Fat or BabyPhat?
A few days ago on Yahoo I read that by the year 2030 more than 50% of the population will be clinically obese. Lord help us all if a Big Mac and fries becomes the meal of choice. Specifically the health of black women has been on my mind. I often wonder if women of color take their health seriously? Do we spend as much time as we should maintaining a decent body weight for our heights? As black women are we an intricate part of the obesity epidemic? Have we gone past babyphat to just plain, fat, fat?
This is relevant to me because yesterday I ate a whole box of chocolate by myself: Toffifay for those of you who are wondering about my special brand of chocolate crack. I ate it joyfully but felt awful afterwards when I thought about what damage that 600-calorie snack was going to do to my waistline and to my BMI.
I’m sorry to bring this weight issue up again as I promised my readers in a moment of weakness that I would refrain from discussing my obsession with my body and all its moving parts. But in this post it’s not my body I’m focusing on, it’s everyone else’s health.
In my upcoming book I ask the question, are black women’s weight issues the reason for their dating challenges? Some say yes. Others say no. The jury is still out.
Weigh in on the weight issue and tell me if you think that black women have moved past babyphat to something else.
Tags: black women, Diet & Exercise, Self-Confidence, Weight
Recently, I casually asked my dermatologist about one day getting Botox. He laughed in my face. “Go spend your money on something you need” he said and sent me on my way. Is he blind? Doesn’t he see the lines I see?
Every year I write a birthday post (See Old Dog, New Tale) because sadly, the Super is getting old. Grey hair EVERYWHERE old. Retirees tell me that I’m still young. I’ve determined that this is what old people say to console each other. As yet another birthday blasts by, I realize that Jennifer Lopez notwithstanding, I will never be able to wear a super high mini skirt again without self-consciousness. Gone are the days where I chat with the drugstore clerk about anything other than anti-aging cream. Goodbye makeup free face maintained by moisturizer and four hours sleep. It’s time to get used to cashiers calling me ma’am, bitches, and little boys young enough to be my son trying to make a Cougar out of me. To maintain muscle, I’ll have to up my workouts and…horror of all horrors… watch what I eat. Yeah, yeah, Father Time and I are enemies. I can complain for days, weeks if you give me some drinks, but the Super is all about encouragement, even if the encouragement is for me. So here is what age has taught me:
- I’ve learned tact. If a friend asks me if I think her daughter is a lesbian, age has taught me to say, “I’m not sure, but I’m here if you want to talk to me.”
- I’ve learned that “Karma is only a Bitch if you are” and “it’s none of my business what other people think about me.” (Stolen quotes but they’re all me)
- I’ve learned that if my boyfriend doesn’t like what he sees when I’m naked then he can take his d*ck elsewhere.
- I accept that I’m pretty enough. If I want to look like Halle Berry I have to have her parents.
- I now know that a thousand squats a day will not give me a Kim Kardashian booty.
- I realize that I’m not half as stupid now as I was in my twenties.
- I’ve learned that delay does not mean denial and everyday that I expect a miracle the closer the miracle is to me.
I won’t lie to you, getting older kinda sucks. The gift of wisdom and foresight is rarely given to the young. Aging is inevitable so I’ve decided to be grateful that my heart is still beating, my body is still functioning and my mind is still sharp. In 40 years I’m looking forward to being a Super G, that’s Super Granny. Happy Birthday to me and all the other Aries.
Should we be able to freeze time like we can freeze our faces? Do we wish we could give our birthday some Botox?
Tags: Aging, Birthday, black women, Confidence, Diet & Exercise, Girl Power, Self-Confidence, Super-Heroes
It was dead. Lifeless. It couldn’t have survived a fall from such a height and it hadn’t. It lay there inert, crushed and broken. I looked down on its crumbled form and resisted the urge to drop to my knees and scoop its broken contents into my hands. Cupcake can you hear me? The red velvet cupcake with its butter cream icing from the hot new bakery Crumbs didn’t answer. I considered the 5 second rule of eating things off the ground and instantly realized that I had hit rock bottom. It was official. I had a problem. How could I coach and counsel women towards success when I couldn’t even master myself? I had an addiction to sugar like Eric Benet had an addiction to sex. We both needed help. The urge to eat the dusty snack from the ground was my sub-conscious crying out for help.
