While waiting for my dive buddy, I flipped through one of those small weekly magazines that come with our newspaper. Inside was an article about a 61-year-old (THIN) woman who has maintained her same weight for the last 44 years. The gist of the article was to inspire other older people (so, are you talking about me?) to stay in shape.
BAAAZZZIIIINGGGGG! Off like a bottle rocket went my Offend Meter. I was so blazing over the slant of this article that I dashed off four –front and back– pages of rebuttal on a legal pad. In fact after two full days, I’m still angry. I’m battling weight/self-image/acceptance/age/hormones (take your pick of which one is most important), and articles like this do NOT inspire me. Duh!
Like the romance novels of old always had the waif-like heroine with a heart-shaped face, and large eyes. (Reminds me of a bug.) The hero always tall, built like Adonis, fabulously wealthy, never had bad breath, swept her off her feet. If you don’t count my size before the age of ten, I haven’t been swept off my feet and carried any distance. Certainly not up any stairs and onto a bed. (My son has picked me up only because I told him he couldn’t. My high school sweetie–he was a football player also lifted me off the ground, but he was also a football player. The grunts and groans weren’t inspiring! And it hurt.)
How can I relate to a heroine who doesn’t have meat on her bones? Who has to be rescued by the hero? I can’t. Just like I can’t relate the woman in the article. But then again, maybe I should thank her for getting my writing hackles up.