胖娃辛酸史：我的胖，谁的错？.docVIP

胖娃辛酸史：我的胖，谁的错？ 　　I was a fat kid. I haven’t written about this before because being a fat kid hurt me then. And having been a fat kid hurts me now. 　　Things I remember about being fat： Not being able to wear jeans （there was no such thing as jeans for fat girls in 1983）. Not wanting to participate in any games at the school fair except the cakewalk. Faking sick on the day we were supposed to do height-weight testing， only to find out that it had been postponed a day. Pretending to twist my ankle at age 7 in the 50-yard dash to spare myself the embarrassment of being the fat kid who came in last； doing the same at age 8， and 11. Stealing bags of brown sugar from the pantry to eat in my bedroom， alone； denying to my mother that I’d done so， even when it was clear she knew I had. 　　There is a theme here： absence， and falsity. I couldn’t wear jeans； I didn’t want to play games that wouldn’t get me cake； I faked sick； I pretended to twist my ankle； and I denied secret eating. Being a fat child wasn’t so much about the fact of being fat as it was about couldn’t， wouldn’t， shouldn’t. There is a counter-theme too： Love―of food， exquisite food， food， food， phood， food， the panacea to whatever free-floating stresses there were in my life as an intellectually mature but emotionally not-so-mature 8-yearold girl. I didn’t have a difficult childhood by any means， but it was a childhood； it came with bumps and dents and scratches that I didn’t really know how to handle. Lucky for me， I didn’t have to learn， because I had food right there， every day， making it all okay. It worked―until it didn’t， but that’s not the story I’m trying to tell here. Food felt like it worked， and in a child’s mind， that’s enough. 　　When I look at my own experience as a fat kid， I don’t see a problem with society， or cruel children， or unlimited soda refills. I see a problem with―how do I put this without appearing to be swatting the wrist of my 8-year-old self？―I see a problem with me， and with the