And thus, as I approach my 65th birthday, and despite hovering between a size 8 and a size 10, I am still--always--on a diet and still weighing myself daily and still working towards that same goal. My sister, father and mother are all gone, yet I am stuck with the early imprint of living with that particular threesome for the first 18 years of my life, allowing me to feel superior to the likes of Oprah Winfrey, a successful billionaire, because of her unseemly girth.
What damaging message have I passed on to my own child, I wonder. When I ask him that now he usually gives a flippant reply, like saying I made him think he was going to die any minute or I was going to die any minute, simply because I told him when he asked, at age three, that people indeed can and do die any minute! (The other mothers answered this same question by saying "only old people die," which we all know is a crock, and I refused to lie to my son. Never have, never will.) But will he live his life in fear of being hit by that wayward bus I told him could run over any of us at any minute?
Oh well, at least he's thin.