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Fat – Oh The Shame!

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Being fat isn’t just a source of shame.  It’s also a source of health issues.  While historically a woman with a bit of meat on her bones was viewed as healthy and therefore fertile, nowadays, excess meat on those bones can mean poor health and infertility.  Yup, as good as that pizza looks, it’s the Grim Reaper that’s the delivery boy.
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Is there room enough in the world for fat people?

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Is there room enough in the world for fat people?  If calculations are correct, physically, there is.  Not counting Antarctica, the population density of the planet is 115 persons per square kilometer.  Some say the earth’s population can fit into one city; others claim we can all fit into the state of Texas (but Texans are known for their absurd claims on size, so I’ll have to get back with you on that one).
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First Impressions

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First impressions are everything, and when you’re overweight and on a first date, you have to work harder to look more appealing than if you are a slender or pleasingly curvaceous beauty who’s never had to try to get a date.
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Sneek Peak~~Chapter 2

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Pa lives eight kilometers from my house.  It’s an easy drive distance-wise, but a hard one knowing what I’ll find at the end of the journey.

Pa doesn’t use his front door so I slip around the side to the sliding glass patio door—another tormentor to remind me of how I look.

I slide open the door.  “Pa?  It’s me,” I call.

“Right here,” he mumbles and stirs in his recliner chair.

“Did I wake you up?  I’m sorry,” I say.

“I dozed off just now” he claims.  There’s a crossword puzzle a pencil on his lap.  “How’s my girl?” he asks as I lean down to give him a hug and a peck on the cheek.

Pa is the most constant thing in my life, a sweet man with a fiery Scottish temper when aroused, which wasn’t often.  Though only 54, he looks a decade older from the trauma of fighting—and beating—cancer.  His body was still emaciated, though.

“What brings you by?” Pa asks with his warm smile.

“Can’t a girl visit her pa for no reason but that she loves him?” I tease.

Pa studies my face and I know I can’t hide this most recent hurt from him.  “Come on, now.  Tell me what’s wrong.  There’s no use holding it in, you know.”

I ease down onto the old sofa, its springs groaning in protest under my weight.

“Well?  Get on with it,” he orders kindly.

I burst into tears.  “Oh Pa!”  I sob.  “Tiresa and Mika are getting married.  I found out through Mama Rose, who wants me to go to the engagement party and the wedding just because they’re family.  It’s not fair.  Why doesn’t anyone take my side?  Mika abandons me and Abe and Fi and Tiresa stabs me in the back, but I’m expected to be nice and act like nothing’s wrong!”  I bury my face in my hands and let the tears flow.

Pa rises form his chair and comes over to wrap his arms around me.  Emaciated as they are, they are the strongest arms in the world to me.

“What did I do to deserve this?  I quit school to marry him.  I stayed at home to take care of the house and the kids, but I still wasn’t good enough.  Tiresa swoops in and steals my husband and now she’s trying to steal my kids and be their stepmum.  Soon Abe and Fi won’t like me and won’t want to see anymore.  They can give them toys and games and everything while I have to scrimp and save for months to buy things.  She did it on purpose.  She did it because she’s a mean, spiteful komo mai tainga!”  I didn’t know much of the Samoan language, but I did know the curse words.  “Oh, Pa, why does this happen to me?”

I continue to cry while Pa holds me, patting my back and murmuring something soothing yet unintelligible. 
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Mirror Mirror on the wall…

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Mirrors: I used to hate them.  Mirrors reveal what you don’t want to see, and when you’re significantly overweight, there’s a lot you don’t want to see.

At home, there are mirrors in the bath, bedroom and hallway to remind you how you look.  It’s your own personal carnival fun house, which isn’t fun at all.  And these mirrors aren’t distorted, making you look stretched or squatty or bulbous.  No, they provide a perfect reflection which is perfectly awful.
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Sneek Peak~~Chapter 1

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Everything at Café Crave is just a little wrong since the new manager took over.  It used to be a quaint, comfortable hangout for Sands, Riyaan, sometimes Cat and me to meet up for our weekly therapy debriefs.

The new manager is turning it into one of those up-scale a la carte cafés where yuppies are seen sporting designer label clothes and latest Gucci handbags.  The walls are now covered with original artwork from local artists, hung crookedly at different angles each time we come in, as though someone keeps trying to get it right but is unable to do it.  It’s hardly a place where a fat lady and her eclectic group of friends, including her very own stinky homeless friend, are welcome.

Riyaan, world’s best gay friend and coffee barrister extraordinaire, catches my eye as the door shuts behind me.  “Large mocacchino?” he calls across the counter.

“Make it a double,” I reply and approach the booth where Sands sits.  Why can’t she remember to get a table?

Booths convey a sense of privacy and intimacy while making it difficult to slide in and out of them, not to mention the table cuts into one’s gut.

Another annoying change to the café is the tables are too close.  The place is never more than a third full, yet they squeeze in the tables as if anticipating of throngs of caffeine addicts.  As a large woman, I am unable to walk through this minefield without bumping into something.  I only ever go there when I have no choice and this was one of those times.  The gang hasn’t met in weeks and Riyaan insisted on meeting here as he was on a break.

“Excuse me, so sorry” I mumble as I bump the arm of a patron and cause her coffee to slosh across her hand.  I hope it doesn’t scald her.  Another patron, chatting loudly on his call phone, grabs his purchase at the cash register and walks toward to the door, except I am blocking his path.  He stops short gives me an obvious “Ew” look, then backtracks and takes the long way around the minefield.  He lowers his voice and snickers something.

I’m almost to the booth.  In my haste to get there, I turn sideways to squeeze between a chair where sits a man with a laptop and a table where a couple, oblivious to the world, makes googly eyes at each other.  “Sorry,” I say as my stomach knocks the man’s head and arm forward.  His hand hits a key and the laptop screen goes blank.

“Shit” he mutters.  So much for hoping whatever it is is backed up or not important.

Meanwhile, my butt pushes the table behind me backward.  “Hey!” the female hisses.  I glance over my shoulder and see coffee spilling over the table.

“I do apologize,” I offer and duck my head in embarrassment.  I’d get out of there but my friends were waiting.
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A Fat Rant III

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A Fat Rant II

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