FEAR OF FAT

’Caution: read at your own risk…you have been warned!

One memorable recollection of my mother (God rest her soul) is of her with hands on her waist, twisting and turning to admire her enviable shapely figure. Despite painful arthritis and two hairline hip fractures, her physique was awe inspiring. And apparently Daddy never lost interest in his wife’s “young girl” frame, if Momma’s protestation about his untiring libido were any indication. Like Abraham, he had sired this baby-of-the-family “late in life” while my mother no doubt pontificated “I don’t want to loose my girlish figure.”

My mother regarded fat as the unwelcomed evil trespasser from hell. Any thought that excess weight was acceptable defied sound reasoning and good sense; a reality I was forced to confront the year she packed me off to summer camp following a season of slouching on TV and peanut butter sandwiches. Fat was simply not tolerated. The lease little protuberance evoked a “getting a little hippy don’t you think” or “you’re putting on the pounds” or worst, “you’re getting fat.” To suffer her sardonic witticisms on that topic was motivation to push away from the table and watch the scales.

My mother was a fabulous cook. Between her mixed race immigrant background and Daddy’s Bahamian pedigree the family was exposed to a broad range of tasty cuisine and seasonal goodies from Alligator pears (avocados) to Zabaglione (a frothy egg custard). Fish (brain food), chicken soup (for a cold), bananas (for diarrhea), hot cereal (because it was good for you), tea, toast and jello (to settle an upset stomach), lemon and honey tea (to sooth a sore throat), butterscotch pudding (comfort food when sad), peas and rice; spinach, carrots, and an occasional fried chicken, fruit and veggies were the mainstay. She believed good food well prepared was both nourishment and medicine; mealtime was a structured family social event where table manners were practiced. Finger food was the privilege of babies. Ah…the good old days.

Fast forward to fast food: mystery meat wrapped in breaded dough, deep fried in hydrogenated trans-fat, served with artificially flavored cornstarch base sugar syrup, served with processed potato fries, seasoned with sodium, washed down with some caffeine loaded caramel colored sugar water and followed up with an artificial dairy-like shake and a corn syrup fruit pie. How about a thick cheese stuffed pizza crust with all the toppings, served with cinnamon sugared bread sticks washed down with another bottle caffeine loaded caramel colored sugar water. Sadly, this often describes the new American diet. No wonder folk need Ex-Lax maximum strength.

Fat, aside for being unhealthy, is ugly. What is so “fine” about, especially, young women sporting crevice grabbing spandex outlining a posterior that rivals a hind quarter, or jeans tight enough to strangle the circulation in tights clapping against one another? Come on now. Boobs and bellies banging against each other with the former unsecured and the later oozing flesh at the waistline for all to see. Honey, it ain’t cute!

Fat is also expensive. What does it cost for a comfortable chair, a decent bed, shoes to support feet from “running over”, automotive repairs due to worn out shocks, and medical expenses for preventable diseases like type 2 diabetes, hypertension, chronic fatigue, shortness of breath, heart disease. Face it. Fat people don’t live long. How many fat 80-year-olds do you know?

By the time my mother was 91 signs of dementia were settling in which included, among other things, becoming inappropriately jocular. Always one to speak her mind, it was at a restaurant on Mother’s Day during her last public outing where after critiquing what seemed like every women who walked though the door, she announced for the entire world to hear “I going to keep my girlish figure.” And she did until her death at 93. “Fat ain’t where it’s at. And where it is at, ain’t pretty.” Eat to live. Please, don’t live to eat; you won’t be around long.



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