My poor mother was as big as a house when she was pregnant with me. From what I’ve been told, a disagreement with her doctor over my conception date had me cookin’ in the oven for an extra 3 weeks. However, I also have it on good authority that she could eat an entire pan of brownies made from scratch in one sitting: you be the judge. Regardless of the reason, the Christmas before I was born, my dad bought my mom a HUGE t-shirt that said “RUFUS” on the chest, with an arrow pointing down to her swollen belly. I think they thought I was a boy–or were hoping for a boy. They had even decided on my name: Richard. I was to be little “Ricky”, named after my paternal grandfather.
So when I finally decided to make my grand entrance into the world–minus a few crucial boy bits–my parents scrambled for a name. While all the other little girls born that year were Jennifers, Melissas, Jessicas, or Amandas, I was stuck with what I later came to consider an unpopular name, one synonymous with outsiders, afterthoughts, and odd-balls: Stephanie. I think I was 16 before I ever met another Stephanie; now, of course, they are everywhere, but at the time I was the only one and I hated it. In fact, I think my name was the first thing that I can remember ever hating about myself, soon to be followed by my height and by the fact that, while I might have been missing those crucial boy bits at birth, by the age of 11 I was more than making up for their absence with an overabundance of…well, boobage.
Strangely enough, it wasn’t the stigma of my name or height or the size of my boobs that would haunt me into adulthood. Instead it was one simple, seemingly harmless phrase repeated over and over and over again for 30 years that did me in: “You look just like your father.”
Ordinarily, I think phrases like these are meant for parents, a congratulations of sorts at their ability to pass on their best features to their little ones. In my case, it quickly became the running joke in our family that my mother was simply a baby incubator, failing to pass on any of her genes to either my half-sister or me. Unfortunate, really, considering my mother was–hell, is–a knockout of supermodel caliber, a platinum blonde bombshell with legs for DAYS. Even when strangers would remark on our resemblance, my mother was always quick to dismiss their comments: “Oh we don’t look anything alike! I was just the carrier–you should see her father!” It wasn’t too long before I started to repeat these dismissive phrases as well, and not long after that that I started to believe them.
What’s the big deal, you’re wondering? So you look like your dad–what’s the problem? The problem is that for as long as I can remember, my dad has been more than a little overweight (picture John Goodman in his Roseanne days). At 6′3″, he’s already a physically imposing guy, and in his younger days before I was born, I’m told he was really quite active. But an old football knee injury aggravated by a particularly spirited hand ball game early in my infancy sent my dad to the sidelines. Having a young family, new baby, and a wife who could cook a decent meal (remember the pans of brownies?), his activity level decreased…and his waistline increased. Time flew and before he knew it, there was no turning back. He’s been stuck in a vicious cycle of fluctuating weight for 20 years, and now it’s more than just the old knee injury that holds him captive: sleep apnea keeps him exhausted from lack of sleep, adult-onset diabetes limits him, and his own shame about his body prevents him from casting off the ball and chain that quite literally weighs him down.
So here I sit in the final months before my 30th birthday, reflecting on all of my “issues” (the chubby issue being the biggest) and I had a breakthrough. After being told for 30 years that you look exactly like your dad, and your dad–who is brilliant and funny and charming and whom you love with all your heart–also happens to be fat, comments like “You’re just like your dad” get twisted, and take on the meaning “YOU are fat”. Subconsciously, I have grown up all my life believing that I am fat.
Now, I may be curvy, yes. Boobalicious? Absolutely. And to describe me as “tall” is understating things a bit. But FAT? This, my friends, is simply NOT TRUE. I realize that none of you have ever seen a picture of me through which you could verify my non-fatness–in fact, you didn’t even know my real name until about 600 words or so ago–and believe me, I would attempt to remedy that situation if it weren’t for the fact that I stopped posing for the camera years ago (started avoiding cameras like the plague in fact). But trust me–I see women with my body type on the street every day, and the last word that I would use to describe them is “fat”.
Don’t get me wrong-I don’t suddenly think I’ve got a free pass to skip the gym for the rest of my life. Like most people out there, there’s a bit of toning and trimming of the mid-section that needs some ongoing attention. But after my breakthrough, I feel like I finally have an accurate mental picture of my body that is grounded in reality. I can finally match the confidence that I have in myself as a person with newfound confidence that I have with my body. After 30 years, I feel like I can look at myself in the mirror and see a beautiful woman who is feminine, unique, and desirable. A woman who, just like her dad, is also brilliant, funny, charming, and whom people love with all their hearts.
