Martha Sue

I tried to write this installment yesterday, but found that I could not. It was in my mind. The words swirled around all day. The problem wasn't the words, it was trying to write through the tears. Martha Sue. My mom. Yesterday, April 29, 2013 was the 9th anniversary of her passing on into her journey in heaven. She died at home surrounded by her family. My dad was holding one of her hands, my sister was holding the other, and I was rubbing her feet. She struggled to breath and then she let out a loud whooshing sound and there was no more. I have never felt such anguish in my entire life. My mommy was gone. My mommy who loved me unconditionally my whole life. My mommy.

Martha Sue was a powerful women. She was not big, she was just average. Average height, average weight, brown hair, brown eyes, and the most powerful prayer warrior I have ever known. She believed in the power of prayer. She prayed about everything. Sometimes I would see her sitting in her chair with her hands on her forehead and her eyes closed. Most people would think that she was napping. But I knew that she way praying. She believed in all that God could do. She also believed that you should do all that you were capable of doing. No excuses!

As kids we would often complain as kids do, "I can't." Mom's reply? "Can't died in the poorhouse." We were not allowed to say "can't". We had to try. No excuses. But that made me want to succeed. I would try and try and try until I got it right. Whatever it was. Mom expected it. I wanted to give mom what she wanted. I wanted to please her.

As an adult I became a teacher. Mom instilled a love of learning in me at a very young age. She told me once that I could say all of my A,B,Cs when I was 18 months old. You could see the pride in her eyes. I pictured my mom as a young mother, sitting with me in her lap, and singing the ABC Song until I could sing it, too. She was insistent that homework be done as soon as we were home from school. No playing until homework was finished. She would explain it then go about fixing dinner while we worked at the kitchen table. When we were done she would check it. Anything that was incorrect she would mark with a very light checkmark. We had to try again. If we still missed, she would teach us what to do. We always had perfect homework.

My mom loved to sing but she was a terrible singer. We teased her about it all the time. She knew that she was not a good singer, but it didn't stop her. She especially loved to sing hymns and praise music at church. After she passed away I always pictured her singing in the choir in heaven.That would make her happy. Praise God that my mom was a Christian and that I will be able to see her again someday. I love my mom. She was my best friend, my mentor, my ally. My mom, Martha Sue.

Thongs, Boy Shorts, and Granny Panties

Life comes in stages. We know this. We accept this. Yet we long for things that are just beyond our grasp. This is often called human nature, but I feel that it is more "woman nature". As little girls we are bombarded by images that we strive to attain. For most of us that image is always out of our reach. We are told by society that we are to be tall, thin, and usually with long, flowing (blonde) hair. We should not have stretch marks or skin tags. Our breasts should always be perky and our legs should always be shaved. (One advantage to being single and always wearing jeans is that you never have to shave your legs. No one sees them.) Men do not live by these rules. If they don't shave they are "ruggedly handsome." Weight? Look how many tv shows feature chunky men with stunningly beautiful, thin wives. This is never portrayed the other way around. Still here we are, decades after the Woman's Liberation Movement, trying to reach these unattainable goals. In my mind women live through three distinct stages in life. I like to think of these stages as The Thong Stage, The Boy Shorts Stage, and The Granny Pantie Stage. 

During The Thong Stage we are young and firm. We wear thongs and bikini underwear and criticize our bodies for what we see. "My butt is too big. My hips are too wide. My chest is too small." We wear bikinis on the beach, then wrap our arms around our waists because we are worried about the crinkle in our stomachs when we sit. We may play and have fun, but we secretly worry over not being picture perfect. We fail to realize that our image of perfection comes from unattainable ideals of above average height, underweight, airbrushed models who are heavily made up and posed for perfection. We are young and we are insecure.

As we grow up we progress to The Boy Shorts Stage. In this stage we are fighting the fight to stay young. We may not feel comfortable in thongs and bikinis anymore but we will not wear "old lady" underwear yet. We choose boy shorts. They provide us comfort but yet are still a little sexy. We fight to keep our husbands interested in us when they are barraged with images of Victoria's Secret models. We hold together families and hold down jobs. We rush and we work and we try to keep it all together. We still do not like our bodies, but we have learned to live with the imperfections. Those of us who haven't mastered that skill have plastic surgery and botox injections. We are adults and we are insecure but resigned to that insecurity.

