When I was a young girl, I remember longing for the opportunity to be on that massive stage in front of thousands of people as they gazed at my graceful and elegant figure–that of a picturesque ballerina. Of course, I quickly grew out of thinking that my not quite elegant 5’5″ frame belonged in a tutu, and I just as quickly became embittered toward all those public school types who so encouragingly told us children “You can be anyone you want to be!” Never have I heard such widespread rubbish bound to unfailingly disappoint countless children who may have no abilities whatsoever that would allow them to be whatever it is they so desperately want to be. As so often happens with childhood ideas and dreams, we do not realize that we still hold on to them until confronted much later in life with their unlikelihood to hold true. For example, when faced with pregnancy, I have only now been dealt the crushing blow of realizing that I have been imagining myself in a kind of maternity tutu, where I would be gliding through pregnancy only gaining 15 pounds, being applauded by my doctor, friends, and loved ones for being “all belly,” and constantly being able to admire unblemished, youthful skin which would never dare succumb to a hideous stretch mark. Only now, after constantly being berated by my doctor for gaining more than the recommended 25 pounds, and finding myself with an overflowing bitterness, borderline hatred, for all those women deemed to be “all belly” do I realize that I’ve simply held on to a childish dream that I might be above the fray despite all evidence to the contrary. So, as I sit here, leaning to one side, tilted by the weight of my belly, I freely admit that I am as big as a house. In fact, I PROUDLY admit that I am a short-waisted butterball with stretch marks and a distinct waddle.
And, NO, I will not be posting pictures.