I am waiting for my wife to get ready. We are going out to dinner. She is in the bathroom. I see her in front of a mirror, pinching her belly. She asks if I think she is fat.
“No,” I say.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I feel fat.”
“You aren’t.”
“How about now?”
“Still no.”
“What about from this angle?”
“Negative.”
“From this side?”
“Nope.”
“What about when I turn around?”
“No.”
“How about when I hike up one leg, spin in circles, and recite the Pledge of Allegiance?”
“No.”
“Do you REALLY mean it?”
“If you were any skinnier you’d have to stand up five times just to make a shadow. Now can we please go to dinner?”
“But I feel fat.”
My whole life has been spent in the company of women. When my father died, he left me in a house of estrogen. There, I learned something about the opposite gender.
Namely, women often think they are fat. And they are always wrong about this, no matter what their size.
It isn’t their fault. Every printed advertisement and commercial tells them to feel this way. But it wasn’t always like this.
Things were different seventy-five years ago. Back then, nobody went around saying Marilyn Monroe looked like a North Atlantic whale, or told Doris Day she needed to go paleo.
People weren’t this obsessed with being skinny. Consequently, American families ate more bacon, and butter. And you know what they say: “The family that eats bacon and butter together, stays together.”
But things have changed. Famous women from bygone eras would be called “large” or “fluffy” in today’s world.
Marilyn Monroe, for instance, would be considered a Clydesdale. Barbara Eden, a Holstein. Ginger and Mary Ann wouldn’t have a chance with their muffin-tops. Daisy Duke would be playing the part of Boss Hogg.
Last week, I got a letter from a reader named Myra, who is nineteen. Myra feels overweight, and has felt this way since middle school. She has been on a diet for six months but it’s not working.
So she went to the doctor. He did what all doctors do. He ran tests and blood work. This led to more tests, more blood work, then an MRI just to be sure. And a consult with a high-priced specialist, a visit to a dermatologist, an herbologist, a zoologist, an ornithologist, and an Episcopal priest.
And do you know what? The doc concluded that Myra was in perfect health. In his own words: “You’re a little on the skinny side, Myra.”
How can a girl who is skinny by medical standards believe she is fat? How, I ask?
But like I said, it’s not your fault, Myra. We are all in the same boat. We live in a world that tells us we’re ugly, fat, boring, and we need better insurance.
We live in a civilization where people drive thirty minutes to the gym to walk on a treadmill. A world where underwear models are selling everything from iced tea to pop music.
And when these commercial actors take off their shirts, you can see veins running up their abdomens. Veins, for crying out loud.
The Half Naked Plastic Bodies are on every magazine rack, clothing store ad, every newsfeed, in inboxes, junk mail, and even on beer commercials.
I’m not kidding. I was watching a beer commercial the other day that showed four or five young women on the beach, carrying a cooler.
There was a young man who was shirtless and looked like Sylvester Stalone on diuretics. Another girl was wearing a bikini so small it wouldn’t have fit on a linguini fork.
This gal was so skinny, that—to quote my mother—she would’ve had to run around in the shower just to get wet.
Well, not that anyone asked me, but I don’t believe in phony TV-people. Regardless of shape, I believe in real women. Like the women who raised me. The ones who are brave enough to be themselves. And I believe in what they taught me.
I believe in eating good food, and fresh okra, summer tomatoes, biscuits, butter, and bacon. Certainly, I believe in health, but also in good food, and in living a rich life.
I believe in loving what is in the mirror. I believe in keeping the television off. I believe in long walks. Love letters. Girl Scout cookies. And flowers. And I don’t believe true love has anything to do with abs, thighs, or butts.
I believe in parking beside a pond when the lightning bugs are out. I believe in holding hands with someone you love. Someone who knows a thing or two about life, loss, sorrow, triumph, and the magic of fried chicken.
I do not believe in Beer-Commercial Guy, or Beer-Commercial Bimbo. I believe a woman is magnificent because of what lies within her. I believe in heart. In gumption. Bravery. Kindness. Self-worth. I believe in Myra. In my wife.
And whoever you are, reading this, I believe in you, too.
You do not look fat.
Pone, great tribute to Jamie and all the girls on this hear list. You're gonna get about 1000 responses to this, so I have a holdover from yesterday for the Exhaulted Professor that maybe he can enjoy. He didnt seem to be encumbered with false humility:
Luke AFB is west of Phoenix and is rapidly being surrounded by civilization that complains about the noise from the base and its planes, forgetting that it was there long before they were... A certain lieutenant colonel at Luke AFB deserves a big pat on the back. Apparently, an individual who lives somewhere near Luke AFB wrote the local paper complaining about a group of F-16s that disturbed his/her day at the mall.
When that individual read the response from a Luke AFB officer, it must have stung quite a bit.
The complaint:
'Question of the day for Luke Air Force Base:
Whom do we thank for the morning air show? Last Wednesday, at precisely 9:11 A.M, a tight formation of four F-16 jets made a low pass over Arrowhead Mall, continuing west over Bell Road at approximately 500 feet. Imagine our good fortune! Do the Tom Cruise-wannabes feel we need this wake-up call, or were they trying to impress the cashiers at Mervyn’s early bird special?
Any response would be appreciated.
The response:
Regarding ’A wake-up call from Luke's jets' On June 15, at precisely 9:12 a.m. , a perfectly timed four- ship fly by of F-1 6s from the 63rd Fighter Squadron at Luke Air Force Base flew over the grave of Capt. Jeremy Fresques. Capt Fresques was an Air Force officer who was previously stationed at Luke Air Force Base and was killed in Iraq on May 30, Memorial Day.
At 9 a. m. on June 15, his family and friends gathered at Sunland Memorial Park in Sun City to mourn the loss of a husband, son and friend. Based on the letter writer's recount of the fly by, and because of the jet noise, I'm sure you didn't hear the 21-gun salute, the playing of taps, or my words to the widow and parents of Capt. Fresques as I gave them their son's flag on behalf of the President of the United States and all those veterans and servicemen and women who understand the sacrifices they have endured..
A four-ship fly by is a display of respect the Air Force gives to those who give their lives in defense of freedom. We are professional aviators and take our jobs seriously, and on June 15 what the letter writer witnessed was four officers lining up to pay their ultimate respects.
The letter writer asks, ’Whom do we thank for the morning air show'? The 56th Fighter Wing will make the call for you, and forward your thanks to the widow and parents of Capt Fresques, and thank them for you, for it was in their honor that my pilots flew the most honorable formation of their lives.
Only 2 defining forces have ever offered to die for you....Jesus Christ and the American Soldier. One died for your soul, the other for your freedom.
Lt. Col. Grant L. Rosensteel, Jr.
USAF
Semper Fi Colonel!
And you too Pone!
Yor Amigo,
Pubert
Sean, You can tell your wife that you've officially made at least a gazillion women swoon tonight.