Are there some words you can't bring yourself to say? I have several that I try to avoid just because it makes me squeamish to say them. You know the ones, they don't exactly roll off your tongue. I bet you think you know the one that is the subject of this blog. Well, guess what? You're wrong. I've said the 4-letter word you're thinking of on occasion, albeit rare occasions. Then what is the "F" word that turns me inside out and upside down? F-A-T. That's the one.
My mother had rules about words you could and couldn't say. It was pretty a interesting list. Words like shut-up, stupid, piss (yuck), boobs, ass, hate and, of course, fat, are the ones I remember most. She struggled most of her married life with her weight. Her 5'2", 110 lb form changed drastically after 8 pregnancies, raising a family through the depression, World War II and the turbulent 50's and 60's. Katie, as she was known to her friends, was an amazing cook, homemaker, baker, and gardener. She was also incredibly beautiful, whether she weighed 110 or 220. Her rule was that, if you saw a person of generous proportions, you could describe them as chubby, pleasingly plump, generously figured, rounded, but you never, never, never called them fat. They can say what they want about the 50's and 60's, but it was a kinder, gentler time to grow up in than what our children are subjected to today. People had manners and it meant something if you said a kind word and spared someone's feelings by keeping your opinions to yourself.
The first time I ever felt self conscious about my figure was my senior year in high school. First of all you have to know that I went to a private Catholic school where we wore uniforms. When you're 5'2", gently rounded, and you have to wear a blue/grey plaid vest with matching box pleated skirt every day, there's no way you're going to look good. The only girls who did look somewhat attractive in that garb were the cheerleaders that were, each and everyone, no bigger than the proverbial minute. Anyway, our yearbook had a prophecy page, where the soon to be graduates had the opportunity to predict the future of their fellow classmates. At an assembly, our class officers did a reading so that all could enjoy how clever some of our "friends" were. There was a prediction about me that made everyone laugh out loud. Can you imagine sitting in an assembly while someone reads "Shari Morrow will be a star on Broadway singing I'm a Little Teapot, Short and Stout". I stayed put, wearing the happy face I was known for and never let on the hurt and embarrassment I felt at that moment. All the happiness and joy I'd experienced in high school went away in that heart-beat. Had they been laughing at me for 4 years? I'd never been unkind to anyone in my life, was naive enough to think that others were the just the same as I. I grew up a little bit that day.
Shortly after, graduation, I shed the weight and kept it off. I threw myself into my avocation of performing in musical theater and singing at local clubs. I took dance class 3-4 times a weeks and for 7 years went from one gig to another, never pausing in between, all the while working a full time job as a legal assistant. I figured I'd beaten the "F" gene. It merely couldn't find me because I didn't stand still long enough for any unused calories to have time to land on my hips or thighs. Then, like my Mom, I got married and started to have children. I gained a great deal of weight while pregnant for Tara who was my first child, but my 2nd pregnancy. I was so scared of having another miscarriage, I stopped all activity and enjoyed being pregnant. I had the best intentions to get the weight off, however, I found myself pregnant for my son, Troy, shortly after Tara was born. Still, I always had it at the top of my list to get my dancer's body back. I kept my belly dancing costume front and center in my closet with my performance gowns, knowing it would be just a matter of time before I was back into them. Kept track of all the auditions scheduled in the area, knowing that I wasn't in the right shape to try out for that show or that part yet but, soon, I'd be able to get back on the boards. I could still sing for my supper. I had an associates in broadcast journalism and even if I didn't have the body for TV, I had the voice for radio and commercials. Size didn't matter there.
I can honestly say that it never occurred to me that I was one of the "f*&" people. I was heavy, more than pleasingly plump, certainly full figured and one of the BBW (Big Beautiful Women). The first time I was ever described in the term that shall remain unsaid, ironically, from the sweet lips of my little man, Troy. He was in the 1st grade and came home from school one day, very sad. He climbed into my lap and said "I love you, Mommy, even though you're bad." Bad, I said, why would he think his Mommy was bad. Without pausing to take a breath he said "because in school today we learned all the things that are bad for you and fat is bad for us and you're fat so you must be bad, but I love you no matter what." I knew a mother's heartbreak for the first time in my life.