AA was for alcoholics. Rehab for those with an affinity for the pipe. Weight Watchers was for chubby chicks with severe addictions to tasty snacks? The latter was me. I fit the profile. I’d never met a cake, cream puff or pie I didn’t like and my obsession had finally driven me around the bend. I’d always liked dessert a little too much which guaranteed that I’d always had an intimate relationship with the white stuff, sugar that is, I’m not Charlie Sheen. If I didn’t want to be the size of Two and Half Men then I had to stop trying to commit sugar suicide. As it was my metabolism was staging a protest. My body was already making its displeasure known. In the fitness classes I took as an antidote to over-consumption, my body couldn’t keep up. In my Zumba class my feet were like lead. In kickboxing class the bag was beating the hell out of me. Two chocolate bars minus one workout didn’t compute. I was out of shape and my addiction to the sweeter side of life was to blame. No one, least of all me, wanted to see a Super hero with a pot belly. My love affair with sugary snacks had to end. I couldn’t let the cupcake beat me. My hands trembled as it grasped the mutilated body of my sweet snack that had jumped to its death to avoid me. One second. Two. Poof. The cupcake was gone. What happened? I suspect foul play.
My lips show evidence of crumbs. Did I kiss my cupcake goodbye before introducing it to the circular file-waste paper bin or did it meet with a more shameful digestible end? No one knows for sure and I’ll never tell.
Do your lips crave the taste and texture of the sweet stuff? Have you committed Sugar Suicide?
Tags: Bad Habits, black women, Diet & Exercise, Super-Heroes, Weight
I went to the gym today. Push, pull, heave, run and lift. I’m glistening and I’m hot. Muy caliente— hot. ¡Ay, caramba— hot. Missy Elliot rapping the lyrics of her song called:
Really Hot. I make temperatures rise— hot. Do you get my meaning? Make no mistake, I’m not bootylicious like Beyonce or long and leggy like Rhi. My body is beautiful because it’s bionic. If you’re old enough to remember Jamie Summers then I need not explain what bionic means. This body of mine is something better than beautiful. It’s strong and powerful and built to last. It’s the kind of body doctors admire and I don’t mean plastic surgeons. This body of mine is like an Energizer battery. It just won’t quit. Without conceit I declare that my body is perfection.
Screech. Who scratched the needle over the record and woke me up from my dream? Sh*t, is that my belly hanging slightly over my waistband? Wait! I could have sworn that my naked nipples pointed straight out and not down. Damn, doesn’t the song say pull up to my bumper baby? What if I don’t have a bumper because since birth it has been stolen by thieves? Its okay, my opinion of my body still hasn’t changed. I love everything about it and it loves me. We’ve been through a lot together my body and I. How can I not adore a body that was there when I needed it? I can’t.
I once asked a portly and very rotund friend what he liked best about his body. I fully expected him to say nothing. Instead, he professed without blinking that he liked everything. When I showed skepticism he quoted me Psalms 139 which says, that I am fearfully and wonderfully made. I can’t say that I immediately adopted his body beautiful campaign. When I looked into the mirror I saw plenty that I wish that I could change. Like the best plastic surgeon I would delete the slight chin, lift the boobs and actually add junk to the trunk. I would narrow the waist and add some muscle to the overall design. Masterpiece complete. I don’t own a scalpel that powerful and the last time I checked wishing on a star never accomplished anything. I never loved my body in its natural state. Then one day I got sick. I had a health scare that made me look differently on this masterpiece which is me. I decided then and there to love my body. It had survived tests of endurance that its sexier counterparts had failed. No matter the symmetry or lack thereof, when I needed it to endure, my body kicked into overdrive and saved my life. This vessel that I had hated since the third grade was the most wonderfully designed body that God had ever made. It was stunning. So I urge all women who hate their bodies to love the skin they’re in. Stay lean, eat your vegetables, exercise and make the body you have a fat burning and disease fighting machine. Few of us are born Halle Berry with a body designed to make men salivate. But your body is amazing in any form. Love it and it will love you back.
When was the last time you looked at your body with lust?
Tags: Diet & Exercise, Personal Power, Self-Confidence, Weight
Recently someone called me fat – to my face – out loud. They basically called me a pig, an oink away from being bacon. I wish I could tell you it was some deranged kid with Tourette’s; it wasn’t. Supposedly I gave offense and as punishment I was on the receiving end of words like a whip’s lash on wet skin. I used all my super powers to shield my self-esteem but my mind set the moment to record and has been pressing rewind. That’s the power of words, they reverberate.
The Super has never been tiny. Like most women I have weight issues. Was that why someone with no noticeable body fat chose that particular insult against me? Did they mean to inflict pain or were they just meaningless words said in a single moment of cruelty. I can’t decide. So instead I turn my attention to the words themselves and analyze them for truth. Am I fat ass? If you asked me I’d admit to being P.H.A.T (pretty, hot and tempting), but now I have to reassess. Truth be told, I’m meaty, strong and thick. If I was a biscuit I would be buttery with barely a hint of lard. I’m smaller than the average American woman and a few inches taller. I’m a bit of an amazon just a few muscles short of being Serena. But I digress. The question I guess is not really if being twelve pounds over my BMI makes me obese, but whether I dismiss words hurled in heat. Tell me people, despite provocation, real or imagined, is any insult acceptable when thrown with force? Tell me what you think?
Tags: Diet & Exercise, Friendship, Self-Confidence, Weight