Hefty

I am disturbed, and have been for some time--oh, and not just in the ways you already know about. I'm disturbed by many things. One thing disturbing me of late (again) is the ongoing issues with women and body image. I spent several days this week with relatives. We spent many hours watching the Olympics. I can't recall spending more time discussing bodies and weight loss and vitamins and the like before in my life. One comment in particular just keeps grinding on my brain. We're watching the women's marathon (that's running 26 miles thank you) and I kept hearing:

"Look at that one, she's hefty."

"Boy, she's a bit hefty."

It carried me right back to a day some years ago when I heard the same voice saying, in jest of course, to someone he loves (who was relatively thin at the time):

"Hey Thunder-thighs!"

Let me just say that such "teasing" of a teenage girl from her father--the one man who is supposed to love her unconditionally, is not just not funny, it's reprehensible.

We can pretend that this obsession is because we're concerned about our loved-one's health and well-being, but when it become an obsession--something talked about all day long, day in and day out, and when the subjects of such concern are far from obese, it's not so much a health concern as our own body-type bias.

I am disturbed not just generally about female body issues, but I am concerned in particular about the contributions men make to our body issues and more particularly, as a member of the LDS church, I am deeply disturbed by such attitudes amongst our membership.

I am again carried back to a time, again a few years ago, when a conversation with a few LDS friends really bothered me. (I did say that I've been disturbed about this for some time--it was the hefty commentary that pushed me over the edge). You see, we were walking early one morning when these beautiful, intelligent, charming (and thin) women began discussing the desired plastic surgeries they were hoping one day to have done. They indicated that their husbands were in full support of such enhancements, and may have even suggested them. Around the same time, I had a similar conversation with another dear friend. This conversation revolved around how her husband wanted her to lose some weight.

Below are some suggested comments for husbands whose wives begin discussing plastic surgery or weight loss.

"You know dear, I married you because I think you are beautiful. I will always think you are the most beautiful woman in the world." (you could play the Beatles When I'm 64 at this point).

or, for weight loss woes:

"You know, you have borne my children and neither of us are as young as we once were, so you really shouldn't beat yourself up over a few pounds. I still think, and will always think you are the most beautiful woman in the world. I certainly didn't marry you for your waistline. If you want to lose weight to feel healthier though, I will support you in whatever way you want me to. Just let me know what you need."

What kind of world are we setting our children and our spouses up for when we tell them in no uncertain terms that their bodies are not acceptable to us? That somehow our love for them is dependent upon a few key physical features. Then we sit back and wonder why our daughter sinks into a depression because she can't shake the weight she gained after her first baby. Or our wife talks incessantly about her diet program of the week and how she needs to drop 20 more pounds as she struggles to find the right mix of hormones and antidepressants.

To me, being hefty and having my own set of thunder-thighs, I find all this very disturbing. Sure, I'd like to lose quite a few pounds myself, but have learned to try not to let my weight determine my self-esteem or consume my life. I am grateful for parents who never made fun of me and never tolerated my siblings doing likewise. I am oddly and sporadically grateful for my lifelong struggle with weight--there's something very comforting in knowing that I met and married my husband at 250 pounds, so he's certainly not in it for my waistline. I am very grateful to my husband. I am grateful that despite being raised in a culture and even a childhood where weight was everything, he's somehow risen above that--he's in it for my charming personality and my lightening wit . . .

Shoo Bear

Since moving to FairyLand, I’ve consistently been told how shy black bears are, how they avoid human contact. My first bear encounter led me to believe it. My last was a different story.

I’ve come up with a new ploy to deter bears and other wildlife from getting into my garbage. Apart from taking it to the dump more frequently, I’ve also bungee corded the heck out of the poor chewed-up can. I’ve also tied it to my fence just outside my bedroom window. The reasoning for this is two-fold. 1—that the smell will encourage me to take it to the dump more regularly and 2—the motion light right there will discourage the shy bears and wildlife from digging in.

