all about what you can eat. Weight Watchers of yesterday was all about limits and deprivation. I learned to weigh and measure anything and everything that went into my mouth. I learned to eat tuna fish salad with mustard (and pretend I liked it). I learned to toast a piece of bread and shave it down through the middle of the slice, vertically, making two paper-thin slices of bread with which to make a sandwich, so that I didn’t go over my “starch” allowance for the day. I learned to deprive myself of everything delicious, that I loved to eat and feel like I was starving – to lose 1/4 lb. a week. That was about the size of my weekly weight loss at ”weigh in.”
That was all just the beginning of my long, unsuccessful, attempts to be thin. As I mentioned above, there were a few years where I achieved thinness. The summer between my junior and senior year in high school, I finally succeeded at Weight Watchers. I left my junior year of high school a shy, chubby, self-conscious girl, and returned in the fall, a shy, thin, self-conscious girl. It was like I’d had a mini-makeover. I grew my hair, I wore make-up, I wore stylish clothes. That first day of school in my senior year, was an education in itself. People, kids and teachers, raved about how good I looked. Some kids later told me that they thought I was a new kid. Shoot, I hadn’t changed THAT much. Imagine. Being fat hadn’t made me stick out the way I thought it had, it made me INVISIBLE. Suddenly, I was there. Suddenly people noticed me. Where the heck had I been before?? Hidden under fat, I guess.
I managed to keep the weight off for a few more years into my twenties. I met my husband the summer I graduated. I was 17 and we got married when I was 19. But all the while, it was a battle. I did Weight Watchers on and off, I did a version of the Atkins Diet. I did diets from Glamour magazine and Good Housekeeping. I can still remember waking up and eating one slice of American cheese and an orange for breakfast. What the heck was that?? The thing is, inside, I was still fat. I never enjoyed those years that I was thin because I was so worried about being fat again. The other thing was, I convinced my husband that I was fat, even though I wasn’t. I was thin when he met me, but I was so hung up on staying that way, that I made him aware. He was aware of my dieting. He was aware of what I ate. He was aware of how my clothes fit. I told him I was too fat and he believed me. To his credit, he never said I was fat, but when I asked him that question, “Does this make me look fat?” I knew he was thinking that I could stand to lose a few pounds.
When I got pregnant with my first baby it was all over. I gained 49 pounds and I never lost them. I promised myself that I wouldn’t have another baby until I lost the weight from the first, but it soon became apparent that he’d be an only child if I kept that promise. I had two more babies and have never been thin again.
It’s 27 years since I had my first baby and over the years, I’ve accepted that I’m a fat woman, but that doesn’t mean that I like it. I went through a few years where I told myself, “You’re fat, that’s how you are. As long as you don’t get fatter, it’s okay. Accept it.” I tried to embrace it and get along with it, but shoot, I realized that I was fooling myself. I’ve accepted that I’m probably never going to be thin, but I don’t want to be as fat as I am. I don’t so much want to be thin. I want to be less fat.
My kids, bless their mother-loving hearts, tell me I’m not fat. They compliment me and tell me I look nice. And, when I ask, “that question,” they always say no. I raised me some smart boys. I don’t really know what the heck my husband thinks. The other day, I came downstairs dressed to go out. I had on a new sweater and a pair of jeans. He looked at me funny and in my insecurity I asked, “Do I look okay?” He answered, “You’re fine.” A little while later, he looked at me funny again. I asked, “What? Does this sweater look okay?” Again, he said, “You look fine.” A third time, I caught him eyeing me and I finally demanded, “WHAT? WHAT’S WRONG?” This time, he laughed and said, “Nothing, nothing is wrong, you just look really good, kind of sexy.” Well, for crying out loud. Why couldn’t he have just said that to begin with?? Here I am thinking I must look too darn fat to be seen with him out in public and he’s thinking I look sexy!
The stupid thing about “that question,” is that since I am fat, I look fat in everything I put on. So, logically, the real question should be, “Does this make me look fattER?” Of course, those of us who ask that question, expect to hear, “Oh, no, it makes you look THIN!” And here we have another, funny side of the coin. Sometimes I’ll wear something and people will say, “That outfit makes you look so thin!” Which really makes no sense at all. What they really should say is, “That outfit makes you look so much less fat!” Right? It’s okay, I don’t mind being told I might look thin in an outfit. It gives me hope. Hope, that in my quest to be “less fat,” I don’t have as far to go as it appears to me.
In the meantime, I’m trying Weight Watchers again. I have been for the last two years. I’ve lost 16 pounds, six of which I gained back over Thanksgiving and Christmas, three of which I lost again. I’m not discouraged. Some of you might think that’s pathetic, it isn’t working. But it is. As long as I’m not gaining and there’s a chance I might lose, I’m happy.
So, yes, I’ll still ask, “Does this make me look fat?” Knowing all the while, that it probably does, but loving the fact that the people who love me will say, “no.” 
I love watching movies. Not necessarily at the movies, mostly at home. One of my best friends and I will spend a couple Saturdays a month, ordering take-out and watching a good (or, not so good) movie. We love it. 
