I Call That an Insult

Sadness and a smidgen of guilt engulfed me

   as I packed a box of summer clothes

      to store on the top shelf of our closet.

Clothes that are too small - -

   A full 4” from snapping, to be truthful.

Foolishly, we have spent over $20,000

   in the past few years

      in our quest to lose weight.

Not fad diets; but professional dieticians and experts,

      (Who  happened to sell  guaranteed health products.)

We’ve always raised a garden and eaten wholesomely.

   I exercise excessively;

      Not vigorously but consistently.

STILL I GAIN WEIGHT.

   “You’ve not just fat,” my doctor* says bluntly,

      as she checks the chart.

“You’re obese.”

   “I call that an insult,” I thought. 

      (One of Ed’s favorite  sayings.)

I still blame my thyroid or lack thereof,

   but a skinny doctor doesn’t buy that.

Maybe it’s my grandmother’s fault.

 
She died before I was one-year-old
   but from photos, I can see that she was hefty.

  Cheerful, hopeful, hospitable; playful; appreciative of the

      finer things of life, both materially and spiritually.

Even though I don’t remember her,

   I knew most of her sisters who were petite and delicate.

 Grandma, center back, inserted.

If past history prevails,

   next year I’ll donate to D.I. all the clothes

      I packed in the box and stored

         in the top of my closet.

Nearly new clothes too.

   (“Nearly new” to me, is anything

      five years or less or possibly anything
      since Junior High.)

*She also wanted me to take

   Metaforen

   Fosamax &

   Lipitor

I said NO to those too.