PuddleMonkey

My mother is a “fatist.” She hates fat people.

Okay, “hate” may be too strong a description. She’s certainly never advocated that heavy people enjoy fewer rights than thin folk, but neither can she hide her disgust for anyone who is significantly overweight.

“You know what the layer of fat that hangs from a obese person’s stomach is called?” she asks me.
“No, mother, what’s it called?”
“The medical term is panniculus. Stage one, it covers the waistline. Stage two, it cover the genitals. Stage three…”
“I get it, mom.”
“Well, at the gym last night I saw two women whose panniculus hung to their feet. I couldn’t bare to look at them. I was so disgusted I had to leave.”
“I think they should be applauded for going to the gym.”
“Oh please,” she waves her hand at me. “What’s the point?”

I don’t know how she became fatist. Maybe she learned from her parents. Or maybe she had a bad experience with someone large. She’s never been overweight, so I ruled out that theory, but maybe her parents thought she was plump and ruined her with constant criticism. No, wait. That’s me. In any event, I simply don’t know why my mother has such vitriol for the generously proportioned people of the world. She’s just fucking mean.

And maybe because I’m her daughter, she’s subjected me to the worst of it. Little by little, beginning when I was just eight years old, she’s nibbled away at my self-esteem with one ridiculous remark after another: “If you eat one more cookie, you’re going to get as fat as a damn house!” The result, my friends believe, is that I have a warped perception of my own body. I’m the only one who thinks I’m huge. Except my mother, of course. She thinks I’m enormous too, and she’s the only one who’s willing to be honest with me. Because she’s my mother and she only wants what’s best for me. And she’s worried I’m going to develop type 2 diabetes.

“Jesus, mother, I’m not in danger of developing diabetes. I’m not significantly overweight.”
“You’re not?”
“I know I need to lose a few pounds…”
“You walk like a fat person.”

My friends are always stunned. “Your mother said that?” Yes. My mother said that. And no matter how many times I pleaded with her to stop, she remained singularly focused on my weight. In her view, it was the cause of all my problems. You’re not feeling well? Fat people get sick a lot. You can’t get a job? Did you ever stop to think that’s because you’re fat? Your new tennis shoes gave you blisters? I’m surprised you can even find shoes that fit. She’s quizzed me again and again on the foods I eat, then lectured me incessantly about diet and exercise. Worst of all, she many times used my waistline as a punchline.

“That’s a cute dress you’re wearing, Mom.”
“Thanks. I don’t think they make it in an extra, extra large,” she’d laugh.
“Ya know, I’m getting tired of you calling me fat.”
“Me? You should hear what your uncle said about you. Just the other day he called you Orca.”

She knows not to expect any mother-of-the-year awards, but she’s lucky I even bother to send her a birthday card anymore.

We’ve had hundreds of conversations about my weight, all, of course, while we ate. I’d treat her to lunch at some expensive Italian restaurant, and she’d badger me about joining Weight Watchers, then ask if I wanted to split a piece of tiramisu. Or we’d meet for dinner at a Chinese place, and I’d quietly sip soup while she mulled over the reasons why I wasn’t losing weight.

“I know why you’re fat. You and Shawn eat dinner too late. You can’t eat at 8:30 or 9:00 pm and then go to bed an hour later.”
“We don’t eat late.”
“That’s terrible for your metabolism, eating so late.”

My mother learned, after I threatened never to speak to her again about eight years ago, to exercise some restraint and keep most of her observations to herself. I still battle with the perception I have of my body, but over the years I’ve been able to rebuild my self-esteem. And when my mother does slip, I ignore her and instead remember something my father once said to a gentleman who complained about the cigarette smoke wafting from our table.

“Your cigarette smoke is going to kill me.”
“Yeah,” my father replied. “It’s going to kill me too, but at least I’ll die with friends.”