Sunday, August 12, 2018
I look at that photo, and smile. There’s no doubt I was loved--although I was an "oops baby" as my mom was at the advanced age (for the time) of 39 when I was born. The last of five, I was well-loved and well-fed. I've dipped a toe here and there into several types of books to try and understand this weird relationship I have with food and there’s no doubt in my mind that some of the way I’m wired stems way back to my formative years. Feeding me was my mom’s way of showing love. If I skinned my knee, or fell out with a friend, there was a ready supply of edible treats to make me feel better. Bad times, good times, difficult times, tears…all medicated with food.
Back then I’m sure I was regarded as a "healthy" baby--nowadays probably not so much. Looking at the picture, the roly baby physique isn’t a million miles away from what I see right now as I look down at the roll of fat on my stomach (although let’s not forget there are some seriously foxy washboard abs under all of that). I do speak from a position of certainty, however, when I say nobody’s going to look at the adult roly physique and say "Awww…" in quite the same way.
In many respects, as an overweight adult, the bigger you are the more invisible you become. Weird.