Because of a ridiculously high metabolism, I was underweight most of my life. A good twenty or thirty pounds under, if you believe the people who decide these things. I was as shapely and voluptuous as an ironing board. Which would’ve been okay, if I’d been a twelve year-old boy instead of a forty year-old woman.
Last summer I, mysteriously, started gaining weight. A pound or two. Then twelve. Then thirty-four. Today, I’m big as a zeppelin. That’s right, a zeppelin. I went from a size 4 to a size 10 (give or take) in seven months. My old clothes are mementos now and way too small. Likewise the size 6s and 8s I bought to replace them. Even my shoes are tight. I think I’ve become inflatable.
Several years ago I broke an arm when I ricocheted down icy steps. The physical therapist would mutter about adipose tissue and its benefits during every appointment. At one point, overcome with frustration, she blurted, “eat a cheeseburger, why don’t you?” Well, I think she’d feel vindicated now. I could fall out a third floor window and bounce away, boing, unharmed.
Another annoying aspect of gaining weight is not being able to fit into my swimming suit. And, with my new-found girth, I seriously wonder if I can even fit into the pool. If I jump in, I could get wedged in there for days. Besides, the abrupt water displacement might injure poolside sunbathers. So I’ll stay in the shade and mold.
Yes, the new weight is hard to adjust to; I feel bulky and clumsy and awkward. On the other hand, being skinny made me feel insubstantial and flimsy and brittle. So which is better? I don’t know. Hard chairs are more comfortable now, but the tight clothes keep cutting off my circulation. Oh, hell, just shoot me into space. Where it’s weightless.
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