I'm still a BBW. I've lost 50 lbs over the past 2 years. Not exactly burning up the weight loss charts but I've learned a lot about myself and the things I do that aren't good for me. I will continue on the weight loss journey, certainly, for the rest of my life. I have a new friend who is a few months younger than I. We have a lot in common, including our commitment to be as healthy as we can be, which includes losing weight. Ironically this friend is approximately the weight I would like to be when I reach my goal. So, the other day, she posted on a weight loss competition board we both are part of, that she "was a fat grandma". I don't know why, but her comments about herself made me very sad. I am bigger than she is but I refuse to label myself the way she did. I am a daughter, wife, mother, grandmother, sister, aunt and friend who will turn 60 very soon. I'm silver haired, short, round, practically perfect (according to my kids), successful, happy, talented, funny, unique, romantic, in love with my husband and with the life I live. What I will never, ever, ever be is F-A-T.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Sunday, January 10, 2010
A Near Miss?
By now, the whole world knows of the failed attempt to bring down a NWA jet on its way to Detroit (DTW) from Amsterdam on Christmas Day. As luck would have it, one week later, on New Years Day, Donn and I were flying out of DTW, with Piper, on our trip to Denver and then on to Nebraska where Piper makes her home with our daughter, Tara, her husband and their 2 month old son, Sage.
That being said, I'm not a good traveler. I don't like placing my life or the lives of my loved ones in the hands of the flight crew. I know they are seasoned professionals and want to end each flight knowing they brought their passengers and fellow crew members safely to their destinations. But now, we have an additional monkey wrench in the plans, with the threat of people getting on plans who have other intentions. Their goal has nothing to do with landing safely, let alone landing at all. You can bet my "radar" was on full alert as we waited 2 hours at our gate for boarding. I was OK; feeling the TSA had done their job pretty well, when he came in to our area and sat down directly across from Donn, Piper and I.
I would be the last one to profile a person, based on their appearance and native language. I'm 1/2 Syrian and 1/2 Native American and, appearance-wise, could pass for any nationality where dark hair, dark eyes, and olive complexion is the norm. With that in mind, when this young man in his mid-20's, with the features I described for myself sat across from us, why did I get a sudden chill and become fearful. Paranoia, hysteria, or were my instincts on alert and I sensed something wasn't right? After an hour of observing his sullen expressions, overhearing his end of several cell phone conversations in a dialect from the Middle East, and noting that he never looked anyone in the eye, I opted to trust my instincts to watch his every move. Keep in mind that New Years Day is a day of Bowl Games. The televisions in the boarding areas were all on and most everyone was paying some kind of attention to the game results as they came in. Not this young man. The only time his head turned to watch TV was during the news breaks, which were focusing on the failed Christmas Day attack over Detroit. He watched every single news break that dealt with terrorism, Al Quaeda, the alleged DTW bomber, and, when those reports ended, went back to keeping his head down and taking phone calls. Now, I was scared.
As I was taking Piper for a walk to stretch her legs before we boarded our plane, the Detroit City Police bike patrol went through our area. I thought great, they'll certainly see this guy and stop for a chat. When that didn't happen, I seriously thought about stopping them and asking them to swing through our boarding area and "check him out". But I didn't do that and do you know why? Because I didn't want to profile him. Perhaps put an innocent young man through undue scrutiny just because I felt he was a suspicious person. After all, when my son, Troy, chooses to fly unshaven with a cap pulled over his dark hair, he could be profiled simply based on his appearance. I also took heart in the fact that there was a plane boarding in the area right next to us, headed for New York City and, if this person was a terrorist with the intent of doing harm, he'd make more of an impact if it happened somewhere between Detroit and New York, than from Detroit to Denver. Not that I wished harm on the NY passengers but it isn't called survival of the fittest for nothing! I just didn't want him on our plane.
Guess what, he didn't get on the plane bound for New York. Rats, he got on our plane. Yikes. Then it occurred to me that we were in row 19, the row the alleged terrorist sat in on Christmas Day. I was quickly running out of happy thoughts. I said more Hail Mary's during that flight than I ever have and, as we approached our final descent into Denver, figured we'd made it safely and began to breath a sigh of relief. I went about the business of helping Piper gather up her books and things so that when it came time to disembark the plane, we'd have left nothing behind, except my paranoia and fear of flying. I never witnessed what followed.
Donn, of course, knew of my fears and suspicions and, as always, he's my rock. He would be the passenger who would throw himself on a bomb if it meant saving not just my life, but the life of anyone on the plane. So, it wasn't until after we got off the plane, walking through the terminal, when Donn said "you know that young guy who made you nervous? Did you know he was sitting right behind you?" "No", I said. He had my attention, now. Then Donn says, "then you didn't see what he did as we were in our final approach to Denver?" I just looked at Donn and asked about what I'd missed. After the pilot announced that all passengers remain buckled in their seats for the final approach; that the flight crew should prepare for landing, the young man got out of his seat, walked up to the front of the plane, stopped, and then turned back and returned to his seat. A chill ran through me. The same one I got when I first saw the young man who sat across from me in the boarding area. Were my instincts right? Did he intend to do harm but thought better of it? Was carrying out his plan on a plane full of families with young children, traveling to their homes, too much for his conscience to bear? Is that why he stopped near the front of the plane, turned around and went back to his seat? Was that our near miss?
