fingah

Yes, it’s time for another installment of Tales from the Scale scale scale scale. Today’s tale from the scale is brought to you by the Special Olympics (They haven’t really endorsed this post, I’m just giving them a shout out). This tale takes us back about 5 years? Tanner was involved in soccer through the Special Olympics and we had been attending practice every week for months awaiting the big day when we would go to the actual Special Olympics to play against another worthy team.

Like most people I’m sure, I had never given much thought to the Special Olympics until I had a child with special needs. I was aware of it and figured it was a way for kids with challenges to take part in activities they might not have access to otherwise. We’ve all heard the stories about some of these other soccer & basketball teams; the ones where you hear stories of parents who get WAY too invested in their kid’s performance and go a bit nuts if there happens to be a child on the team who isn’t quite the sporting dynamo their child is. God forbid, they miss that catch or get caught traveling! I don’t get it at all, but apparently some people have less of a life than I do and feel their only alternative is to live vicariously through their 7-year-old. For these reasons, our kidlets are often not all that welcome in “regular” team sports. For our kids, it really is about having fun and quite frankly, sometimes they are just as likely to stop and smell the roses mid-field than make that winning goal.

Once Tanner got involved in Special Olympics, I began to see it for what it really was; a place for these kids to experience SUCCESS and ACHIEVEMENT in a world that persistently tried to remind them that life was just a whole lot harder for them than it was for the average kid. You haven’t seen anything until you’ve seen a child who, just that very morning, may have struggled to tie his shoes, standing on a pedestal and proudly accepting a medal for his/her team. It’s amazing!

Because of my work schedule, Erik had taken Tanner to his practices so I hadn’t had an opportunity to really get to know the kids on his team. I had heard plenty of stories though; particularly about a boy named Mark. Erik had really hit it off with Mark’s dad and he always seemed to come home with some funny story about something Mark did or said. Tanner liked him as well and I realized I was really looking forward to meeting this kid!

We arrived at the field after making the hour commute to Austin and opened our car doors to feel the sweltering heat of a beautiful Texas Spring wafting over our air-conditioned-chilled skin. I was sweating within a minute of exiting the vehicle. I was about the weight I am now, maybe a bit “smaller” and was not looking forward to the trek we had to make in traveling from the parking lot to where the soccer field was. Looking around, I realized there was no shuttle available to transport my portly behind to the soccer field and began to waddle along behind Erik and Tanner.

By the time we made it to the field, my face was beet red, I’m breathing as if I just climbed Mount Everest, and I had managed to sweat so much I probably could have entered a wet t-shirt contest; a wet t-shirt contest in which I’d probably come in DEAD LAST, but a wet t-shirt contest none-the-less. Realizing I could have skipped the time I spent on my shower, make-up, and hair regime, I found myself feeling less like your average soccer mom beauty and more like the overweight, overheated behemoth I was. Oh well, who was I trying to impress?

It was then that we spied Mark and his family. Tanner takes off across the field as I try to act as if I’m not about to experience a heart attack or stroke and search frantically for a place to sit down that won’t collapse under my more than generous figure. I pretend to tie a shoe that is actually tied in double knots until I get my breath back and then head over to meet Mark and Mark’s family.

When I get there, Mark and Tanner are having a chat and Erik introduces me to his family. I’m guessing their ENTIRE family was there because I stopped counting relatives at about 8. They were a nice group of people and we made small talk until Tanner drug Mark over to meet his mom.

From the moment Mark laid eyes on me, I could tell…I was in for some trouble. He had a curious look on his face and my guess was he had never seen anyone quite as corpulent as me. With a sly smile on his face, he surprised my mother-in-law by slipping a hand inside hers and sidled up to within a few inches of me. As he looked me up and down he asked, “You’re Tanner’s mom?” I could see those wheels working guys…I knew this was probably going somewhere hilarious, but I had the sinking feeling I was going to be the proverbial “butt” of this joke…”What’s New?” I thought. He was looking at me expectantly when I realized I hadn’t acknowledged his question so I said, “Yes, you must be Mark! I was looking forward to meeting you!” Looking me up and down one more time, he smiled a warm, innocent smile and said “Hi!” Thinking I might make it out of this unscathed, I asked him if he was excited about the game. “Yes! We are playing soccer!” “I know!” I answered, “I hope you boys don’t get too hot running around out there!” When I saw his eyes light up at the word “running,” I knew I had made a grievous misstep.

