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Baby Huey... SEXY!

Issue Date: Wednesday, May. 28, 2003

I have worried about my weight since I was in the 4th grade. Apparently, that was the first time I was self-conscience enough to realize that I was the tallest girl in the class. Skinny for my height, but all I knew was that I was “bigger”.

My sister used to beat me up until one day… my father looked at me and pointedly asked, “Suzanna? Why are you crying? Who is bigger? You or Reb?” A light bulb went on over my head. Yes, I was bigger than my older sister. Yes, I was bigger than most of the people in my class, but I didn’t want to be the big girl, even if it meant Reb couldn’t beat me up anymore. I wanted to wear tiny clothes and look dainty and petite, not like a young giraffe lumbering around learning to tap dance.

I can remember sitting in class in the 5th grade, purposefully sitting on the front edge of my little plastic chair so my thighs wouldn’t spread out and look larger. FIFTH grade people. That is a little early to be either that vain or that neurotic.

The summer after 6th grade I was guilty of runnin around in some irradiated fertilizer or maybe it was just my time, but a growth spurt took me by force. I grew a little over 5 inches during the summer months. Yes, just 3 months. My mother used to tease me and say that she was going to stay up at night and watch me grow. Har dee har har. All I knew was that I went from being the tallest girl in the class to looking like a stork.

At the end of 6th grade I had put on over 20 pounds. I did not know if it was because I had started my period or if I was going to be one of those hefty girls my mother whispered about, but as I agonized (it was very painful physically) over the summer I figured the extra weight was just to pad my poor bones from the stretching they were taking during that awful growth spurt.

So there I was in after the growth spurt, newly coltish, but still with the mentality of a chubby girl. Yes, I had a chubby phase that lasted about 4 months before the growth spurt, but I have always felt like a fat girl with no basis for that particular self-abuse.

Was that the norm of the time?

The year was 1985. The jeans were acid wash, the music was General Public, Duran Duran and Depeche Mode, the tank tops were layered and the lipstick color of the time was Seashell Shimmer by Cover Girl. I attended 7th grade at Schemilphening Middle School in Plano, Texas. Daily I was subjected to polyester gym shorts, a tight red gym shirt and the humiliation of spelling out S-C-H-E-M-I-L-P-F-E-N-I-G while doing jumping jacks on the first row. I dreaded P.E. for the three years of middle school, preferring instead to go to dance class where my teacher called me swanlike and graceful. Being tall in ballet was not a problem… most of the time.

When we lived in Atlanta I danced with the Atlanta School of Ballet for several years. One year during the “Nutcracker” a prima ballerina was called in for a primary role, the role of the Sugar Plum Fairy. She was such a miniscule little thing that she demanded that we, her angels not dance on toe. She did not want us to tower over her.

So, on went the battle between my vanity and my neurosis. On one hand I was happy being tall. I could buy beer at the tender age of 15. On the other hand I was miserable being tall. I couldn’t wear heels to dances unless I wanted to make my date feel bad.

Note to reader: Jeeeze! I do run off at the mouth don’t I? I originally wanted to make this an entry about stress and running away when I was 13, but noooooooo… my body image takes center stage again!

I continued to grow throughout high school and college. I am really not an Amazon, I assure you. I do have both of my breasts. As a matter of fact, I have three. Just kidding. Wanted to see if you were really paying attention. Actually, I feel quite diminutive around Mister, seeing how he is Zeus-like in height (6’5”… mmm mmm mmm mmm mmmm) and general manly prowess.

My first husband made me feel like a St. Bernard with him playing the role of the Chihuahua. He was 5’6” on a tall day and actually stole my clothes to wear. I am not kidding here. Ladies, you know how sweet and protected you feel when you can slip on your man’s button down shirt and feel like you are wearing a dress because it is so big on you? Imagine that scenario backwards. The ex would pull out my t-shirts to wear, my sweats to lounge around in. If I tried to put on his clothing (like one of his shirts) I ended up looking like Baby Huey. All gut and underwear. How sexy is that? [Go ahead, click on that link… the visual is priceless.]

I actually didn’t gain my weight until I was around 23 or so. I’ve had it for about 7 years. I was actually, at my thinnest, almost 5’9” and about 122 pounds. Ick. Boney chick comin through.

I do not want to get back down to that small, I do, however, want to get back to 160 at least. I look damn good at 160.

Ok… this has turned into a “Tell me I ain’t a fat ass” entry.

I’m embarrassed about my neediness sometimes.

Speaking of, I am such a whore for accolades; I have invited one of my favorite (and closest) people in the world to share in this diary. Shout out to Debra Jean people! She is my ex-sister in law. We were best friends in college and ended up marrying (and divorcing HA!) brothers. Don’t ask. It ain’t a pretty story. Maybe I’ll let her guest entry and she can regale you with tales of hilarity!

Why don’t cannibals eat clowns? Because they taste funny.

Please be sure to tip your wait staff!


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To understand this dear reward (above) at all, you must hie thee on and read gatsby’s grape ape entry and my comments.

And because of said comments he sent me my very own dream turtle in an email titled wee gift with these words attached, “my purple monkey is booked solid so i ordered you a tangerine turtle. hope he proves helpful.”

The Graphic Below Courtesy of Papernapkin.

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