When I Move, You Move

 

I chose this tune not just because I love it, but because of the title.  By the end of this blog, you’ll understand why.

Not one week ago, I wrote a blog entitled ‘Curvy Girls’.  I went on about how I love my curves and men love curves and even puppies, YES puppies love curves!  I had just smoked my medicine, and feeling light hearted and sexy-I waxed poetic.  Actually, most days?  I am okay with my body and that has been an ongoing, life long battle!  But every single month, around that special time in a women’s reproductive cycle, when she curses like a sailor and eats like a rabid wolverine-know that she is also driven to near lunacy by the twenty pounds of water weight, hapless rage and downright debauchery.  

I don’t know how or why it happens, but I forget the reason for the additional weight every stinking month.  On cue, I will notice that my golden retriever is tilting his head at me, or sulking because mommy is cursing-loudly and with great ferocity.  I think poor Jesse is as stunned as I am when my clothes don’t fit, big belly buldges come from nowhere-or the jeans I wore last week won’t slide up my ass with the previous ease.  This is the mind of the anorexic, yes.  But I’m going out on a limb, here.  I think all women struggle with self esteem, for one daunting (in their minds) reason or another.

This thought formation works itself into a tizzy, and before I know it?  I am cutting out dessert (my all time favorite meal) or watching my portion sizes.  No ice cream for this piglet.  I try eliciting a compliment from my man, but as all husbands of anorexics know-anything they say can and will be used against them.

“I have the love handle blues…,” I say, as he makes his way approximately one foot in the door.  (SMH)  Poor dude.

Ah.  Who am I to lecture anyone about their weight?

Translated in my demented mind:

About time you fat fuck!  

Pretty much a lose-lose proposition.

So, you know how when you have your period and it’s not bad enough that you feel as big as a house but you manage to bump into every fucking thing in your house.  Kind of adds to the despair, you know?

For some reason, this song came to mind today~

Curvy Girls

 

When I was a child, I was a bit chunky, more like pleasantly plump; until my mother slipped into a coma when I was eleven, and I had to take care of my father, and two younger siblings.  To this day I thank God for our neighbor, Jane Hamner (of The Waltons family) who would drop off the occasional meal.  I loved eating at Jane’s house, because when it came to calories and fat?  She threw caution to the wind, and piled on the Miracle Whip.  That situation, combined with the cooking skills of an eleven year old and my poor father’s inability to cook.  Dad spent the entire six months in the rocking chair, drinking martinis and the occasional Bud.  He really loved my mother, a point he would reiterate often during the last months of his life.

Yada, yada, yada…mom came home, put me on Weight Watcher’s, and exactly two years later I developed anorexia, followed by bulimia.

Fast forward forty years, and I have to be honest-I struggle with eating more than one meal a day.  If I get myself into a good routine, on a good day I will eat a yogurt in the morning.  I well make up for this mini-fast in the evening, when I splurge on chocolate or ice cream.  Hey, I didn’t eat chocolate for twenty years-I’ve earned this, darn it.

Back in the day (in my thirties and forties, and when I was using) I could work a crowd into a frenzy at the local Holiday Inn.  How, you ask?  Shelly has a big apple.  The bane of my early existence (when the busboys at Houlihan’s talked about my ass, as if they were discussing the weather-I knew it was time to cut back on the carbs)  I was devastated, no, shattered by the attention.

During bouts of anorexia, there was no attention from team boy.  To be honest, I think that was a plus for me, as my mother had raised me to believe I could be impregnated by just kissing a boy.  I wanted nothing whatsoever to do with pimply, gawky teenagers.

Enter Tom Shunder, stage right.

Oh, the crush I had on that boy!  It began the moment I met him, when the Shunder family moved in, the very same year I was eleven.  I spied, stalked and lingered.  At one point, Tom became so irritated by the crush, that he shot at me with a bb gun-whilst I was crouched behind his car in the driveway.  He missed.

Four years later, my anorexia at its worst, I stood in my parents’ driveway.  I weighed a skeletal 73 pounds, and as my friend, Tom was concerned.  Knowing he had pull, Tom made me a bet-if I gained twenty pounds?  Well, he’d take me on a date.

So, I did.

I am here to tell you that men love curves.  And having a big butt has its advantages, I must say.  I mean, I’m no Kim Kardashian (praise God in the heavenlies) but I was once thrown out of a bar for dancing, by myself, at a club.  I was pretty drunk, and I hadn’t started out alone-I was in my own world, grooving to the music.  My husband was in the audience, for crying out loud-I had no idea that approximately forty men had caused a near riot in the audience, and I was taken aback when the bouncer pulled me from the floor.

At 57 years old, I cherish my curves, each and every day.

And I always, always, always thank Jesus-for the chocolate.  You know.