Chapter 4- The other F word

If asked to describe your own physical appearance, how accurate do you think you’d be? How well do you really know what you look like? It dawned on me when I was in my early teens that I really couldn’t establish a solid mental image of my own face. I mean, I know what I look like sort of, but it’s only through the eyes of others that our features are truly appreciated, because we don’t know anything about them ourselves. Similarly, what does your body look like? Are you tall compared to other people, do you have large, Herculian calves that you should be aware of? These are all questions that are interesting to pose to oneself, because to me it reflects how little we truly know about our outer selves, and can probably be directly correlated to our inner selves.

If you had asked me any of these questions when I was nine or ten years old, assuming you’d gotten a hold of my fleeting attention, I wouldn’t have known the answer, nor would I have cared. I think most children would respond this manner, far too concerned with the swash-buckling pirates in their bedroom, or the jungle full of venomous snakes in the backyard. They don’t have time to consider their own waif-ish figure, or stubby fingers, let alone the grape jelly smeared all over their face from lunch. However, just like all blissful ignorance, someday they come to reckon with it. They see, or are forced to see, their own body image in contrast to the others around them. I don’t know that everyone can recall this exact moment, but I certainly can, in painstaking detail.

It was May. I’ve always loved May because it’s my birth month. It’s also the first month of nice weather in southern Ohio, because in April it feels like God’s faucets are leaking and he’s too cheap to get them fixed. Finally, as a child, I really loved May because all children knew that the end of the school year was fast approaching. In May the course work lets up a little bit, summer plans begin brewing, and even the teachers seem happier, which in turn, makes everyone happier. When Mrs. Milnes began wearing sleeveless blouses and sundresses to teach in we all knew that there wouldn’t be any homework that day. God bless her milky arms.

During the year in question, I was in the fifth grade and I had Mr. Schleup (pronounced shloop) who was by far the coolest teacher I’d ever had. His affinity for the Ohio State Buckeyes, the college football team of Columbus, Ohio, was unparalleled. He loved them so much, that he denied us the right to say the full name of their rivals the “ichagan Wolverines.” He felt that by forcing us to drop the M in Michigan we were sending them bad mojo, and that it immediately stripped them of all their power. Such was my fifth grade teacher, sacrificing the correct pronunciation of one of our fifty states, for the opportunity to deface a college football team. That’s the sign of a damn good teacher.

Anyhow, that year was full of adventure. I had my first girlfriend, Erin Everhart, who decided that we could go out, but only if I didn’t tell anyone, never touched her while other people were around, and that we’d never ever kiss, in public or private, a detail I wasn’t all too shaken by, if ya know what I mean. I also lost my very last baby tooth right in the middle of class that year, which I believe my mother still has in a baggy somewhere. Finally, as I was mentioning previously, I was forced to look at myself, and see what others saw every day.

Fifth grade is an odd time. There really aren’t attractive fifth graders. Either they have just finished their cute phase, doomed to five or so years of puberty, big hands, big feet, and a huge head, until their body finally catches up. Or they’ve never been cute, and soon enough they’ll grow up to be a swan, once they’ve regrown all of their teeth, which, being from southern, Ohio, may be less than you can count on two hands. Needless to say, no one was having their door beaten down by Gucci, requesting them for a shoot in Milan to model the latest in swishy jogging pants that year.

So, it’s May, the best time of the year while you’re still in school. Mr. Schleup has begun wearing the khaki shorts to class on those warmer of days, and even a polo on occasion, to get his annual farmer’s tan started. Homework becomes less and less, final tests are taken in certain subjects; it’s such a beautiful thing when the end is in sight. So, on one of his “Bermuda-days” we’ll call them, Mr. Schleup decides to throw us an ‘end-of-the-school-year’ party, complete with cookies, punch and everyone’s favorite: LIMBO!

