august 17, 2001. Last night I called my mother at work to arrange a tuition-type loan, so that I can leave for Toronto without worrying that jack-booted geeks are going to break into my house and recapture my laptop. We were chatting, the kind of frenetic chatting that we fall into when there's a lot of news and/or it's late in the day and/or neither of us wants to be where she is. She mentioned a 900-pound woman on her floor; I told her about the year Wendy's mother had her stomach stapled. "Did I ever give you body image issues?" she said, obviously hoping for a negative reply. "Well, I recently figured out that I hate my body because you hated your body, and we have the same body." "Oh." "Mum, do you think I need to lose weight?" I said, oh-so-casually. I cringe just thinking about my off-hand tone. "Well. Your tummy could be tighter. But that's because you slouch so much." Shock. Horror. Big, salty tears. Understand: she never raised me to be ashamed of myself (I learned that from the media just like all the other little feminist girls). She never restricted my portions or signed me up for sports to keep me in shape (which, come to think of it, might not have been such a bad idea if properly handled). She never talked about dieting during my 8-month engagement, other than in reference to herself. And the way she said it was so damn matter-of-fact. Like she was saying that I had a thread hanging from my clothes, or that my fly was open. Or that my hair was greasy or that my breath could kill a horse. (Okay, when she did infrequently say those last 2 things during my girlhood, there was a bit more heat in her voice than last night's passionless evaluation.) It was just something that she thought, and thinking it, said to me. Nothing personal. Nothing that even suggested disapproval with my lifestyle, nothing that insinuated that I was weak and worthless. Nothing more than a simple statement. But oh, how the hot tears rolled down my face. For a few seconds I felt childishly vindictive. I've never thought that she was anything other than beautiful and exactly as she should be, and it would've been so easy to be embarrassed by her when I was a teenager and I wasn't!!! (Well, I was, but over personality issues and matters of personal style rather than weight.) I snapped out of this fairly quickly, which is a blessèd relief. How dare I attempt to count up instances of my filial love like poker chips and then try to cash them at the booth of self-pity?? I was ducking the issue. But honestly, I haven't been really upset about my (terrible) posture since I was in 7th grade. That was the year I worried about the colour of my teeth (stained by caffeine; neglected by indifferent dental care), the skin on my nose (greasy, with wide, blocked pores), my squishy belly (grown round with indulgence & physical ineptitude) and of course my small, underdeveloped breasts. Since then my skin has improved and I brush my teeth rather more regularily...but a brief period of teenage slenderness has given way to a return of the belly. And, well, my breasts never did develop all that much, which I considered a huge cheat: the wide hips, round face & fat ass were all voted into office, but there's no proportionate representation in the chestal districts. Anyway. My mom is no dummy; she caught onto the silent sobbing in a matter of seconds so soon she was crying right along with me as she sat in the nurse's station. This smartened me up considerable - I had to pull myself together quickly, before she could be too embarrassed at work. So yeah. That's what I learned tonight. That my mother thinks (or recognizes, rather) that I have terrible posture, which causes me to look fatter than I am. After we hung up and I could take stock of myself, I decided to plunge all my unrealistic hopes into belly dancing and yoga. Because if I don't come out in December with a washboard stomach, at least I'll have energy to spare and one of those cute I Dream of Jeanie outfits. Besides, yoga is all about being who you are, except more flexible & strong. This is something I can get behind. P.S. You must realize that I keep mentioning my September exercise plan so that it'll be out there in print and I can't chicken out. Never underestimate the motivating power of ridiculous pride. this time last year: rehersal dinner & much fooling around