Nobody ever starts out their life wanting to be fat, do they? Maybe back during the Dark Ages, where being fat meant being the king... but in reality, how many people reallllly want to be king? Either way, as a child, I remember being horrified that I might grow up to be fat. My Mama was and is fat, though compared to me now she is almost svelte. It was awful to her and she didn't ever seem to know how to undo the fatness that had followed her all of her life. Although she said very little to me about it, I do remember her saying "don't ever get fat. It's much easier to keep from getting fat than it is to get it off once it's there." It always seemed to me that it was difficult for her when summer came, to wear a bathing suit and all that....
Somehow, I didn't get the memo. I didn't take it to heart that I had to hunker down to stop that fat bus from rolling on in. 'Cause it's true....once it's there it's really hard to get rid of. Sort-of like a body.
I'm thinking about all the Ann Rule books I've read (she writes, very factually, true crime stories) -- about how difficult it is to get rid of a dead body. Lots of people get caught because they don't know what to do with the body. And then in another thought, how if you get abducted, a good way to keep from getting hauled off is to go limp and act like a dead body. They can't carry you off if you don't help them. We've had to bury beloved dogs, 80-lb-ones, that have been put to sleep by the vet. It takes at least two people to carry a dog like that. Imagine a 200-300 pound person. Who needs a taser? Except there are those freaks who actually like dead bodies. So what's that got to do with being fat, besides the fact that it might take five people to cart you off when that last globule of fat seals off your carotid artery? Sorry for all the graphic morbidity. Morbidity. Morbidly obese. Oh my word, that's what they say I am. Morbid. What an awful word. Thank God for God, because if morbid was my sentence, I mean, why would I ever get up?
Maybe I need to think about that carotid artery. About the embarrassment of five people trying to get me on a gurney. But embarrassment hasn't seemed to motivate me so far. I gleefully fling myself into the surf every summer with all the other whales then fry on the hot sand. Every chance I get, I get out on the dance floor and re-injure my poor feet, loving every minute. I'm sure I embarrass my kids and my relatives with the fact that I really don't care who sees me dancing. I don't care how cute or how ugly you are, that is the way to live. Why wait until everything's all lined up and perfect? Get over yourself and go ahead and live.
Meanwhile.
That artery is slowly (or not so slowly) getting filled up and those feet are getting heel spurs. You can only get so many cortisone shots and second chances. Then you simply can't get out there. You can't move. You can't breathe, wondering why you didn't change something.
We've only got so many days on this planet that God ordains for us.
There are many brownies, cakes, pies, biscuits, and chocolate delights to be had. Much food and drink. New adventures in Foodland.
But maybe I've reached my quota. Who am I kidding. I've already had a double-dip quota and everything's spilling over into the river.
Here's to admitting the truth. I have lost and gained a bunch of weight in my adult years. I lost 60 pounds a couple years ago, got halfway to my goal, plateaued for a year, then gained it back, a pound a week. Isn't that precious?
There is a lot more I could say right now. But the elephant in the room is, "Whatcha gonna do about it?" Everybody is so nice and doesn't say anything to me. I am an addict and need rehab. The Holy Spirit lives in my heart and I must grieve Him with my choices. Little ones, easy ones, quiet ones, little foxes. Everybody else is eating it, why can't I?
Yes, I live and I tend to live large, no matter what size I am. But I am not taking good care of this tent that He gave me. This tent that is fearfully and wonderfully made. It is a slap in His face, in my dear husband's face, even in my mother's face -- who carried me for nine months then raised me right....it's like a spoiled child who pitches a fit because he wants a candy bar in the store. There's no one to force me not to take the candy bar, because I'm grown and can do what I want. Yes, I (and you) can usually do what we really want to do. Sweets and carbs are so compelling for me. Morbidly(!) addictive. It's even, and particularly, a slap in my own face. They tell me to love myself. Well, yup, I love myself so much I'm killing myself. It's a weird thing, sin...
I am not walking in victory. It hurts many things and many people, especially me. Especially my feet.
I am loved. I am filled and surrounded by love. This is not about love. It is about a brat who needs to get out the switch and tan her own hide. Because she's not a baby, she's not a wayward adolescent. She's an adult. So grow up and act like one.
As the team in Remember the Titans chants, so do I today: "We need a victory!" Lord, I need victory. Not just one, but a permanent, serene change of heart.