Then one day it hits us! The what-in-the-heck-am-I-trying-to-please-everybody-else realization. This is The Granny Pantie Stage. We are growing wiser. We are aging like fine wines. We are ready. Ready to embrace the "I want" time of our lives and if that time of our life includes big, white, cotton granny panties, then so be it! If you don't like it, don't look at my underwear! We are still insecure, but we cover up those insecurities by being outspoken. If no one has listened to us for 50 plus years, we have earned the right to say what we choose and wear big, white, cotton, granny panties. 

So today I am hear to say, "I'm fluffy and I know it. I'm trying to get healthy. I'm going to get fit. And, by golly, I choose to wear granny panties." Figuratively or literally, put on your big girl panties (whatever type they are) and realize that your beauty is more than the skin you are in and the panties you wear, it is the soul that sparkles in your eyes and the bubbles that flow from your laughter. Embrace your beauty. (And wear whatever type panties YOU choose.) 

Stop Signs

During my high school years I took Driver's Ed. Back then it was a course that most of us took for free in order to get our driver's license. Now kids, or should I say parents, have to pay for this privilege. One day I was cruising down the street when the driver's ed car stopped. I looked questioningly at my instructor. He pointed out the window and said, "Stop sign." Then we spent the next several minutes of our drive discussing problems with running a stop sign: wrecks, tickets, etc. I became highly aware of stop signs after that. To this day I come to a full stop and look when I am at a stop sign. (Yellow lights, however, are a challenge. Can I make it through? vroom.....)

Anyway, being fluffy has made me put stop signs in my life. Hmmm, do I want to wear a bathing suit on the beach? Stop sign. Will I order a dessert? Stop sign. Will I take my grandkids to an amusement park? Stop sign. Will I wear shorts because it is 98 degrees outside? Stop sign. Will I talk to the guy standing next to me in the grocery line? Stop sign. Can I get on an airplane to go visit my son? Stop sign. I need a picture of myself for my business. Stop sign. Can I sit on that lawn chair? Stop sign. And the list goes on and on and on and on. I have placed stop signs in so many areas of my life that I rarely leave the house and I never do anything fun. I want to join a group to make friends in my new town. Stop sign. 

The problem with stop signs is not the stopping. The stopping is absolutely necessary in order to stay safe. The problem lies in the fear to go on. If we stop at the stop sign but do not go through it, we will never reach our destination. I have a destination in mind. My destination is to be healthy and as happy as I possibly can. In order to reach that destination, I have to swallow my fear, say a prayer, and pull out into the intersection of life by doing things that have stopped me before. Now my foot is going to go gently on the gas pedal. I will start with the small things and move on up from there. I didn't drive the freeway my first time out. So, how about a new outfit? I'm thinking shorts and a cute top. vroommm, vroommmm! Look out, world, here I come.

The Invisible Woman

A few years ago when my children were young our washing machine broke. This was an unfortunate event because it sent me to the laundromat with a week's worth of clothing for a family of four. When I arrived at the laundromat there were two men sitting at a table talking and waiting on their laundry to finish. The table was by the big, plate glass window that housed the door to the laundromat. I lugged my giant baskets of laundry inside, trying to open and hold the door as I entered. I did this four times. I also lugged in a big bag with detergent, fabric softener, quarters, and basic laundry necessities. Each time I struggled with the door, it occurred to me that it would be very nice if one of those men would help with the door. I would have gone to help someone, man or woman. Well, maybe it was just expecting too much.

Laundry in. Standing by my washers I had a full view of the door and the outside parking lot. What do I see?   A car pulls up, a thin woman with tight clothes and big (ummm) hair gets out. She has one itty-bitty (seriously, it looked like toy) laundry basket. BOTH men jumped up, rushed to the door, one held it open and one took her basket and carried it to a washer. And it was then that I knew: fat people are invisible.