What I didn’t know was that Mark was a closet Scientist. He thought about things, formulated hypotheses and tested those hypothoses to prove his theories and today…he had a few theories about me and what better place than the Special Olympics Soccer Match to prove/disprove those theories?. “Can you run?” He asked innocently, again giving me the head to toe once over with his eyes. My internal dialogue went something along the line of “Oh crap” “Hmm, yeah I probably could run if I wanted to Mark” and in a desperate effort to change the subject in front of his entire family, I asked him if he liked to run. Being the dedicated scientist he was, he wasn’t letting me off that easy. He would NOT be distracted from his research!

Ignoring my feeble attempts to distract him he answered “You can?” In my head I’m imagining what must have been going through his mind. I could see he was already trying to wrap his head around the unlikely picture of me hauling my pudgy form around the field and the curiosity was definitely getting the best of him. There was absolutely nothing malicious in his prodding; he was simply amazed at my size and wanted to see just what my body was capable of. It was Science pure and simple.

About this time, his family tried to intervene. I could see the horror on their face and the embarrassment in their eyes as they tried to get him interested in something else. They vastly underestimated his fascination with me. He shrugged loose and turned back to me; it was time for him to test his hypotheses and nothing was getting in his way. Persistent in his research, he smiled sweetly and said, “Go ahead, Run!”

Oh Lord, help me.

“Maybe another time Mark, It’s bit hot for me to be running around” as if I’d have no problem putting on a show for him if it were just a few degrees cooler, “I have to get Tanner ready, you guys have a game to win!” Changing tactics, he grabs my arm and asks “Can you jump?” Smiling nervously, I confirm that yes, I probably could jump if I had to; say if there were a million dollars on the table or a pile of scorpions between me and a turtle fudge cheesecake. I might be able to project my body into the air under those circumstances. Hearing this and taking it for consent to his little experiment, he smiles innocently again, eager to test this new hypothesis and flourishing an arm out to the side, in his best David Lee Roth says “Go ahead…Jump!”

At this point, I happen to catch Erik’s eye. I can see he’s barely holding it together; his eyes are bulging from his skull and the corners of his mouth are trembling to keep from bursting out with laughter. He was fine as long as we made no eye contact, but as usual with us…once eye contact was made, all bets were off. Immediately I was hit by the Saturday-Night-Live-sketch aspect of it all (or was it more MAD TV?) and I began struggling to maintain my composure. Erik did an immediate about face and headed off for parts unknown so that he could release the laughter he’d been holding for FAR too long. If I weren’t struggling myself, I probably would have milked that betrayal for all it was worth. Instead, I turned back to Mark, patted him on the head, and suggested that maybe we’d have a family Olympics some other time and wished him luck in the game. Ignoring the obvious disappointment on his face, I made a quick get-a-way and a mental note to avoid him for the rest of the game. Sadly, I was never able to fulfill his desire to see an overweight woman perform feats that defied gravity and endurance, but I secretly hope he never lost his sense of curiosity and passion for the Scientific Method.

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addiction dance

Hi again, have you guys OD’d on me yet? I know, I’ve been posting like a fiend lately; which is honestly about half as much as the rest of you, but I’ve been on a roll. See how much more fun I am when I’m not moaning all the time?

I have been thinking about starting a regular feature for a while just to keep things interesting and knew I wanted it to be something where I could share stories about life as a fat child, teenager, young woman, and MILF-to-be (that is my ultimate goal in weight loss after all). I was a bit worried that I might run out of material at some point because my memory is less than sharp, but who am I kidding? I have loads of material where this is concerned; I’ve spent my entire life FAT!

Some of the stories are so horrible they are hilarious and some are probably just horrible, but it is nice to look back, throw an arm around my former fat self (who is always skinnier than the person I am now) and give her a comforting squeeze. I hope that this will give a few of you some laughs, but more importantly I’m hoping that some of you young women struggling with your weight will find a way to laugh at yourself earlier than I did.

I know how devastating some of these moments can be; having someone treat you like you are invisible or worse STARE at you as you huff and puff in line or cope with some kiddo who has just spoken the honest to God’s truth in a VERY LOUD VOICE creating an awkward situation for all involved. I used to be humilified (my new favorite word..I like to think its a combination of humiliated and mortified) by these situations more often than not, but somewhere on my way to 400+ lbs. I just quit caring what other people thought (to some degree) and started laughing at the horrifying humor of it all. Life is so much more fun when you are laughing wouldn’t you agree?

