53:43-- or "Open Letter to The Fat Girl"

Apr 16, 2009

Dear Fat Girl:

I was organizing some pictures from a couple of years back, and I found a couple of you. It's so funny how we have this resemblance, but we're really not the same. And while nobody else'd really understand why, I have to tell you, sister, sometimes I miss you.

I miss the way you used to stand out in a crowd, with your fiery red hair and your sparkly green eyes. Your constant laughter. I miss the way your friends used to hug on you and touch you all the time-- remember when they called you "nicely upholstered" and you laughed? That was you, Fat Girl-- laughing and enjoying the role to the hilt.

I miss your big, soft bosom, your flowy blouses. I miss the way you never wore a coat, as if weather was no issue to you. I miss the way you used to flash your cleavage at the bar: insoucient, sassy and carefree. I miss the way you guiltlessly scarfed your way through plates of nachos, pots of queso, Doritos and onion dip. Remember the time just after you and Sig met-- he made cheeseburgers and you had three? Oh, Fat Girl, you kill me with your reckless abandon!

Remember those cold nights in that bombed out house when you and Sig kept each other warm with your soft bodies? How he made you warm breakfasts? The nights cuddled by the pot bellied stove at the dark little restaurant after it rained? All about comfort, you were, Fat Girl-- no angles or edges to you-- a big soft void filled with warm food, arms around you-- a cuddlebug, you were.

But Fat Girl-- I've got to tell you: there's a reason I had to get away from you. Because as much as I loved your vital spirit, your love for life-- I knew your secret-- that all along you were dying...and that the dance you were doing was a Tarantella: you'd been bitten by the spider that would kill you, and your joyful last dance with the world was just your way of enjoying its bounty one last time before you went down.

Remember the time you decided to take a walk with Sig? And you got two blocks and started wheezing and vomiting in the bushes, because you were so winded? Remember Washington, in so much pain that you stopped every half block to sit on something? Remember the way you used to grocery shop while hanging your body over the cart, bent at the waist because you couldn't carry your belly or breasts anymore?

Remember that sumptuous anniversary meal where you could not get out of the car because you were unable to wake up? The time you fell on the dance floor and made it into a joke because you couldn't get up? Remember falling asleep at the wheel, at your desk, in meetings?Remember the time you put your foot on a white plastic lawn chair at Zeller's to tie your shoe, and broke the chair as a crowd of Canadians watched in horror at The Fatty American Who Destroyed Ottowa?

Do you remember that time when you, fierce and headstrong, decided to take care of that big round body and bought a swimsuit? Remember deciding it just didn't matter what other people thought---but then remember the little girl in the locker room sininging, "Fatty....fattty....fat fat fat..." as you became sadder, redder, as you tried to disappear? Do you remember her mother hearing her and punching her in the face? How angry you were at that mother...but how secretly happy you were that the singing stopped?

Remember the way your fat-enhanced estrogen stores went haywire and made cysts and caused you to bleed endlessly? And how they had to destroy your reproductive system completely just to stop the bleeding? The glucose tolerance test where you literally had to lie down on the lab floor? The doctor telling you you'd never have children-- and your relief because you never wanted them to be like you?

Remember the parks you didn't see, the excuses you made, the shooting pains that shook you from your ankles and all the way through your spine when you simply walked to your car?
The lies you made to cover that you just couldn't move?

Remember the kaftan sized shirts with appliques, animal prints and glitter that offended you to your core? Remember packing a suitcase and getting in 6 items, or filling your washer with three pairs of pants?

I remember, Fat Girl. And while I miss your passion, your fierceness, your spontanaiety and your sassy indignation, I do not miss the pain you carted with you everywhere along with that omnipresent bag of Chex Mix. I do not miss watching you sweat in February. I do not miss the sores you bore in every orifice, the people who yelled out rude things to you in public, the constant insult of your daily life. I do not miss covering for you, minimizing your illnesses and pains and making up lie after lie about why you could not attend this party called Life.

To get away from you, I've had to pay-- dearly.  Eight surgeries and $20,000 to separate us for good. I've risked my life to get away from you, Fat Girl-- because I, enraged at you, demanded I would live free, or I would die trying. I am so angry that you brought me to this point, Fat Girl-- but I am trying to forgive you-- because I know you only did what you thought you had to do to survive. You are forgiven, but now I need to get it behind me. I will remember you when I need you: your fierceness, your struggle, your pride.

So let us part as friends, Fat Girl--- but let us part. I'll always remember you fondly, and hope you understand why I have to leave you behind.

Love,
Shari



PS- I will be doing the 5k today-- for you.  Because you couldn't: but *I* can.

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