By the way, my mom was never heavy. I thought she was a little fat when I was in high school, but probably because I was so thin. Now, I outweigh her by at least 30 pounds. She's never been the size I am (let's say I am closer to 200 than 150...Errr and Yuck and I don't know what to do!!!!!).

I feel like Indiana Jones--the scence in which he looks into the tomb and sees all the snakes and he says, "Snakes, why'd it have to be snakes?" Only I look in and say, "Weight, why'd it have to be weight?" Which makes me think of Marge Piercy's poem Barbie Doll. I wonder if I can find that poem and paste it here. I think I shall look. Yes, here it is.

This girlchild was born as usual
and presented dolls that did pee-pee
and miniature GE stoves and irons
and wee lipsticks the color of cherry candy.
Then in the magic of puberty, a classmate said:
You have a great big nose and fat legs.

She was healthy, tested intelligent,
possessed strong arms and back,
abundant sexual drive and manual dexterity.
She went to and fro apologizing.
Everyone saw a fat nose on thick legs.

She was advised to play coy,
exhorted to come on hearty,
exercise, diet, smile and wheedle.
Her good nature wore out
like a fan belt.
So she cut off her nose and her legs
and offered them up.

In the casket displayed on satin she lay
with the undertaker's cosmetics painted on,
a turned-up putty nose,
dressed in a pink and white nightie.
Doesn't she look pretty? everyone said.
Consummation at last.
To every woman a happy ending.


Of course, in the magic of puberty, I never heard anything other than how pretty I was and how badly some guy wanted to get into my pants. I didn't feel pretty, so consequently, I never believed it. I wanted to be more than pretty. I wanted someone to see how smart I was and how cool I was and how fun I was and then how pretty I was. Life was painful. My refuge consisted of books and music. Sure, I hung out with people. I was always on the go. I bought my own car and my own clothes. I dated and went to proms and ballgames. I ran track. I had a boyfriend who had a TR7 and he used to let me drive it to school, so everyone thought I was all that and a bag of chips, but then again, I always felt lonely and on the outside. I moved here in May 1972. There were 2 weeks remaining in the school year. The curriculum was roughly 2-3 years behind Virginia Beach. I hated it. I hated that we had to move here.

One more poem (cause I like it and it makes me feel special). It was written for me once, long ago now. Though my hair is no longer exactly honey-colored, it is still light brown and I have very little gray (a few strands at my temples). I actually just had a perm put in a month or so ago and it lightened my hair a little. I am basically a do nothing to my hair type person--no dyes, no perms, an occasional cut. So, it's getting longer and now it has some curl and I think I like it.

The poem:

Relics

You used to drop in and hand me words.
I couldn't read them because your hair
fell across my shoulder, and my lungs
drugged themselves on your perfume, wavy
as summer honey. But the words were dutiful
little soldiers who dug right in and died,
though my eyes were less on them than your

perfect skirts. Once, you said you were fighting
and trying to make sense of things and again
you offered me poems. I watched the way
your knee bent when you sat in the blue chair,
was pleased to see you ankle conforming
to its neat heel and the lacy way your blouse
offered its arms. Paling beside your body,

those words fell bugle up on the frozen snow.
Tonight you are a million miles away
as I trash my lungs with cigarettes and drag
my eyes across your lines again. Their
configurations are strange and sudden,
evocations at every turn--I'd almost forgotten
the way your hair smelled of roses.

Ok...time to get some work done.