Fat Woman Walking

The author doing what she likes doing best: Curled up in a shawl and reading. Skopje, Macedonia, Lile Ordev's flat, March 2011 __________________________ (I wrote this on June 8, 2011, mostly as a reminder to be kinder to myself – fat or thin. “This Time Would be Different,” I told myself: I would keep the weight off. Unfortunately, I regained most of it. A reminder to take nothing for granted. A reminder to celebrate life, no matter what, because the tomorrow we are given may not be the tomorrow we expected – or wanted. In fact, tomorrow is not guaranteed.) Dear Friends, Be kind to your former self. Love her, love him. Don’t be so hard on that person who decided to take matters seriously and lose weight and gain a healthier body. Remember, it was that brave person who made an important decision to spend a significant amount of money and admit publicly that he or she needed help. Do you remember that day so many months ago, how tentative you felt about go...

Created from a photo: The author as a young person -- circa 1969 _________________ (This chapter isn’t quite where I want it, and I’m not sure if it will make the final cut into my book, but I thought I’d toss it out there.) My husband Jerry and I entered the gleaming, dripping in money medical center, located in a tony neighborhood near Timonium, Maryland. Jerry was dressed in a striped shirt and Khakis; I wore a sports tee-shirt and denim clamdigger leggings – way underdressed for our expensive surroundings (I didn’t care – I wore a pretty necklace, what more should they want?). We had been there just once before – not quite familiar with the building layout – so we must have looked slightly confused. I had to use the facilities, but I knew that the restrooms had to be accessed via a security code. “You remember what the code is?” I asked Jerry. Before he could answer, a lady ahead of us looked back and said, “Oh, it’s **** for the ladies’ room and **** for...

Photo on left: The author and her grandmother, June 5, 1968, just before she left for L.A. Photo on right: The author's mother ____________________ I have a complicated relationship with my late mother. I spent most of my youth in my grandparents’ custody, for my time with Mother had been sporadic and haphazard – life, in her house, often filled with drama, domestic violence (on her part; she married nice men), and insecurity. Mother was smart, beautiful, artistically talented, and sweet – when she was sober. When she was drinking – which was most of the time – she was unstable, mean, and slurry. It was like she was speaking another language, which, in a sense, she was: the language of drink. The language of drink is a mish-mosh of incoherence and mispronunciation with a good dose of anger. Woe-be-onto-me if I couldn’t understand what she was trying to tell me. She never hit me – she saved that for her men – but she had a way of making me feel as if I were the ...