So, for the inaugural "Tale from the Scale", I’d like to share a particularly funny incident that happened about a month after my mother passed away. This takes us back to December 2002. I weighed around 420 lbs, maybe a little less and, as you can imagine, was feeling less than festive about the upcoming holidays. I had lost three important women in my life that year (great grandmother, grandmother and mom) and given that Christmas had been their favorite holiday, the loss was made even more salient.

I had been thinking about how I could cheer myself up and found myself daydreaming about the days I used to accompany my mom and grandmother to get their nails done. As a child, I loved going with them and watching as the manicurist miraculously took nails that were way past their prime and transformed them by clipping, filing, building and polishing until they were restored to the beautiful shiny “pointers” I loved (As a child I remember thinking if I had nails as pretty as my mom and grandma, I’d point all the time). I can close my eyes and picture me there, head resting on my arms at one end of the manicurist’s table, breathing in what I’m sure were toxic fumes, artificial nail dust, and acetone as I listened to all the adult gossip that passes for conversation in a salon. It.was.magical.

Feeling even more nostalgic, I decided that getting my nails done for the holidays was the perfect way to celebrate both my mom and grandma and keep them close to me that Christmas. I even donned a few pieces of their jewelry to take them "with" me and imagined that every time I looked down at my shiny red pointers I’d think of them and smile. With that in mind, I went to the computer, put in my zip code+nails and called the first result, a place called “Model Nail.” I thought it was an odd name for a nail place as one or both words was crying out to be pluralized, but who am I to judge? You don’t need perfect grammar to make pretty pointers do you?

I called to make an appointment and after a few rings heard “Dis Mod-u Nail, how cam I hep you?” Now, I have to tell you a little something about myself. I may have a degree in Communication Disorders and a trained ear for various dialects and accents, but something strange happens when someone starts speaking to me with an Asian accent: my brain just turns off and refuses to decipher anything that spouts from the individual’s lips. Erik has always made fun of me because even when the context is obvious (ordering Chinese food and having them point and say “Wah kin’ ri’ you wan’?”) I stand there with a stupefied look on my face and ask them to repeat themselves until my slow brain catches up and translates for me. Usually I luck out and have someone with me whose brain is much more skilled at this sort of thing and can do the English to English translation for me. (side note: I realize this may be slightly offensive and I apologize…my inability to understand this particular accent has more to do with my own shortcomings so I hope it’s seen in that light.)

So on with my story…once I figured out what she was asking me, I asked if I could make an appointment to get my nails done. She explained that I could just walk in and suggested that afternoon was a great time as they were slow. I thanked her, patted myself on the back for not needing a translator this time around and grabbed my keys.

I arrived at "Model Nail" and went up to the reception area to sign in. The woman behind the counter was a very friendly woman who told me to have a seat and then shouted over her shoulder in what I assumed was Vietnamese to the young guy who would be doing my nails. Looking less than thrilled at the appearance of his next customer, he angrily shouted something back at her to which she answered with something else sounding just as annoyed and then gave me a guilty smile and told me to have a seat at his station. Of course, in my insecurity, I imagined all sorts of things that might have been said during their exchange:

Him: “What? I have to do her? What about the cute blonde on the end? Give the fat one to grandpa” (there was a much older man doing nails there too)
Her: “You know grandpa loves cute blondes! Stop being selfish, you have the rest of your life to enjoy the cute ones!”
Him: “Fine! Send the porker over”
Her: smiling guiltily “You can have a seat over there :)”

As I sat down, he yanked his nail tips from a drawer and asked me what I wanted. I explained that I just wanted to get new nails and showed him about how long I wanted them. He began measuring my nail beds, mumbling grumpily in Vietnamese the whole time. I have rather large nail beds and even though I’m fairly certain that being super obese has nothing to do with their size, I remember hoping he had an extra large in there for my thumb. He didn’t, but found a way to make the largest tip work on my King Kong-sized thumbnail.

Over the next hour, he proceeded to buff, sand, glue and paint me a new set of fingernails. Every 5 to 10 minutes, he’d ask me questions I’d later realize must be in a manicurist’s textbook somewhere because I’d be asked them every single time I came back for fills:

“You wor’ today?”
“You have boyfriend?”
“you have kid? Where your kid?”