That being said, I'm not a good traveler. I don't like placing my life or the lives of my loved ones in the hands of the flight crew. I know they are seasoned professionals and want to end each flight knowing they brought their passengers and fellow crew members safely to their destinations. But now, we have an additional monkey wrench in the plans, with the threat of people getting on plans who have other intentions. Their goal has nothing to do with landing safely, let alone landing at all. You can bet my "radar" was on full alert as we waited 2 hours at our gate for boarding. I was OK; feeling the TSA had done their job pretty well, when he came in to our area and sat down directly across from Donn, Piper and I.
I would be the last one to profile a person, based on their appearance and native language. I'm 1/2 Syrian and 1/2 Native American and, appearance-wise, could pass for any nationality where dark hair, dark eyes, and olive complexion is the norm. With that in mind, when this young man in his mid-20's, with the features I described for myself sat across from us, why did I get a sudden chill and become fearful. Paranoia, hysteria, or were my instincts on alert and I sensed something wasn't right? After an hour of observing his sullen expressions, overhearing his end of several cell phone conversations in a dialect from the Middle East, and noting that he never looked anyone in the eye, I opted to trust my instincts to watch his every move. Keep in mind that New Years Day is a day of Bowl Games. The televisions in the boarding areas were all on and most everyone was paying some kind of attention to the game results as they came in. Not this young man. The only time his head turned to watch TV was during the news breaks, which were focusing on the failed Christmas Day attack over Detroit. He watched every single news break that dealt with terrorism, Al Quaeda, the alleged DTW bomber, and, when those reports ended, went back to keeping his head down and taking phone calls. Now, I was scared.
As I was taking Piper for a walk to stretch her legs before we boarded our plane, the Detroit City Police bike patrol went through our area. I thought great, they'll certainly see this guy and stop for a chat. When that didn't happen, I seriously thought about stopping them and asking them to swing through our boarding area and "check him out". But I didn't do that and do you know why? Because I didn't want to profile him. Perhaps put an innocent young man through undue scrutiny just because I felt he was a suspicious person. After all, when my son, Troy, chooses to fly unshaven with a cap pulled over his dark hair, he could be profiled simply based on his appearance. I also took heart in the fact that there was a plane boarding in the area right next to us, headed for New York City and, if this person was a terrorist with the intent of doing harm, he'd make more of an impact if it happened somewhere between Detroit and New York, than from Detroit to Denver. Not that I wished harm on the NY passengers but it isn't called survival of the fittest for nothing! I just didn't want him on our plane.
Guess what, he didn't get on the plane bound for New York. Rats, he got on our plane. Yikes. Then it occurred to me that we were in row 19, the row the alleged terrorist sat in on Christmas Day. I was quickly running out of happy thoughts. I said more Hail Mary's during that flight than I ever have and, as we approached our final descent into Denver, figured we'd made it safely and began to breath a sigh of relief. I went about the business of helping Piper gather up her books and things so that when it came time to disembark the plane, we'd have left nothing behind, except my paranoia and fear of flying. I never witnessed what followed.
Donn, of course, knew of my fears and suspicions and, as always, he's my rock. He would be the passenger who would throw himself on a bomb if it meant saving not just my life, but the life of anyone on the plane. So, it wasn't until after we got off the plane, walking through the terminal, when Donn said "you know that young guy who made you nervous? Did you know he was sitting right behind you?" "No", I said. He had my attention, now. Then Donn says, "then you didn't see what he did as we were in our final approach to Denver?" I just looked at Donn and asked about what I'd missed. After the pilot announced that all passengers remain buckled in their seats for the final approach; that the flight crew should prepare for landing, the young man got out of his seat, walked up to the front of the plane, stopped, and then turned back and returned to his seat. A chill ran through me. The same one I got when I first saw the young man who sat across from me in the boarding area. Were my instincts right? Did he intend to do harm but thought better of it? Was carrying out his plan on a plane full of families with young children, traveling to their homes, too much for his conscience to bear? Is that why he stopped near the front of the plane, turned around and went back to his seat? Was that our near miss?
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