Dr. 9021-OH Whatever!

Warning: Strong language ahead. If you don't like it, lump it-- and read something else. This is a long damn ramble... don't get lost...

I don't know WHY the hell I watch Dr. 9021-OH I'M SO VAIN!

It just pisses me off, let me assure you. I look at perfect women complaining that their size zero body isn't a double zero, that their size D tits aren't a DD, and that their labia minorus isn't 1cm shorter than it is now. What the hell people?

If any of you remember my rant on The Dress then you will be pleased to know that- officially- I can fit into and zip The Dress completely. It's no matter really as I have gained 6 MOTHER FUCKING pounds since deciding to diet. Yes, six. And yes, somehow though some strange and probably cruel reason I still got into The Dress today. Only after shopping for a new dress and breaking out in hives that 4 benadryl wouldn't cure. That's a whole other rant though.

Picture this: Sicily, 1937.

Nope- wait, wrong story line and plot. Picture this: My bedroom with Big J fast asleep (aka vodka-induced coma) and me, flipping channels. Dr, 9021-Oh whatthefuck is on. One of the great docs is fixing a F to M transvestite. I have the deepest respect for someone who is gender-confused or whatever the proper term for that is (which is escaping me momentarily). I was intrigued until (dundundun) the "type-cast skinny bitch that should be shot instead of plastic-surgeried" shows up.

Instead of ranting and raving like normal, I lose it. I go through 12 different scenarios in my mind. If she was chubby like me would her vuh-jay-jay matter so much? Would one freakin centimeter of extra lippage be such a fucking ordeal? What if she was a size 12 (except for her hideous, terrible, no-good stomach that flopped and flipped in every direction). Oh wait-- a size 12 huh? Let's just shoot her now- fat chicks are bad for ratings!

I am a size 12-14. Minus my huge enormus gigantic floppy terrible no good stomach. But I EARNED that stomach. That's 2 babies worth of flab people. Some people only wish. And that makes my heart hurt even worse. I'd be a size 4,000 if everyone I knew could be instantly blessed with a baby. It just goes so much deeper than size and weight for me though...

No, I'm not a hideous monster of a blob. But I feel like one as of late. Sure, there are people out there who weigh more than I do- which I admit is closer to 200lbs that I want to be. Try 195 on for size. Even at 5'8 I'm one the bad end of the BMI scale. I see ME as a cow. Other people- no. I can see them for who they are. Which for the most part is a beautiful, deserving person. But not me...

I'm tired of no matter what I look like not being enough for whomever. Jef says he loves me, no matter what size I am. I believe it. I just have a hard time loving myself. I remember what I used to be, how it used to feel to dance and wear tight jeans and feel confident. Not that I ever felt any confidence when I was half the size I am now, mind you, except for the occasional spurt when I visited my fantasy world.

My father nick-named me The Moose some time in my high school life. I was tall enough and strong enough to run over any poor, pitiful fool that stood between me and a home run, a goal, a basket, etc. I was a hurricane. That was so long ago.

My mother always made sure to buy me XL size shirts. Even when I was 130 lbs of muscle and could bench press 200lbs and leg press 450 or more. Because I was "big". At a size 8. And she was a what- an 18-20 then?

I wear a goddam large NOW.

Mother never hesitated to remind me that I "wasn't her child". I was adopted. From the beginning I felt like I was different. Dirty. Not accepted. Born of sin. I am the black sheep of the family. I stand nearly a foot taller than anyone in my family (all but one cousin) and was the natural blonde at birth (not so much now, but then!) surrounded by the jet-black coiffures of the fam-damily it was easy to feel as though I was the black sheep. Obviously, I was the different one. I could be picked out from 1,000 meters. Sniper bait.

We would vacation in Daytona every summer. The condo we rented was very strict with its rental property, and the place could only be sublet to a direct relative- daughter or son, with the consent of the realty company. My cousin Teresa would pose as my mom's daughter so her family could rent the place for a week. She is 16 years older than me. I was the only one questioned as a "fraud" by the realty company. "Why is SHE with you?" they'd ask. My mother would scoff, "She's our other daughter".

I had a plan for this post- a direction to begin with, but now it has seemed to grow like kudzu... wild and where it will.

Looking back to earlier in my day, I sat in the kitchen floor and cried. I sobbed for all the things in my life that are unknown. Baby #3, Big J's health, my parents, Faith's grades, my sanity, whatever else may come tomorrow. I also cried for the things that have been, but are now long gone.

I collapsed into a heap of need. As my body bobbed up and down with raw emotion a small whimper broke into my previously impenetrable space. I looked up. Ava stood before me. Her lips were pursed in a pensive pout. Her face seemed to say, "What's wrong mommy?".

I wiped my tears with my sleeves. I held my arms out for her. She walked towards me and jumped into my lap, putting her tiny arms around my neck. I squeezed her ever so close, never wanting to let go. She took her right hand and patted my shoulder gently as she dug her head deeper and deeper into my neck.

A tiny, "Ahhh" whispered from her mouth.

"I love you Ava. Thank you for taking care of mommy when no one else is here to understand."

How can I hate myself when I have her?