A is for Ass

A is for Ass, B is for Big.

When I was five, they called me big-boned. At ten, I just hadn’t lost
my baby fat. Now at twenty-seven, I’ve left delusion behind. I’m fat.

Assstronomical ampleness asking for acceptance for the collective area of my ass

I come from a particular genetic lineage: weight-obsessed-Weight-Watcher dropouts. Among us are a few who have defied the genetic code; my grandmother is one such person. While her body remains toned by years of Jazzercise, weight lifting, and diet obsession, her face taught by the talents of a surgeon, she now obsesses about the weight of her cat. Elli is by no means obese. She looks like a cuddly cat, but grandma believes her “chubby.” She’s on diet cat food, and my grandma orders the latest and greatest cat-fitness toys off QVC, which Elli chases religiously. I never hesitate to tell grandma that my cat, Elli’s sister Etta, is tiny, petite and perfect. Etta eats whatever she wants, including ice cream, and never has to diet.

Big, bountiful booty big-boned like a backdrop, back step to beauty.

I can’t say the same for myself; even when I’m not dieting, I’m dieting. I’d call it the no-diet diet, where I stop obsessing about food and eat what I want. But even in my attempts to not think about food, I’m secretly obsessing. Like there’s a starving child within me who’s watching her mother on a diet – who taught me to sneak food when I was five? I remember climbing onto the kitchen counter, opening the painted orange and gold cabinet, reaching for the Swiss Miss, which I would spoon into my mouth in all its powdery, chocolaty goodness. Saliva and sugar mixed together in my mouth creating a gooey form of not quite liquid, but not quite plasma, which may eventually become a nasty case of gas. Swallow and repeat as needed.

posted by CV @ 6:17 AM