immutability

One of the most prominent obstacles is my lack of belief that things can change. It surprises me that I feel this way this time around, since all my previous efforts were marked by great enthusiasm. This time, I really don’t actually believe that progress is possible, even though I’ve dropped about 7 pounds this year, which is respectable enough for half-past February.

There’s a memory that keeps surfacing lately. I am seven. There is some sort of after-hours event at my school, and I have spent time picking out a dress and arraying myself for it. I think I look good. Mom and I drive down the back roads to my public school. I remember the slant of the autumn light. The dryness of the grass. And the way she looked over at me, looked down at my belly, and said, “My god, with that belly you look pregnant.”

What a thing to say to a seven year old.

You have to understand that the talk about pregnancy as an undesirable state started very early at my house. Both my aunt and my grandmother had been pregnant teenagers, and Mom was determined to avoid the same fate for me. So being pregnant was obviously a bad thing, something you wouldn’t want to be. For her to say that to me was a mark of utter digust.

Secondly, I wasn’t an obese child. Looking at pictures, I’m reasonable for my large frame. I was certainly never anything approaching skinny or thin. My peasant genes have always shown. And like many children, I puffed out and then shot up with growth spurts.

I can’t remember if I thought of myself as fat before the moment I’ve described. But I certainly have ever since, and it was reinforced on many other occasions by my mother and by others. I think this has a fair amount to do with my conception of fat as immutable.