A couple of weeks ago, it finally cooled down enough to leave my windows open. About 4am my cat started sprinting back and forth from one of my bedroom windows, to my bed, across my head to stare out the other window. I subsequently woke up and noticed the motion light was on. I got out of bed, peered out my window and noticed a 400 lb (appx—I didn’t bust out the scale) black bear dining casually on my trash.

What did I do next you might ask? What would you do? I woke up my husband.

“Matt! Wake up! There’s a bear in the garbage!”

We’ve been told, “If you see a bear, just make yourself seem large and talk to it sternly like you would a dog and tell it to go away.”

Alright. “Hey! Go away bear! Shoo!”

The bear paused his dinner of dirty diapers and cat poop, slowly turned his head to look at me, turned back to the diapers and continued with his meal.

So Matt of course went to the kitchen and grabbed a pan, took it to the window and banged on it. He got a similar reaction.

I suddenly remembered that my children were in there beds, soundly asleep with the windows open. Recalling vague stories of bears eating children in their sleep, I ran in and closed their windows. This gave me another brilliant idea.

I ran to the front door, opened it and slammed it shut, then flashed the porch lights. I ran back to my window, slammed it shut a couple of times. Bear still eyeball deep in trash.

“What do we do?”

“Well, I don’t think we ought to go out there and clean up the trash just yet. Go back to sleep.”

Yeah, right.

I laid back down, my head propped up, staring at the bear. Then he casually sauntered away. After a few moments, the motion light turned off and I laid my head back down, attempting to sleep. Alas, my reprieve was short-lived. A few moments later, our friend returned for seconds.

Eventually he left and eventually I got back to sleep. I wish I’d had the presence of mind to grab a camera instead of a pan. Oh well, next time. I’m thinking of leaving out bowls of ripe berries. Just kidding, my trash now resides in my shed.

Extreme

My eldest son has inherited and developed some personality extremes. He is extremely bright (got that from me), extremely handsome (his dad), extremely stubborn (me again), extremely short-tempered (paternal grandfather) and extremely sensitive. Last night he was also extremely tired.

I've been burning the candle at both ends with three part-time jobs (my excuse for neglecting my blog). Last night I was up until past 2am sorting music. I decided to call it a night, turned out the lights and went into the bathroom to pee. As per usual in our one-seater household, my son's pee-dar kicked in. You see, he has a sixth sense about when you're in the bathroom and generally waits until those moments to nearly have an accident. Perhaps it's just the power of suggestion. Regardless, I was peeing at 2:15 am this morning when my child came rushing into the bathroom with an urgent need to pee. So, I promptly finished up and exited. It was then that he decided he'd like to pick a fight with me.

"You made the bathroom stinky!!!"

"I just peed."

"IT STILL STINKS!"

"I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting you. What are you going to do?"

"YOU NEED TO CLEAN IT!!!"

"Alright--there, all done" (can of lysol is a handy tool).

"NO! YOU NEED TO MOP!!!"

He didn't really want me to clean or mop, he really just wanted to argue. I called his bluff.

"Alright, let me get a mop."

"No! Now you left, you can't go back in!"

"Alright, I'll wait here with my mop. What are you going to do?"

"I NEED TO GO POTTY!!!"

"Great, have at it."

"NO! IT'S STINKY! YOU ARE MAKING ME STAY IN THE HALL! I'M GOING TO HAVE AN ACCIDENT!"

"Gee, that's terrible. What are you going to do about it?" I tried terribly not to giggle--it was hilarious in it's ridiculousness.

More screaming ensued. I think he was particularly miffed I didn't start arguing. Shortly thereafter, Matt awoke to all the screaming. He didn't find it as humorous as I did. Ethan was subsequently dragged into said stinky bathroom where his father sat in front of the door and waited for him to do his business. Again, much screaming ensued and I think about 3am he finally gave in and peed. I sure hope it was worth it.