Now, this would be a good time to mention that somewhere in my gene pool, someone along the way must have had a back made entirely of rubber, because one of the most interesting details about my body is my unrealistically flexible back. I can bend to a fully horizontal position, and hold it for days, as if nothing is wrong. I’ve watched full episodes of Friends like that, eaten dinner, assuming it isn’t soup, and even informed the military, should this outrageous talent be needed to end world hunger or something of equal global charity. With this knowledge in mind, as well as my incredibly competitive nature, what do you think ran through my young mind at the mention of limbo? Sheer, unbridled bliss, intertwined with the desire to prove once and for all what kind of a man I was through a display of extreme back-bending.

It started off innocently enough. The broom stick was set so high that nearly everyone made it through, leaving only the astronomically tall, or the terribly apathetic by the wayside. Soon enough the stick was held lower and lower, and eventually, only three cheerleaders, the shortest boy in class, and myself were left. It was getting to the boiling point as the broom was put at an uncharacteristically low level. One cheerleader made it through, the next did not. The final one didn’t either, making me very nervous about this next pass. The short guy, Andrew was half way under when he began coughing, and lost his balance. As he tumbled to the floor beneath the unbelievably low limbo rod, my palms began to sweat. I knew I wanted to win, and to do so, I’d have to make it through. I had no particular animosity towards the dumb, chunky-highlighted cheerleader, but in that moment, full of adrenaline, I wanted to make her head explode with my outrageous bending abilities. I did a few crowd-teasing stretches, pretending that I actually needed to limber up. With them all riled up and ready to go, I began my decent. I had a strong start, but began to waiver when the bar got to my nose. At that point I could have licked the bar it was so close to my face, but soon decided not too, as it was from the stinky janitor’s closet. At any rate, the sweat was rolling off my temples, and I used a technique not often mastered by even the best of limbo-ers. I rotated my ankles outward, walking on the inside of my feet, while bending my knees to keep me well supported. With my balance in tact, I made it all the way through reaching victory. I may not have won yet, but at least I was still in the running.

When I made my ascent I was certain that I’d surely go deaf, due to the maddening rush of screams, exaltations, and vows of love and admiration from my adoring fans. I assumed that they would bum-rush me, throwing a bucket of Gatorade, or perhaps a blanket made of flowers, as though I’d just won the Triple Crown or my third Super Bowl. No matter what preparations I had made for their awe and wonder, nothing could have helped me understand the reaction I received. Laughter. Tons and tons of laughter. For some reason everyone in the entire classroom was laughing, and from the tone and pitch I didn’t get a good feeling. It sounded almost like the kind of laughter you only produce when several others are joined in. Almost a kind of “peer pressure” laughter, knowing that even though it’s cruel, not to join in would be forfeiting the opportunity to get a good chuckle in. Baffled by their mirth I wondered if they’d ever calm down enough to continue the competition. I even spotted my opponent wiping tears from her face, tears of joy mind you, leaving me to believe that she wasn’t interested in our duel any longer. Totally stumped and mildly crest-fallen, I walked over to my desk as the crowd began to dissipate. Drinks were had, cookies eaten, and everything just went back to normal, except I still hadn’t the foggiest as to what they were so amused by. Nearly half an hour had passed when my friend, Alison Schmidt, came over and we began meaningless small talk, although isn’t everything meaningless when your aspirations of limbo stardom are dashed for no reason? In our conversing I finally made a point of asking what had been so humorous.

“You want to know why we were laughing after the limbo thing?” she wondered. She said it as though it should have been a joke that I myself was in on.

“Yeah, I made it through, and instead of cheering or anything, everyone in the classroom was laughing. What happened? Did I do something funny, or did someone else make fun of me or something?” I really was at a loss when she finally clued me in.

“Well, umm… you’re wearing a white shirt today.”

“So?”

“And, well… when you went under that last time, the stick was really low.”

“I know, that’s why I don’t understand why people laughed.” I shot back; frustrated that she wouldn’t just say it. She seemed to be hoping that she’d be relieved of the duty by simply hinting, letting my mind do the work for her.

