The Fat Whisperer, not to be confused with the vagina whisperer is a totally different beast all together. Instead of being the bringer of of all things awesome, the fat whisperer brings the truth and leaves crying women in it’s wake. I admire the honesty and determination of the fat whisperer but I think perhaps, I could probably live without the brutal honesty of the fat whisperer. Sometimes when faced with the fat whisperer, it is best to just turn your eyes downward and not ask questions because more than likely you will have something whispered to you that you wish you never heard.
I try to raise my girls to know that people come in all shapes, sizes, and colors and most importantly to be comfortable in their own skin. Why else do I expose them to Wal-Mart and public parks? I pound this into their tiny little heads with my Mommy mallet voice. But I am human (as is evidenced by my love handles). In the presence of my daughters, I REALLY try to refrain from the self-deprecating questions such as “Do these jeans make me look fat?” “Does this dress make my hips look wide” “Does this turtle neck look like its going to make my head pop off my shoulders”. It’s a 24-hour a day job, just trying not to be a bad example. Apparently, I’m failing miserably.
4 year old: “Mommy, I want you to be tall and straight like Daddy.”
By the whisper, I concluded that she was trying diplomatically to say something that was, in fact, insulting (sort of like a southern belle giving a compliment. No? Is that just my Mom?)
The fat whisperer cometh
My husband is 6’5″; I understand that he is taller than me. But what the hell did she mean by “straight”?
I couldn’t leave it alone, “Mommy is a girl and normally, we are shorter than boys. I can’t do anything about that.”
The 4 year old, “But you can get straight!”.
Completely befuddled I ask, “Honey, what do you mean that you want me to be “straight like Daddy”? *In retrospect, I can’t believe just how completely clueless I was.
The Fat Whisperer speaks the Truth
Fat whisperer 4 year old sizes me up and says, “You know, straight, with none of this!”
By this, I deduced from the fact that she was rubbing my love handles that she meant my extra jelly on the roll I sport around my midsection. Talk about an awkward moment. The Mommy’s perfect goggles had come off. I was hoping that I had a few more years of perfection but no, the fat whisperer has spoken and I must work out. No more avoiding the gym.
I’m not morbidly obese, or maybe I am to her, who knows what I look like to a small child. I am no longer a size 5. I’m a well-established resident in double-digit land.
To add insult to already injured ego, the Fat whisperer was engaged in a full on dialogue with an “imaginary friend”. Well, that’s what I’m assuming. If not, we’ve got bigger issues than the size of the junk in my trunk.
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I made the fatal mistake, “You’ll still love Mommy even if I’m not straight, right?”
Exasperated, “Yeah, Mommy! But some people are like ‘Hey look at that fat girl!’ But I’m like, ‘Hey, don’t say that! She’s my Mommy and she’s perfect!”
Then she looks me in the eye and shrugs, “I still love you anyways, Mommy!” and walks away.
Then she turns back to me and says nonchalantly, “It’s OK Mommy, they say it about Daddy and Saffron (the dog) too. They’re like ‘Hey, look at that stupid guy walking that ugly dog!’
I can lose weight, but what about the moron I’m married to and that damn ugly dog? The moral of the story is buy skinny mirrors for the house, put blinders on the kids and forbid all imaginary friends lest you fall victim to the Fat whisperer.
The Fat Whisperer
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