Chubby

I like the word chubby. It reminds of little babies, roly poly puppies, the giggling Pillsbury Doughboy and all things made of cuteness. Unfortunately, the word chubby has been much maligned in recent times.  I’m not sure when the word took on a negative connotation, but if I had to guess, it was probably about the time the fashionistas insisted on the spindly look as the gold standard for all of womankind. I’m not bitter, just angry.

I have been lost in a sea of survival books lately. The settings are in the 18^th and 19^th centuries, on boats riddled with larvae-filled flour barrels, putrid water and fetid living conditions. Scurvy, of course, is rampant and dreams of unspoiled food keep the brave survivors from going completely insane. A chubby anything would have been welcomed. If the ship finally made it in to some faraway port and a model of today greeted them, my guess is that they would have exhaled a collective gasp of horror and wondered what kind of place couldn’t even support the nutritional needs of its denizens. Gauntness was not respected. A malnourished woman balancing on a pair of shoe stilts would have been the last sight the weary, hungry travelers would have hoped to gaze upon.

And, yet, the skeletal and somewhat emaciated images of women are exactly what are being splashed across most magazines, internet ads and TV commercials today. This time of year, there is no end of before and after images of folks who are touting miraculous pills, programs and potions in exchange for the promise of a better, more respected life of slinky dresses and smaller bathing suits. Their beaming faces draw an endless stream of compliments and enamored admirers. Oh, that we could all live such lives of adoration.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not against good health. There is certainly a poundage line that can be crossed, resulting in a reduced quality of life. However, an obsession for the thin and beautiful has grown to epidemic proportions. Anorexia and bulimia are words that were barely on the radar screen fifty years ago. Now there are websites teaching young women how to be successful at both endeavors. It’s frightening and I wish I knew how to cure the problem. I can only offer a few suggestions.

1) Stop telling people who have lost weight that they “look so good now.” This implies that who they are is contingent on how they look. I’m going to apologize in advance for not fawning over folks who Weight Watchered or power walked their way to wearing their skinny jeans. It isn’t that I’m not impressed with your willpower and perseverance. I just can’t perpetuate the myth of all things being good in the world of thinness.

2) Compliment others more often. Don’t let weight loss be the impetus for a word of praise.

3) Every time you hear a teenager obsess about his or her weight, stop them. Tell them they are valuable, no matter what they look like. Let them know that you are excited to see them become healthy adults rather than wan individuals, starving for food and attention.

Yes, I like the word chubby. I also like the words plump and sturdy. I may never board a leaky ship filled with vermin and scant quantities of food, but I frequently head out into the strong, cold winds of the upper Midwest. I am glad that I have chubby thighs, plump cheeks and a sturdy torso to keep me from blowing over to the next state.

Please pass the butter.

  

Worthy

It is the time of year when our state legislators are busy proposing bills and posturing for future prosperity. One proposition on the table this year hits close to home. The suggestion is that the top twenty percent of teachers in the state would receive bonus pay for achieving high student test scores and stellar evaluations from their administrators. The conversations have been lively and the debates range from whole hearted embracement to contentious loathing. Being a teacher, it is probably best to keep my mouth shut or I will be reminded of the Aesop’s fable involving a fox and some grapes.

All the chatter prompted me to reflect on some of the teachers from my early years. My kindergarten teacher was Mrs. B. Each day she graciously greeted a class of scruffy little diamonds in the rough. She was always perfectly groomed in her pretty dresses and dangly earrings. She seemed elderly to me which meant she was probably in her 40s. My favorite part of the day was after lunch. We were all squeezed into a small classroom that was probably meant for far fewer students, but Mrs. B. managed to get us all to relax on our little blankets and listen to a story or two. Her voice was soothing and had a calming effect on the rest of our day. She taught me that school was a safe place and stories can open up worlds of curious adventures.

Miss V. was my teacher in third and fourth grade. She seemed young and fun which meant that she was probably straight out of college and planning lessons a day at a time just to survive. She was pretty, too, and opened up for me a world of spelling bees (kids were required to know how to spell back then) and state history. I loved the challenge of learning new words and finding out more about our diverse state. Like Mrs. B., she also read to us after lunch each day. We had outgrown our blankets, but not our love of a good story. Laura Ingalls Wilder became my friend during those years thanks to Miss V. and her expressive reading.  

Miss T. was my fifth grade teacher and she was the first teacher to make it clear that I wasn’t going to be good at all subjects in school. She attempted to teach us drawing in Art class. This wasn’t like the usual craft projects we had completed in prior art classes. This was nudging at the real deal. Well, I had barely made it through the cut and paste projects, much less attempting something that required eye-hand coordination and skill. I can still see the sad little person I drew riding on an out of proportion bicycle. I thought a few daubs of brightly colored paint would surely mask my inefficiencies. Not so. Miss T. was smart enough not to let me get by with poor quality. She taught me that sometimes we have to stretch ourselves in our endeavors and that getting less than the top grade doesn’t irreparably damage one’s self esteem.