“Well, while you were under, your shirt got kinda tight so we could see your nipples, and it pretty much looked like you had boobs. Like, because of your weight, and the way you were holding yourself, it made you look like you had really big boobs all of a sudden.”

Shock. Gasp. Wow, did she just say “because of your weight?” What weight? Was my size any more or less than anyone else’s in class? I began to frantically survey the room, my mind leaping from John’s slender hips, to the lack of breast on Ryan, who was sipping juice and flirting with Erin, my fake girlfriend. Although, were it true, that I had breasts, I’m sure Erin would dump me out of sheer jealously alone. I reeled at this concept of weight, and had truly never given it any thought before.

And there we have it. That was the moment. Gone was my ability to wear anything I wanted. Gone was the hope that what I wore didn’t matter because I had a fun personality. Gone was the bliss of ignorance. In its place were boobs, teenaged boy man boobs. I also now understood why my all of my Bugle Boy jeans had an H next to the size. It stood for husky. And that’s just what I was, husky. What an awful sounding word for a child to hear about his or her size. Why couldn’t it be a little less painful like V for Voluptuous or FF for Full Figured? Hell, the H can’t even stand for Heavy, which I’d certainly prefer to Husky.

I spent the rest of the party drinking juice, abstaining from cookies, and looking at everyone else with new eyes, eyes that saw the little bit of fat hanging over someone’s jeans, or the definition of an arm muscle. That day begin for me the never ending desire to please other people with my body, and stripped me of the ability to be content with what I had, which from then on I always felt was abundant.

Despite the shock, I didn’t cry that day, because it seemed stupid to me. I hadn’t been outside of myself to see these boobs that they spoke of, so I began to wonder if they really did exist. How beautiful denial can be, even at such a young age. I went home and didn’t talk about anything that day in fear that I’d accidentally mention my boobs, forcing my mother to lie, or tell the truth, both of which I feared. Sensitivity is an odd thing in my family. Being so full of pride, if one needs a little sympathy for something other than death, divorce, or gambling debt, it’s giving out sparingly, if even at all. Also, there seems to be a bit of a clause that comes along with it, denoting that the bearer of the sympathy is also entitled to use said sympathy as a jibe at the mourners expense at the next family function. Humor in my family isn’t an opportunity to add fun, wacky energy to a situation. Rather it is the opportunity to speak what on your mind through biting social commentary, some call it passive aggressive, I just think it belongs on Jerry Springer. Needless to say, I learned early on that if something bad happened, like a scraped knee, or perhaps a classroom full of 11 year olds laughing at your over-sized “mammories”, that you’d keep it to yourself until a college psychologist would be forced to rip it out of you 10 years later. Sounds healthy enough right?

At any rate, throughout my life, forever changed after that particularly embarrassing day in May, I gave more attention to my body that it really deserved. I spent a lot of time in residual frustration either eating, or not, depending on which disorder I had that week, and fretting over every article of clothing, begging that it would fulfill my only wish: to minimize my over-sized bosom. Although she was unaware of my past, a professor in college told me that I’d be a more compelling performer if I hit the gym a few times a week. This news acted as a catalyst for my disease, as the following summer I could always be found on the West Side Highway, roller-blading off all the calories that I wasn’t eating. After coming back to college, to the praise of many a classmate, I discovered marijuana to ease the frustration, and slowly packed it all back on, fistful by fistful of chips and donuts. Damn munchies!

Over time, and through the love of my life, Scott, I developed an amicable agreement with my body. I wouldn’t plague it with anymore crazy diets, or outrageous plans, as long as it continued to please my boyfriend. Eventually, after realizing that diabetes was a threat in my family, I even began eating healthier, and working out, putting me in the best shape I had ever been in. Regardless, my life would never be the same after that experience. Even today, despite my figure, and all the great sex, with each French fry I eat, or every piece of deep-fried calamari, I still see a young boy on a trip to K-Mart with his mother, her cart full of “H” jeans, while he sadly eyes the women’s section, contemplating his own bra size.