You get the picture. Before I knew it, he was done. “You go wa’ ple’?” My brain begins to whir to life, trying to figure out what he’d just asked me to do. “I’m sorry? I go where?” “Wa’! Wa’! You go Wa’!” Even though he was pointing to the back of the salon where a line of sinks were, I found myself looking to my right in search of a translator. Luckily, the woman sitting next to me...we'll just call her Blanche, came to my rescue “I think he wants you to go wash your hands sweetie.” Embarrassed, I thank her for her help, smile at him and head over to the sink to “Wa’.”

After rinsing my hands I walk over to their paltry display of nail lacquer and proceed to pick out a lovely festive red fantasizing the whole time about the sorts of things I was going to be pointing out with my new red tips. I was definitely feeling much better, this was a GREAT idea I told myself; just what I needed!

I walk over and place the red nail polish in front of him and place my chubby hands back on the table. With a huge sigh, he looks at the manicurist next to him and says something in Vietnamese. They have an exchange that goes back and forth for a few minutes during which I smile at Blanche and hope for the best. He turns to me and says:

Him: “Why you wan’ pain’ yo’ nail?”
Me: “I’m sorry, why what?”
Blanche: “Honey, he wants to know why you want to paint your nails.”
Me: Stupified…why would I not want my nails painted? Turning to smile again “Well, I like to paint my nails and with the holidays I thought it would fun to go with a pretty red” I finish with a big smile thinking he’d now start painting away. I was wrong.
Him: “You don’ wan’ pain’ yo’ nail”
Me: Completely mystified I say “I don't?” and look to Blanche to see if I’m missing something?
Him: “Oh no, you don’ wan pain’ yo nail, you wan’ know why?”
Me: Again, looking at Blanch for help I turn to him and say “ok? Why?”
Him: “Well see, yo’ nail so little” his voice raises slightly as he emphasizes the “little” “Yo’ nail so little, but your fingah SO BIG!!! As if the loud emphasis and the fact that he dropped his voice an octave to adequatly project the word "BIG", he also used his fingers to grip the biggest part of my finger. I didn’t know whether to be proud of the fact he thought my nail beds were so petite or embarrassed that he thought my fingers were so fat.

Again, I look to Blanche, this time to see if she had heard his explanation for why it would be a catastrophe to paint my nails. I suspected she had when she took great pains to look everywhere but AT me.

Me: slightly annoyed with him and amazed at the cajones he was sporting, I answered “Oh ok, well I would still like for you to paint them.”
Him: with an exasperated look on his face he says “No, trus’ me honey. You don’ wan’ pain yo’ nail’.” And just in case I hadn’t gotten it the first time around, he proceeded to explain again why this was definitely a fashion DON’T in my case. “See I pain’, pain’, pain’, pain’ yo nail it jus’ make yo’ fingah look biggah! Yo’ finga’ so BIG! They so BIG! You don’ wan’ pain’ yo’ nail!” With each BIG he gets louder and more expressive and by then I am fairly certain that every one in the salon knows exactly how BIG my fat fingers are and how inappropriate he thinks it is to call any more attention to them than I already have.

I’m absolutely mortified for about two seconds and then I imagine my mom and my grandmother watching from somewhere in heaven and literally laughing their ASS off. Here I am trying to make myself feel better and, typical Michelle, find myself in the absolute opposite situation. Instantly, I’m trying not to laugh myself and channeling both of these strong women inform him that since I am PAYING HIM, he will paint my nails whatever color I put in front of him and smile doing it. Seeing I’m a lost cause, he angrily picks up the polish and proceeds to give me the absolute worst polish job I’ve ever had in my life. I could tell that I was going to have to remove it when I got home and do it over myself, but I’ll be damned if I was leaving there without him painting every last nail!

When he was done, I wrote my check and used one of my shiny red nails on one of my very BIG fingers to push the check across the desk hoping he’d notice I’d added one penny to the total for his tip. I grabbed my keys and walked out the door empowered with my shiny red pointers. Getting in the car, I grabbed my cell phone and even though I was on the way home, I called Erik..”You are never going to believe what happened at this salon…” As usual, we had WAY more fun laughing at the whole situation than I probably would have if it had just been your average venture to the salon and “Yo’ fingah’ so BIG” is now a favorite catch phrase among family and friends.

And with that, I will conclude with this video for your viewing pleasure:

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