Fat Boy

I went into McDonald's today at lunchtime, something I seldom do anymore, but I do kind of like their grilled chicken snack-wraps. They make me sick later on, but they're pretty good going down.

Anyway, I'm sitting and eating and people watching- because there really isn't much else to do inside a McDonald's- and almost as if on cue, two super-sized teen-agers walked in and got in line at the counter. I wasn't sure if it was coincidental or stereotypical- fat kids, McDonald's- but all at once I felt guilty for staring, and guilty for eating my lunch there. 

Fortunately, I was never an obese teenager and have worked hard all my life to maintain a decent level of fitness; although the older I get, the harder it gets. But I hang with it and an occasional stop at McDonald's for something reasonably healthy probably isn't going to have me running to the nearest lyposuctionist.

But I am very body conscious and remember a time in life when I really did blimp up. True, I was a little blimp, but you could've painted "Goodyear" across my chest nonetheless.

…I was 11 and during the first few months of 5th grade, my weight jumped a shade over 20 pounds in a fairly short amount of time. It wasn't from any growth spurt or sudden addition of muscle mass; nor was I tired or slowing down. I just got fat. It was troubling and extremely embarrassing. Already a runt, I'd become a round runt, too.

Back then, there wasn't a McDonald’s on every corner and soda machines weren’t a mainstay in school hallways yet, so I wasn’t eating bad stuff or eating more than before. But I was looking like a little 'pudge'. And there were a lot of kids around at school to remind me, just in case I ever wanted to try and forget. I hated that year. I hated myself. I wanted to die. I was also outgrowing my clothes, and after Christmas, Mom took me shopping for a couple new pair of jeans to replace the ones that didn’t fit anymore.

We went to Weinstock's Department Store, in the Country Club Plaza Shopping Center near downtown Sacramento. Weinstock's was maybe a cut above J.C. Penny's; but several notches below Macy's. Still, Mom would have to lay out some good money for these new duds.

The sales guy hovered around us during the entire transaction, from browsing to ringing us up. It was like we ‘belonged’ to him. He practically followed us out the door. To his credit, he was very nice, but definitely sucking up for a sale; complimenting Mom's hair and what a fine "little man" she'd brought into his store that Saturday morning. Gag! 

After helping Mom select two pair of nondescript Levis from a rack of what looked like hundreds of the same, the salesman escorted me to a changing room to try them on. When I emerged, he asked how they fit.  I complained they were too tight. Mom scowled and tugged at my waistline, as if that would magically cram in more wiggle room. When that didn't work, she backed off, looked me over again and frowned. Then she began to scold me.

 “Blast it! If you hadn’t got so dad-gum fat they’d fit.”

Mom brusquely turned me around, nudged me in the direction of the fitting room and told me to go back inside and wait; she’d be back with some pants a “couple sizes larger".

 

I did as I was told. I went back there and cried.

Already self-conscious, I'd been publicly humiliated. Mom may have meant to be discreet, but the rebuke was so loud, shoppers in the nearby shoe and ladies department, and going up or down the close by escalator could hear. Certainly our overly helpful sales guy had heard her, and looked embarrassed that he had.

Mom came back a few minutes later and tossed in another pair in to me to try on. ”Put these on, and hurry up!” She didn’t see me cry, and I didn’t want her to know I had been, afraid she’d bawl me out again for being a big baby. And fortunately, the next pair of jeans fit fine. But even if they hadn’t, I’d have squeezed into them till I turned blue and kept my mouth shut.

 

A couple weeks later though, I guess Mom was concerned enough about the spike in my weight to take me in to see Dr. Stover. After some blood work and tests, he concluded there might be a thyroid problem going on. I didn’t even know what a thyroid was. But if making "Well, your son's just a little fat kid" sound more clinical by calling it a 'thyroid disease', I was all for it. And maybe the good doctor was just being polite. But the cure he gave seemed to do the trick. 

I had to take some itty-bitty pills every day for a couple of months, but by the end of the school year I was back to my normal weight. Surprisingly, I ate about the same, too, just a little more regimented; and when June came around, I wasn’t anymore. I looked just like I had the previous September.

During the midst of the struggle though, the way Mom behaved around me, I really believed she thought I'd gotten fat on purpose. Yeah, getting teased and hating seeing myself in the mirror's a blast; let’s do it again. So I tried to lay low, follow the doctor’s directions and keep out of Mom’s way. That was hard to do in a medium sized house with 4 other people. But when I finally began to look normal again, not only were the extra pounds gone, it felt like the weight of the world had been taken from me too.

I can't begin to tell you how wonderful it was to not only to wear regular sized clothes again, but to also find out that none of this crud had been my fault at all. There’d been something medically out of whack with me. Kind of like the relationship I had with Mom. That day at the department store wasn't the first time she wounded with words, it was hardly the last. And though I know she meant well and loved me, sometimes she showed it in really odd ways.

…As I finished my Mickey D snack wraps, the two chubby teens sat down to their meal of Big Macs and fries. No longer staring, I wasn't judging them either because I know that, there but by the grace of God, go I. Actually, more than anything else I felt compassion for them; being fat sucks, and having people point it out sucks, too. I know. But kids are cruel and I imagine those two had probably heard it all by now.

My own self- image was never very good to start with and took a beating all through childhood. Even today, though I work hard to stay in reasonably good shape, because I'm not the ideal male specimen I often feel like I shouldn't be allowed outside in public in daylight. But I’m beginning to see past the lie now because I've been lucky enough to discover the truth: people like me anyway, just as I am. 

I hope it's that way for those two really large kids chowing down today in McDonald's.

And with my fast food lunch now down and digesting, and two hours away from giving me heartburn, I threw the garbage in the trash receptacle and walked out into the mild February afternoon, making a mental note to just have a salad for dinner.

Oh, and some Tums, too.