Blog Fodder

Holy freaking crap, this stuff is good. <stuffs face>

Blog Fodder
The Tale of the Bed and the Condom

Figure I'll put my fiction here in LJ (where it won't offend anyone) (like my mom) (not to name names) and my bloggy stuff on my blog.

In Progress

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but you'll have to exit the ride," the attendant said to me.

"What?" I looked up, confused.

"The bar has to lower until the red line shows," he replied, studiously looking anywhere but my eyes.

I glanced down. The safety bar had clicked, but there was no red line in sight. I looked over at my husband, who was seated and secured properly. Each seat had it's own individual safety bar, and seeing the red line at the base of his, I knew I'd never get mine that low. I barely fit into the ride's bucket seat as it was; I had jammed my ass and thighs down as far as they would go, and now my stomach was blocking the bar from coming down any further. Still, I was unable to comprehend the concept of being too fat to ride a roller coaster. I reached out and tugged on the bar, a futile gesture of denial.

"Huh, guess I'm just too big for this one!" I joked, trying desperately to fend off the humiliation with humor.

"Raise the bar," the attendant motioned at his co-worker, who hit the release button. As it unlatched, I quickly heaved myself out of the seat and exited the ride, waving off the mumbled apologies of the attendant. My husband followed, refusing to ride without me, despite my protests that he should.

As we wound our way through the exit, I moved quickly and kept my eyes to the ground. The burn of unshed tears blocked my throat, and as we walked on they got the best of me. I sat down on a nearby bench and covered my face with my hands, not wanting anyone to see the fat chick crying.

It was the most humiliating experience of my life.


I'd love to say I won't bore you with all the details, but pretty much I'm a detail person, so I'm going to tell my story anyway and hope that my <ahem> clever wit and cutting sarcasm will keep you interested. I grew up as a gymnast; my mother enrolled me in classes at the age of 3 and for years I never looked back. She likes to tell the story of how, in the beginning, she was the only parent allowed to watch, since I was the only kid who wouldn't stand around crying for mommy. Apparently I lacked that attachment instinct the very young have. Throw me in a leotard and plunk me down in a gym, and the need to have a parent nearby went right out the window.

Around the age of 10 or 11, puberty hit and hit hard. All of the sudden I had hips and boobs and 3 extra inches of leg. In case you weren't aware, gymnastics and puberty don't generally mix well. At 5'4" and 100 pounds, I was never going to compete at a serious level. Still, I kept up my training. I loved it, and I didn't know anything else. I had never played soccer or softball or tennis. Gymnastics was my life, even as my body made it clear that one day soon, this life would be over.

I entered high school still ignoring the fact that I wasn't getting anywhere in my chosen sport. At my gym I was the best at my level, and that was good enough for me. That there were 8-year-olds in my group was something I simply didn't acknowledge. My coaches praised my hard work and spoke vaguely about a future college career. I look back now and wonder at the encouragement; I have to believe it was a deliberate line to keep my mom paying the monthly gym tuition. Four days a week of practice doesn't come cheap, you know.

I tell you this to try an explain the environment I grew up in. For gymnastics, I was always too much. Too tall, too heavy, too everything. My coaches were constantly on me about watching my weight. If I was thinner, my back flips would be higher. If I was thinner, my vault landings wouldn't hurt. If I was thinner, my bar routine would flow faster. Blah blah blah. Not a session went by without some remark made about my body.

My mom picked up the thread that my coaches threw out and ran with it. She was blessed with a metabolism from the gods; skinny was her norm and the horror of having a fat child was more than she could bear. She talked to me constantly about my weight and watched every morsel of food that entered my mouth. She bought me Seventeen and Sassy magazines, and would casually point out models that even only slightly resembled me. "See, honey? This girl's face is just like yours could be, if you just dropped a few pounds! See how pretty she is?"

I didn't rebel against the criticism. I wanted desperately to please, to be the person they kept telling me to be. But dammit, I was also hungry. It was quite the dilemma, let me tell you.



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