Fatty Gets a Clue

Growing up with the nick name Fatty was no fun.  My dad meant no harm when he started calling me that as an infant.  I must admit, I was a fat baby. My hands appeared to connect to my arm in by a roll.  The thing is I was also a fat toddler, kindergartener, and teenager. The nick name Fatty might not have been so bad for one of the skinny girls who had legs that were thin, perfect and went on forever, but for short fat stubbie legged me, it was a nightmare.  The kids at school tormented me daily. Being the social outcast in school did have one advantage. While the other girls in my class were spending their time and energy on boys I spent mine with my nose in a book.  I had a plan. I was getting out of this damn town no matter what and college was my ticket. My teachers recognized my potential. I worked in the school office from 9^th – 12^th

grade and drug myself to student counsel meetings every month. When ACT time rolled around it was my chance. I had read every prep book I could get my hands on. It paid off in spades, I scored a 36 and got a full ride scholarship from a small college in Alabama.  My parents were less than thrilled when they learned I would be moving more than 10 hours away, but they couldn’t do much about it.  My tuition, room, board, and books were paid for. The threats to take away my car, drop me from health insurance, and anything else they could think of fell on deaf ears.  Graduation day was the happiest day of my life. I swore to myself I would never have to look at their skinny smirks again. While the other kids were hugging, crying and promising to keep in touch I got the hell out of there and never looked back. I spent the summer before college dieting. I began turning orange and my mother, convinced something was terribly wrong, drug me to the doctor.  My doctor laughed as she explained it was my carrot glow and was not permanent.  The conversation however turned serious when she came to the topic of my weight.  The scales seemed to stare at me with an evil grin.   I held my breath when the scale tettered over 200lb. I breathed a sigh of relief when it dropped back to 198. My mother about fell out of her chair and the doctor frowned. “Fatty that makes your BMI 40. You are morbidly obese.” My 4’11 frame didn’t feel like I was morbidly obese. Obese sure, but morbidly obese, what did that mean anyway.  “You need to consider a change in lifestyle, Fatty, diet and exercise will get the weight off. You are 18 and now is the time.”  She then brought up the freshman forty and the color left my mom’s face. 

Dreams....

For most of my adult life I have believed I had a novel stowed somewhere in my mind.  I have been ready to start my novel for ...years now, so why is it so hard to do?  I can't speak for everyone, only for myself.  For me it is the fear of losing the dream, fear of failure.  I am afraid I will realize that this thing I have believed myself capable of will be unatainable and it will be just another lost dream.  I have lost so many dreams, I just don't want to lose another.  The thing is, despite the dreams that I have lost, I am still here, looking with hope for the remainder of my life.  So, is it really worth not starting the novel for fear of failure?  I think not.  It is time to set aside the fear that is preventing me from realizing my dreams....