Today was 9 Health-Fair day. Steve and I go every year. For very little money we get comprehensive blood work. So, this morning we followed our usual routine of going to the health-fair and then, after 12 hours of fasting, going out for a big, fattening, unhealthy breakfast.
The health-fair routine is pretty predictable. Wait in line for your turn to get blood drawn. Sit down at the table and have the nurse or paramedic or whomever, wrap a tourniquet around your upper arm. Here is where the story develops a tiny little bit of plot. To me they say, “You’ll feel a little pinch.” Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don’t. A few minutes later they slap a Band-Aid on my arm and I’m done. Meanwhile, Steve’s arm is being examined by multiple people who mutter things like, “Oh dear.” Sometimes they just hum ominously while shaking their heads.
I leave the blood draw room for what follows. Typically, one person attempts to draw Steve’s blood by poking his arm several times. Then another person takes over and they poke around for a while. Then Steve turns white and they start asking if he’s okay or needs to lie down. He declines the lying down part. More poking ensues and eventually they manage to find a vein and draw out enough blood to test.
I’ve usually covered the entire health-fair in the time it takes him to give a vial of blood. Today was no exception. Each health related exhibit at the fair has literature to give away and I always decline taking it because I know I’ll just throw it away after I’ve read it. As I was passing the Breast Cancer booth I was captivated by the macabre little models of breast tumors compared with various fruits. While looking at the tumor vs. raspberry model, a woman came up from another booth and thrust a pamphlet toward me. She asked me if I was aware of Overeaters Anonymous.
Um. I guess I have heard of it. Yes. She proceeded to shake the pamphlet in front of my hands and insisted I take it. I politely said, “Thank you but, I don’t have a problem with compulsive eating.” At this point she and another woman gave each other knowing glances, smiled and one of them said, “Oh that’s what I used to say, too!” The other one chimed in, “I was still saying that sixty pounds ago!”
I felt confused. Were they talking to me!?
I actually looked down my body at my abdomen and my thighs assessing their size. I thought for a minute I might have ballooned out or something. I began to get concerned that I was overweight and had only been fooling myself about being average. Like maybe I have reverse anorexia where I think I’m of average weight when I’m really obese.
Against my better judgment, I took the quaking brochure while the women explained that there were support groups available every day of the week. I nodded numbly and I managed to slip through a few people to escape further condemnation of the Overeaters Anonymous women.
They didn’t seem so anonymous to me!
I felt a bit shaken by the whole thing and went to have my bone density tested. I’d been reading about bone density lately and thought I’d see what that was all about. I felt somewhat relieved at getting a borderline low density assessment since women with low bone density are typically smaller framed and not overweight.
And then I got a grip on myself.
Why is it so easy, in this culture, to make a woman feel inadequate about her weight? What is wrong with this situation that I would actually, if only for a moment, entertain the idea that having a borderline low bone density is a GOOD thing because it meant I wasn’t large?
When I finally met up with Steve and his battered, bruised, arm I told him the story. Of course, he laughed, and reminded me that in this culture we all have to have some ‘problem.’
I reminded him that I do have a problem. She’s elderly and calls me several times a day.
I was able to enjoy my pancakes with syrup and several cups of coffee as we visited and watched Steve’s arm swell and turn blue. I’m sure there are people out there for whom Overeaters Anonymous is a life-saver. I have no doubt that the organization is valid and helpful and much needed. What bothered me was how much it bothered me that they singled me out as someone who needed their organization!
Who I am is not defined by how much I weigh. No woman should feel that her value and worth are defined by her size and shape. And yet…all it took was one pushy, not-so-anonymous, overeater to make me question myself. I overcame my insecurity fairly quickly. How many other women wouldn't be able to?
What I couldn’t,overcome, however, was how unappealing my breakfast raspberries looked.
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