Sometimes Being Called Fat Can Make You Happy
Last summer, I was at the gym and encountered a woman focused and working hard with her personal trainer. You could see the twinkle in her eye. She was sweating and definitely challenged, but she also had that thrill you get when you realize how strong and capable your body really is. Although I was a stranger, we must have had a moment of camaraderie there in the weight room because at one point she looked up at me and said, “I’ve never been so happy to have been called fat in my entire life.”
It turns out, she fancied a man who did not share her affection. He explained in simple, albeit blunt, terms why.
But she took that moment and used it as motivation. Even though months have passed and our gym is now a whole 17 minutes further away, I still see her occassionally. Still focused, still working hard.
I’m currently pushing 27 weeks with my second pregnancy. The other day I was indulging in a shower (motherhood has definitely increased my appreciation of a good, long shower). As I bathed, I found myself singing a number of 60s tunes that reminded me of my deceased father.
And then I remembered how around this time last pregnancy, there would be mornings where I would go downstairs and he would be in the kitchen cooking sausage or bacon or other red meat temptations. He would look at me and greet me with, “You’re getting faaaat!” I think at the time, I laughed politely, but it’s not exactly what a pregnant girl wants to hear.
But this week, nine months after his death, when I got out of the shower, I noticed my increasing girth in the mirror (it’s kinda hard to miss these days 🙂 ). I thought of my father getting that infectious smile of his and those mischievous wrinkles around his eyes. I thought about him calling me fat and this time, I could clearly see his underlying excitement of what that actually meant– a new grandson.
And I smiled.
Like that woman at the gym, I too found surprise happiness in being called fat.