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Dancer

Dancer: (n) a person who dances professionally

In the world of fruits and vegetables, it would be pretty well assumed that string beans would make good dancers, but cantaloupes and pumpkins–not so much.

Matter of fact, when you see a rotund human dancing, it normally is on a YouTube, which has many views by people who find it hilarious to spy such a sight.

I don’t know whether it’s the mixture of the bouncing jowls in the face, the pinking of the cheeks or the extra blubber shifting like the tide.

But it’s pretty well accepted that those who dance on Broadway live on lettuce and smells.

So when I—more in the melon family of appearance—put on a play many years ago which demanded some dancing and found myself unable to cast one of the major parts, I was encouraged by the other cast members to take on the challenge, break down some barriers and hoof my way through the performance.

I’ve always been pretty athletic. (Candidly, when you’re fat, athletic can be walking through a china shop without knocking over some bullshit.)

So I learned the dancing, practiced it, and got to the point that I could do the numbers without completely gasping for breath.

But as I stood backstage on opening night, getting ready to make my entrance, hearing the mumbling of the audience, I was completely terrified.

All the stereotypical reactions about “prancing fat boys” raced to my brain and did their own little tap dance all over the state of my confidence.

And sure enough, when I entered the stage in my costume and began the shuffling of my feet that would lend itself to dancing, I heard giggles from the gallery.

I was humiliated.

I was frightened.

But I also realized that doing it halfway would only make it look worse.

So I sold out.

And—as often happens when one sells out—half of the audience admired the hell out of me, and the other half was pissed because I made them feel a little naughty about their judgment.

I am not a dancer.

At best I am an agile beach ball, bouncing on the sand—scurried by the wind.

 

Buoyant

j-r-practix-with-border-2

Buoyant: (adj) able or apt to stay afloat

I was nearly sixteen years old before I worked up the courage to take my shirt off and slide into a swimming pool with other people my age.

I was fat.

When you’re a teenager and fat, you’re convinced that everything is much more dramatic and even bulbous than it actually may be.

For instance, I was frightened that my lips were too big. Matter of fact, I asked my mother if there were any blacks in our ancestry. There weren’t. For you see, my lips weren’t too big–they only appeared that way when they were placed an inch-and-a-half away from a mirror.

I also thought I might have accidentally inherited women’s breasts. I was sure if I took my shirt off, someone would notice this, or if there was a doctor in the house it could be diagnosed. Of course, nothing was further from the truth. My belly was so big it made my chest look flat. Nevertheless, the notion lived and breathed in my mind.

So when I finally did work up the courage to get into the pool on one summery afternoon, I waded into the deep end, and when I stopped waving my arms, I realized I could stand in the water without having to tread.

I was so damned impressed with myself.

I was buoyant.

The rest of my friends swimming around me were ferociously trying to keep afloat by moving their arms and legs. But not me.

I was so proud of the discovery that I shared it with everybody in the pool. Many people were equally as astounded.

For a brief moment I gained the status of “the man who could float on water.”

I was empowered.

And then one of the adults who was in the pool with us (for some reason feeling the need to be truthful) swam over and explained to me and all my followers that the reason I was able to float in the water without moving my arms was that fat floats–is buoyant–and was lifting me up in the pool and holding me in place.

One of the girls I was desperately trying to impress crinkled her face as if trying to gain greater wisdom.

“So what you’re saying,” she said, “is that he’s like a beach ball–because you can’t drown a beach ball. It keeps popping to the surface.”

The grown-up nodded, feeling he had successfully achieved explaining the premise.

I lost my entourage. No one was impressed anymore.

For after all, how attractive is a human beach ball?

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Adorn

Words from Dic(tionary)

dictionary with letter A

Adorn: (v) to make more beautiful or attractive: e.g.pictures and prints adorned the walls.

If you’ve never been fat, it’s an interesting journey.

First of all, it’s one of the few physical conditions that has degrees of intensity. For instance, we don’t say that someone is “black, blacker or blackest.” But we DO say that people are “overweight,” “fat,” “obese” and “morbidly obese.” (I guess you have to find your slot and try to slide your plump form into it.)

But extra pounds do give you one interesting advantage: you have to commit to the concept that you’re ALWAYS on a diet (whether you are or not.) So when you notice that folks are eyeballing bulbous parts of your being, you can inform them that you are fully aware of your deficiency and are aggressively addressing it with some new-fangled regimen. Unfortunately, there are times that you see the same people again within a three-month period, so then you have to resort to trickery. Otherwise, the more aggressive members will ask you how the diet’s going and the others will look upon you with sympathetic eyes.

This is why you have to learn to adorn yourself in certain types and colorations of clothing, in order to mask the magnitude of your mass. Now, one would think that the looser the clothing, the better off you would appear visually. Not so. After all, if you want to make a beach ball look bigger, drape it in a tablecloth. If you want to make a beach ball look smaller, you must constrict it some way–perhaps in a bag, preferably of a dark color.

So one of the tricks about being a big person is to know that your salvation during seasons of “blossoming” is to have that perfect all-black outfit, which includes black socks and black shoes. If you move to a pattern, a color, or God forbid, a plaid, you will be advertising yourself as the billboard you have become. But simply wearing well-fitted black clothing can convince all your friends that you have suddenly lost twenty pounds.

It’s called adorning yourself well.

If you’re going to be unwise–one of those portly people who insist on wearing current fashion even though it was never envisioned for any size above an eight in a woman and a medium in a man, you must be prepared to be pitied. Adorning oneself is recognizing your weakness and instead of resenting the hell out of it, finding heavenly ways to disguise it. This is why a beige wall always looks better with a picture hanging on it.

The picture doesn’t even have to be very good … just not beige.