My kids like to show their friends that I am “famous.”
Ah-hem. What I like to call “Z-list famous.” In other words, I am not famous, but more famous that maybe a friend’s mom who works at Dell.
But still, let’s be clear: not famous.
For some reason, Googling each other’s parents is a sport at school.
Today, I learned that one of the kids said to my son: “Your mom is fat.” My twelve-year old son decided to let me know. He said that had to get it off his chest. Glad you could get that off your chest, I thought.
Of course, I’m not mad at him. But now that’s on my chest, I thought.
I am turning forty next month. I’m always a little surprised when I tell this to people — and they’re like, “You are just turning 40?” How is one to take that information? Do I look way older that just turning 40? What does that mean?
Sorry, sidebar. Back to the “your mom is fat” thing.
I have to admit, that one stung. In all sorts of ways. Made me feel yucky for all the reasons that have always bothered me. It bothers me on several layers now, too, because I want to scream: “Is being ‘fat’ the worst thing a person can be in the world? For the love.”
But also, because I have worked so hard, sacrificed so many meals and the like to be how I am right now — “still fat” and out of the mouth of babes, apparently. I missed out on spaghetti and chocolate for a year, and for what? I still look exactly the same? Even then… okay, so what? What would be so wrong with looking like me, fat or thin, anyway?
Yuck. All of it. All sides of it. All body image thoughts: yuck.
So here I am. Knowing full well that it’s my choice to decide how to let that impact me. After spending several days reading my upcoming audio book in studio, I know especially how important it is to create my own Names (and Numbers), and decide what I will be called. What versions of body image I accept about myself.
What scripts I am reading about my body, my version of Health.
But yeah, there’s something so much worse about a young person calling you on the very insecurities you have, have always had.
Did he look at an older picture of me? Or is it one of me, now? I asked my son.
He looked at me confused.
Nevermind, I muttered, It doesn’t matter.
I think it’s the culmination of recent events.
Of course, everyone loves a good dose of uncertainty in life. The uncertainty around my book launch, the publicity, the every-breath-and-ounce-of-energy-and-financial I have put into this book… It’s the weirdest feeling.
I have evidence that the book will do well. After all, Target and Wal-mart have thrown their hat into the ring with it — and it’s getting some good shelf space in Barnes & Noble. But then I can’t get the uncertainty of it all out of my head. What happens now? Next? Then?
You know, the standard: what do I do with my life after this happens?
[The time lapse from writing a book and it reaching the world (traditionally published) is something just short of an eternity, by the way.]
There’s so much noise out there right now. Trying to “get to” people in order to even say “hey you might like my book” feels impossible. I hate “selling” things, too. I genuinely think that struggling people will like the book and that it will be helpful. What about something like:
Hey, if you’re struggling, you might like my book, because hell — this author is struggling too.
Regardless, a big year it has been, this 2019. But yet, the uncertainty I feel right now has been crazy. Did I mention I’m working through trauma as well? Oh, that too.
And then, “your mom is fat.” Oh what the fuck ever is really what I want to say.
But that’s not how I feel. But yet, I know that it, in fact, does not matter. I’m seriously not in the business of making this matter and taking a 12 year-old’s word for anything at the moment. Still, the zing, the pain of it was real.
That makes me crazy.
Just when I have myself and the world convinced that there is some form of self-acceptance going down, I am torn to shreds by a twelve year-old. And I have to wonder: when will this sort of Nonsense cease.