Ironic isn't it. The bigger you are, the less people pay attention to you. Well that is until you are doing something that they want to make fun of you for doing. Or of course wearing a tube top and spandex pants in Wal-Mart on a Saturday night to rent movies from the Red Box. Then you end up on countless emails and Facebook statuses. Just to clarify, I've never been in one of those emails. I dress appropriately for Wal-Mart: no makeup, my jeans with the hole in the butt, my looonnngggg black tunic (it covers the hole) and of course, Birkenstocks. They are after all one of my life's necessities!

I do not begrudge any thin person their rights. I just want everyone to know that fluffy people have rights, too. We can be tall or short, smart or not so smart, quick-witted or ditzy, nice or bullies, good cooks or microwave royalty, jolly or somber and the list goes on. We are the same as anyone else, there is just more of us. I love the video of Britain's Got Talent where Susan Boyle comes out on stage. Everyone sees the fluffy, not so attractive woman standing there with the audacity to think she could perform. Everyone is rolling their eyes and making fun of her.(Had she been in the laundromat, she would have been invisible.) But there she stood. And then, she sang. One of the most beautiful voices of our time came from that frumpy, fluffy woman and those who were dismissing her as useless, were amazed. Give fluffy a chance. Don't prejudge. The most beautiful soul may inside that fluffy body and you could miss your chance to know them.

(If you need a little inspiration, go to youtube.com and search Susan Boyle Britain's Got Talent. Prepare to be amazed.)

We'll Take a Table

Welcome to my very first blog. Ever. I am writing this blog as a way to keep myself motivated on the long journey that I am about to begin. Starting the day after tomorrow, I will officially be a member of a weight loss group. I plan to finally try to get healthy. You see, I have five absolutely gorgeous grandchildren ranging in age from 7 to 2 and I plan to see each of them grow up and have children. So, in an effort to do this I have joined a weight loss support group and started this blog, Fluffy on the Beach. I live in southwest Florida and have never been to the beach in anything but jeans. And that, my friend, is just the beginning of the problems that we "fluffy" people face. 

Now for all of you normal sized people out there we fluffy people have a whole set of problems that never cross your mind. For instance, how much thought do you put into this question when asked by a seating hostess, "table or booth?" The word "booth" in a restaurant is a dirty word. We fluffy people cannot just go sit in a booth. We have to quickly scan the area, see if the seats are movable, how much space between the seat and table, and how many skinny people are sitting around to laugh at us as we squeeeezzzzeee into the booth. So after all of this thought in one millisecond, we politely answer, "table." 

Shoes that tie. Oh.....merciful......heavens! First of all, I cannot breath while I am bent over tying, so I pray that I do not pass out from loss of oxygen. I mean when someone calls the paramedics and you have to explain that the accident occurred because you were tying your shoes. Shoot me now. But if I do manage to stay conscience, there is always the fact that fluffy people tie there shoes to the inside of their foot instead of on top. So you make every concerted effort to get that knot and bow on the top of your foot. Nobody notices but you. And skinny people never think about any of this. They tie their shoes and go about their day. I hate them. Not really. However, I have to interject here one of my favorite words, Birkenstocks.

Turnstiles. Kill me now. What if I don't fit? What if I get stuck? How many people are looking? Can I go sideways? Will it help if I hold my breath? Am I going to have to embarrass myself and look for a wheelchair gate? What are all my skinny friends, who are going right on through, thinking right now? Well, here goes! So I just shut my eyes, hold my breath, and hope for the best. Made it through but not without the bar jamming into my butt. 

And speaking of my butt, dressing room mirrors. Need I say more? Even skinny people hate that 360 degree view, but put buttzilla in there and, well, there's not enough kleenex in the world to handle that drama.

Now don't get me wrong. I understand that no one forced me to become overweight. I did it to myself. McDonald's did not force feed  Big Macs to me. Pizza Hut did not put their number on my speed dial. Potato chips did not march from the bag into my mouth while I was sleeping. (But what a nice dream that would be). I take full responsibility. No more excuses. It's time for my journey into health. I hope that you will come along for the ride. It's always nice to have a friend.