The Way We Are; The Way We Were

My next letter to Santa is going to read "Dear Santa, Thank you so much for granting my wishes. With waffles and chocolate abounding, I'd like to give you a gift in return. Please accept ten pounds on my behalf, available at your earliest possible convenience. With love, Fat Me."

Alright, I know what you will say. I have friends both thinner and wider than myself and their weight does not affect my love and appreciation for them. I know this is true in reverse, that my friends will not think less of me for being a chocolate waffle pig whose fly doesn't quite reach the button. If my opinion of me is affected, however, I should hope that they understand that it may not be a case that requires sympathy, flowers, or a good talking to.

In light of the coming new year and all those dreadful resolutions we bandy about like paper swords, I'd like to take a moment to reflect on why my almost-but-not-quite single digit pant size should vex me so greatly, if indeed it vexes me at all. There are days when I rather like myself.

First, a story: Once there was an almost normal little girl with two sisters older, one younger, and an increasing number of little brothers as the years rolled by. Mother was pregnant, Father worked long hours, and home was a crowded place where beds and toys met from one wall to the next. Sometimes the girl enjoyed playing with her sisters and dressing up her brothers as more sisters, but more often than not, the siblings did not get along.

Mother was too tired to stop the fighting, Father was too busy by day's end to be diplomatic, and like the old woman who lived in the shoe (not the gentle version of the story) the naughty children were whipped soundly and sent to bed. For many reasons that could possibly fill the pages of a psychology text, the fighting between the children only worsened over time. Now, either because her bone structure was larger than that of her sisters' or because she grew faster than they (or both), the almost normal girl was constantly teased for her physical appearance. Her name rhymed with belly and she was called fat.

It did not matter that the girl was not fat, or that doctors (in the rare occasion she would see one) thought she was oh-so-petite. Every day she looked at her twig-thin sisters and listened to their horrid teasing and knew that Mother's words of comfort and assurance were spoken because that was what mothers were supposed to do. Father, on the other hand, wished that his third daughter had been born a boy, and even said as much to her. Sometimes when she was alone, she cried for no reason. When she looked in the mirror, she was sad.

Looking at such a tale, one can see a recipe for disaster in the making. Throw in a little family tragedy with her coming adolescence, the cruelty of the world and her inescapable poverty and ... well, you get the picture. Not pretty.

Much of who we are is determined by our upbringing. The proverb says that if you train a child in the way he should go, when he(she) is old he(she) will not turn from it. But we also know that as beings of free will, we sometimes veer from the path on which our parents set us. Considering the number of poorly trained children in each state alone, we should definitely be thankful for that ability to choose.

Events of my childhood affect the way I view myself, but that alone cannot ruin the rest of my life or rob me of happiness. Time and education, friends and a loving husband have helped me to alter my erroneous childhood notions of self worth. So why do I persist in dieting? I could just say I dislike the wobbling lower regions of my person, but let's dig deeper, shall we? I have a tendency toward depression, something (I believe) is as genetic as height and hair color, and equally part of who I am. I might dye my hair, or put on heels, but such superficial things won't change my inner makeup. I can be very pretty and still be depressed.

Consider: two people start smoking at the age of thirteen. Ten years later, with a pack a day habit, they each decide they want to quit. The first succeeds, cold turkey. The second tries and fails, tries and fails, dozens of times over before finally giving up and smoking the rest of his short life and dying from lung cancer. The same could be illustrated if both smokers did not try to quit, but one died of cancer at the age of 38 while the other lived to be 65. Why would one smoker die young and the other not, if they both smoked an equal number of cigarettes daily and lived, otherwise, healthy lifestyles? Why can one person quit cold turkey while another struggles and struggles, never to conquer?

The answer is genetic. I may well be one of those that could never kick the smoking habit, or I may be pre-wired to alcoholism. Since I neither smoke nor drink, I'll never know, but that's not the point. The point is, we all have some weakness, be it physical, or psychological, something as obvious as a missing hand, or as hidden as a tortured past. We have pain in our lives, so what are we going to do about it? I could take medication to manage my depression, they've got a drug for all occasions these days, but I don't believe it is necessary. In no way am I advocating against prescription drugs, there are those that do need medical assistance, therapy, or a doctor's care. I manage alright with diet, exercise, and spiritual assistance (prayer and church attendance).

My methods of personal management might not work for everyone, but for me, the material point is that I am doing something to help myself, working (notice the active verb) to improve, achieve, and maintain a level of happiness, or at the very least, sanity in my life. The smoker that tries to quit is better off than the one that does not. If he should still die of cancer, at least he died trying to live.

Back to me and the millions of people who might resolve this January to get fit and eat right, try not to make assumptions that your skinny neighbor has no reason to want to take off a few pounds, or that the round one should. Good health is always a good idea and can start with walking down the street each day or trading a healthy snack for an unhealthy one, quitting a bad habit or cultivating a good one. The act of reaching for a goal (make it reasonable) brings happiness, and we, the imperfect inhabitants of Earth, should all strive to improve.