As a child, I wanted to be a fat grandmother. I never knew my grandmothers, but all the grandmas I saw in my primary readers were tidily round – and often shown baking. Cookies.
My mother was a tiny woman, but her middle had the texture and shape of a pile of bread dough. She never minded when we kneaded it. Silly Putty hadn’t been invented yet – and Mom’s middle served just as well.
Not once did we suspect that Mom would have preferred a flatter version of herself. Not until I reached adulthood did I ever hear her complain – and then only rarely – about her “fair-to-middlin” shape. “I never ate right when I was growing up,” she explained. I don’t doubt that, but since my siblings and I stemmed from that comfortable middle range of her figure, no doubt we contributed. I Iove her all the more for never blaming us.
I also enjoyed the even rounder shape of her old aunts, Tante Sarah, Tante Maria and Tante Susannah. I found them beautiful, those senior matriarchs. They had perfect posture, and crowns of plaited hair. In their long dresses, they seemed more regal than frumpy, and I loved them.
I’m a decade into the Nana stage in life now. My childhood wish is coming true. I’ve grown plump - enough to realize that the fat worn outside one’s body is far less fun than the fat that goes into it in the form of sweets and meats.
As I walked down the street with one of the grandbeans the other day, she dropped my hand. “Let’s run, Nana,” she said, darting forward. Then she stopped. “Oh. I forgot. Old people can’t run.” I proved her wrong, but almost died in the doing. I’m scared to fall, lest my own weight kills me. I’ve noticed myself puffing going upstairs. And in some photos, I resemble the Michelin Tire man.
But the final straw came in church last Sunday. One of the youngest ladybeans sat on my knee, searching for ways to entertain herself as the Preacher preached – guesting in our son-in-law’s pulpit that morning. Suddenly she reached up and grabbed a small handful of flesh under my chin. Waggled it back and forth like a piece of blubber (which, drat it anyway, I suppose it is.)
She’d found the generational Silly Putty. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Just before I turned forty, I set a weight loss goal – and reached it. Much has changed in the two decades since, but for health reasons, I’m reneging on my hope to be a fat grandma. And I’m making the same decision I did then.
God gave each of us one body. So far as we’re able, he expects us to employ self-control and good judgment in the care of it, to better serve him and others. I’ve been self-indulgent lately. Lazy. Apathetic. It’s time for better decisions, and with his help, I will make them.
If you feel the same way, let’s pray for each other.