Mr. L. was one of my high school teachers. He had a good rapport with students and ran an orderly classroom. Our school was a small, rural private school so money was tight and often our high school teachers had to step in and teach subjects that weren’t necessarily in their areas of expertise. One year Mr. L. agreed to teach a science class that was not in his field. I remember that he began the first day of our class by stating that we were all going to be learning the material together, one day at a time. I learned from Mr. L. that sometimes we have to be willing to take risks and dive into pools of uncertainty because we believe in education and doing what is right.

I don’t know if any of my former teachers would have qualified for merit pay. I do know, however, that each one of them is worthy of my respect and I am forever grateful for their willingness to believe in me.

 

News

 

My husband and I lead fabulously dull lives. Our idea of a good time usually includes an uninterrupted evening spent snoozing, reading and watching a TV show or two or three. Just making it through another work day is glory enough for us.

One evening this week, I was hunched over a new book and noticed that my husband was staring at the TV screen with the audio off. Believing he might be trying to respect my need for a little less sound while I am reading, I told him I wouldn’t mind if he turned up the sound a bit. He said that it was okay since he was just reading the news scrawling across the bottom of the screen and he didn’t need sound for that anyway. I went back to my book, thinking this was a trend I would like to see continue. A few minutes later I heard an audible gasp from my husband. My mind immediately thought the worst. Was there an assassination of a world leader? Had a plane crashed with no known survivors? Was there an apartment building burning out of control with little children huddled under coats and blankets waiting for temporary shelter?

When I asked my husband what the catastrophe was, he replied, “Hostess Snack Cakes company just filed for bankruptcy.”

Now, you must know that my husband will travel all over the city, from store to store, tangling with pubescent grocery clerks as he searches for a specific kind of Hostess snack cake. If the Hostess company goes out of business, game over. For his sake, I hope Hostess can hammer out a viable business plan or I’m going to be awfully busy trying to make little cinnamon cakes and packaging them in cellophane wrappers.  

A few evenings later, I was watching a news documentary about the plight of kangaroos moving into urban areas due to a drought in Australia. My husband was mildly interested as he read/snoozed during the show. About half way through the show, the camera focused in on a grazing kangaroo lounging placidly on a suburban lawn. Suddenly, my husband’s head popped up and he said, “I would shoot that thing if it were on my lawn.”  

Please understand that my husband is a gentle man with only a seasonal death wish in the fall when the pheasants are flying. His vehement outburst toward a rather docile herbivore took me by surprise. When I asked him what the root cause of his annoyance might be, he responded, “It was the kangaroo’s attitude. I could see it in his eyes.”

I’m not even going to try to psychoanalyze that response. However, if I had to guess, I would say that it had something to do with a male’s instincts toward turf protection. I’m pretty sure that my husband wouldn’t step on the gas if a kangaroo was bounding in front of our car, but that same kangaroo had probably best not bound off toward our lawn.

I can’t predict what kind of stories will make the headlines this year. But, I do know that if I come home some day and see a kangaroo on our front lawn, munching on a Hostess cinnamon cake, there will be some breaking news. And I’m pretty sure my husband’s name will be included in the story.

Teamwork

My husband and I enjoy ferreting out music that is not likely to be found on the Top 20 list. We follow leads from such sources as the Prairie Home Companion show to Amazon’s “customers who bought this item also…” As we listened to the sound track of a movie this past week, I was startled by a background instrumental that I was sure couldn’t be authentic. The sound was that of a pump organ. After checking the CD information, my suspicions were confirmed. The instrument I was enamored with was, indeed, an old-fashioned pump organ.

I was immediately transported back to the musty smelling basement of my grandmother’s house. Buried amongst the old National Geographic magazines, World Book Encyclopedias and dusty jars of home canned peaches was a beleaguered, but glorious, pump organ. My cousins, my sisters and I were fascinated with its possibilities and also challenged by its technical demands. The only way the sound could be produced was to create an airflow from the continuous pumping of the pedals. Because we were young and therefore, rather short in stature, we were unable to reach the pedals and play the keyboard at the same time.  This, of course, required teamwork. One child was relegated to pushing the ponderous pedals with all their might while the other prodigy played the keyboard with a virtuosity that only a mother could love. I don’t remember how we decided who would play what part and for how long. I do remember, however, that we somehow worked it out. The haunting sounds still ring in my ears and I long for a chance to play an old-fashioned pump organ again. I think I am tall enough now to play and pump the pedals at the same time.

It strikes me that we have lost some of our interdependence with one another. Technology has not only made it possible to play any instrument we desire with the touch of a button, but we are also able to do so without the help of any other human being. I’m not saying this is a bad thing, but I do wonder if it is all good. I would have preferred to play that pump organ all by myself so I could create the sounds I wanted, unencumbered by the need to stop and take my turn pedaling. Tag teaming my way through a song, however, taught me that the world was not all about me. I learned that taking turns was a part of life. I learned that making music with a pump organ was a collaborative effort. I started tuning the art of compromise and negotiation. And, yes, I discovered that disagreements happen wherever two or three are gathered.

Our fast food, high speed, instant gratification world has fueled our insatiable appetite for me-ness. Wanting to do things our way is as old as Goldilocks and the Olympics. I, for one, am glad that I found a song with a pump organ droning in the background so I can be reminded of a time when I needed other human beings to make music.