Gorge; It Ain't Just a Hole in the Earth, or Mission: Musings on My Mother

There is an ongoing debate amongst scholars and bystanders alike as to whom was actually the first person to coin the phrase, "the road to hell is paved with good intentions". I'm not gonna clear that issue up here and now, but I'm pretty sure that whoever said it may have had an affair with my mother. Don't get me wrong, my mother's heart has always been in the right place. Her head, however, has occasionally been in Altuna. Camryn Manheim (major big-girl inspiration) once said, "Parents know how to push your buttons because, hey, they sewed them on". She too, may have had an affair with my mother.

OK, I'm kidding. Frankly, my mother could've used a good affair or two. She was married for twenty-two years to a man with detachment issues and Oedipal tendencies, and believe me, that's the nicest possible way to describe him. More often than not, all my mother and I had was each other, and a relationship formed under those kind of conditions can result in one of two outcomes: you'll either wind up being best friends or you'll be ready to murder each other. My mom and I have succeeded in a little bit of both of those extremes. There is no one, and I mean no one, who has been in my corner like this lady. She has championed and supported, if not always understood, every major (and minor) endeavour I've taken on. Conversely, she has, at varying moments, made me want to find a fluffy, mewling kitten and punch it dead in the face. The evolution of our relationship from mother/child to true friend has been built on a healthy love of a good joke, red wine, and each other. But I don't always like her, and she doesn't always like me. And for as long as I can remember, one of our biggest (forgive the pun) points of contention has been my weight.

My mother, bless her svelte little heart, was about 116 pounds when she got married in 1970. As of this writing, she's 102 pounds. Five-foot four inches, in her sixties, and the body of a teenage Korean gymnast. Don't set the bar too high or anything, Mom. When I was younger, she would regale me with tales of her "chubby years", right before she hit thirteen. I was reassured ad nauseum that I simply had baby fat and I would grow out of it. Meanwhile, seventeen years later, my baby fat has attended college and been engaged twice. But I digress. The one thing you need to be made aware of, o ye wonderful reader, is that "worry" is my mother's baseline emotion. It's what she knows, it's who she is, it's all (and I do mean all) she does. At any given moment, catastrophe could befall the earth; we may all be thrust into nuclear winter, and my mother's mood will not change. In fact, it would be right up her alley. It's not her fault. It's just the way she is, and if I had to live the life she's had to, I couldn't sit here with a straight face and tell y'all that I wouldn't have ended up the same way. But my mother's worry is akin to a heat-seeking missile, and my health has all-too often been her designated target.

Have you ever noticed that your parents can say one thing to you, but because they're your parents, the way you interpret what's being said could be completely different than their intent?

Case in point:
My mother says, "Jahaira, I'm really nervous for you. If you don't change your eating habits, you could wind up with diabetes or coronary artery disease!!"

But I hear, "Goddammit Jahaira, would ya pick up a carrot stick already, you're starting to look like a small country!!"

My mom is not a malicious person. Never has been. I know she only brings the subject of my weight up because she cares about me. I know this because that's what she tells me every time we argue about it. (joke, joke, hehehe) But the fact remains, it hurts. It hurts every single time. It hurts because there's no way you can explain obesity to someone who's never been obese. It hurts because parents are supposed to love you unconditionally (in theory, anyway) and I don't feel loved when my mother goes off on her tangents in a pair of size-two Donna Karan jeans and an Escada sweater that would probably fit comfortably on my forearm. I feel enormous, and ashamed, and I want to hide in my apartment with a large pizza and shut out the world. Which is exactly how I handled my mother's little pep talks for more years than I can count. My mother's issue with me was about food, and I didn't feel good when she kvetched about food, so food was what I ran to, just as soon as I could get away from her. Which has to, has to change. Both my running and her...whatever you call it. This horse has been beaten for so long, it's glue. Hopefully MSAPF will give both of us a way out of this cycle we're in.

...It should be noted, though, that my mother almost cried with joy when I explained the Mission to her. See? I told you she supports me. =-)



P.S. Author's note: It's reprehensible to have gone this long without updating MSAPF. As some of you know, I'm in the process of securing my own apartment here in Brooklyn, and getting out of my sister's bouncy, Pantene-esque hair once and for all, which is beating the sweet hell out of any free time I have. But January 4th is looming, so I'll try to make myself more available to all of you. I hope everyone had a much healthier Thanksgiving than I did (ugh...so...much...food), and I'll post again soon!