We had been invited to a barn dance to celebrate a friend's thirtieth wedding anniversary. Dancing is one thing I absolutely love to do. I do ballet exercises to stay in shape almost every morning, and dance with my husband at every oppportunity. These were local people, good friends and members of the church, and we joyously accepted their invitation.
I have always battled against overweight. I guess this is the reason I felt comfortable using the term "fat lady." It may seem rude in these times when people are "people of size" or "big and beautiful", but if you are one, I think you have every right to say it. I had been very proud to lose weight and go from a size 44 to a 16. I'm tall (5'10"), and should weigh between 150 and 165 pounds. I looked good and felt good. I wanted to look nice for the party, and thought a new denim skirt would be perfect for a barn dance. It would fit the theme, hide the three maxi pads I was using at a time, and be relatively safe in case of a nasty little accident. I was still croaking, whispering and bleeding, but felt fairly well. I was still able to manage my businesses and do all my regular work. Maybe I was a bit lacking in the "wifely" department, but nothing in public showed.
I never realized how little I had been eating and how frequently I had been vomiting. I often skipped meals, simply unable to face the prospect of eating food. Things I used to enjoy now made me nauseous, and I'll admit to throwing up in any toilet, garbage can, driveway or bed of lilies that was handy when the overwhelming nausea gripped me. I also hadn't bought any new clothes recently. Sure, my clothes were getting a little loose, and I could pull jeans off and on without unbuttoning and unzipping them. But this was kind of a blessing in disguise. At least I wasn't fat.
I went shopping for the new denim skirt and found one I really liked. It had snaps all the way down the front and was a typical navy blue. I tried on a 16, and it fell to the floor. I moved down a size, and the same thing happened. A 12? Could fat old me wear a 12? Not only could I wear a 12, but a 12 was too big. I came home with soaring emotions, probably the happiest this fat lady had ever been. I had bought a size 8! That's a small size for a tall woman. Oh, how good it felt to wear an eight! I wasn't fat!
That evening, after I had lovingly hung my new skirt on a hanger, I looked at it. My joy started to drain away. The elation at being thin crumbled beneath me. Yes, I was thin - perhaps too thin - but it wasn't a healthy slimness. I was sick. Just plain sick. I closed my closet door and cried.