Back when we Baby Boomers were growing up, it was hard to get fat. We walked to school, carrying tons of books, without the convenience of a backpack. Television was restricted to a few hours a week since our parents were told it would destroy our brains, morals, and eyes. There wasn't a lot of money yet so no one could afford to pile on the treats.
Yet, I was one of the few who pulled it off: I was the fattest kid in class, beginning in the second grade. I didn't have much company in that. It was the era of obedience. Girls were instructed not to get fat since they wouldn't land a husband. Boy were told fat would keep them off the team.
Between the sixth and seventh grade my parents sent me away, not to fat-girl camp which they couldn't afford, to my aunt's home in Virginia to lose weight. I did, for the first of what would be many many times. Despite other victories such as winning the Catholic Newark Diocese writing content and a full-tuition scholarship to Seton Hill University, Greensburg, Pennsylvania, my mother would burst into tears when my name came up among the yentas of downtown Jersey City, New York. They all predicted I would never marry. They were right.
But, we fat kids, our families, our doctors, and our guidance counselors (more about that for another post) never considered weight-loss operations. Currently, young roly-polys do. They are part of the $6 billion a year business of providing radical solutions for a very human problem.
One wonders what will happen to those who are taking this road increasingly traveled. Some will gain back the weight. Some will be grateful that the problem was fixed. Others might commit suicide. Excess eating kept me alive. Without it, my shaky sense of self couldn't have endured the pressures of the 1950s and 1960s (get married, don't get pregnant), unrealistic career ambitions (to become a brandname writer, despite no pedigree), and frayed wiring (the family's crazy Eastern European genes).
Too much food served me well. It still does.
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