I grew up fat.
No, not fat. 320lbs. fat, in high school.
To give you a frame of reference, we had an elephant born at the Rio Grande Zoo while I worked there, and she weighed in at 318lbs. To celebrate, they gave out these plush elephant beanie babies with “Daisy 2009,” and “318lbs.” on the other.
I had to keep that side facing the wall.
‘Cause it felt like she was taunting me with her svelte physique.
So, this is thin, for me.
No, that’s the joke: THIS is thin.
And, it’s always been like this, it’s not as though I was a skinny kid. I was the fattest kindergartner in Ms. Zwilling’s class, all the way through to prom.
My sister and I took ballet together. She was this lithe, slim, graceful ballerina in a delicate lilac costume that seemed to float around her clever legs.
My costume was bright yellow.
I looked like a lemon wearing a tutu.
I had the “Dora the Explorer” haircut.
We danced to Maurice Chevalier’s “Thank Heaven for Little Girls,” which is arguably the creepiest song on the planet:
“Every time I see a girl of 5 or 6 or 7, I can’t help but to smile, and stop, and say, “Thank Heaven.” Thank Heaven, for little girls, for little girls get bigger, every day.”
Seriously, what’s going on with Maurice Chevalier? Is he a pedophile? ‘Cause he’s sounding just that side of molestation center…
I'm Jane Malone.