“Why fit in when you were born to stand out?” ~ Dr. Seuss
“In all the years I’ve been a therapist, I’ve yet to meet one girl who likes her body.” ~ Mary Pipher
“How much time have I wasted on diets and what I look like? Take your time and your talent and figure out what you have to contribute to this world. And get over what the hell your butt looks like in those jeans! ~ America Ferreira
“My limbs work, so I’m not going to complain about the way my body is shaped.” ~ Drew Barrymore
Like a mighty Sequoia, I fell . . . and fell . . . and fell. I was on a sidewalk in the middle of downtown Cincinnati. I don’t believe I heard anyone yell, “Timber”; nor did I see anyone rush to help save me from the fall. One man pulled up in his van and said, “I saw you go down. I didn’t know if you were hurt or just drunk.”
Now, I’ve witnessed Lilliputian females trip, and the episode plays out differently. My 5’2” friend, Barb, recently tripped over a piece of furniture, but when she began to fall, her trunk didn’t lurch forward and her arms didn’t flap (and I’m pretty sure she didn’t wet her panties, as I did); instead, her compact little body suffered something akin to a series of hiccups. And before she hit the ground, a chivalrous young man cupped her elbow, and she ever-so-elegantly regained her equilibrium.
I love how this lady just owns it!
I’ve always felt big. I felt large when I wore ballet slippers in my wedding so I wouldn’t be taller than the groom. I feel enormous when everyone looks up to greet me when I board an elevator. I feel immense when the photographer tells me to stand in the back row. I feel gigantic when I go to the Petite Department to buy my sister-in-law’s Barbie-size clothes. I feel whopping when my shoulders extend past the width of a plane seat.
But I feel positively colossal when I fall. I have fallen on 5 ½ continents—I was actually on a ship off the Antarctica coast when I took the plunge (fortunately onboard, not off), so I’m only claiming a half continent for this calamity.
My husband has been there for nearly every tumble. He rarely tries to impede a fall, which tends to proceed as if a force of nature, but he’s there to recover my groceries, mop up my blood, and pull my skirt down from over my head, Once he’s sure I’m okay, he says, patiently annoyed, “Just pick up your feet.”
Well, then, let’s talk about my feet. My feet are size 12, mere inches shorter than the shoe box, so “picking up my feet” is more than the usual challenge. When girls shop together, they often end up in a shoe store. I feign interest, even though I know there will be nothing I can try on unless I cross-dress.
It’s always a male salesman who is inspired to run to the man side of the shoe store and bring a guy’s gym shoe to the fitting stool. I admit that I have purchased men’s shoes, but I’ll make this concession only if I can find the identical shoe—down to the shoelaces—on the girls’ side of the store.
You know what they say about men and their feet? They say that’s a myth, but crossing the chromosomal divide, I’ve had two gynecologists note that I have an unusually long vagina. Is it too much for an Amazon to imagine that at least her lady parts would have dainty proportions?
My hands are like mitts. If I were the least bit athletic, they’d be good for palming a basketball, catching a football, pulling through water, or groping groupies. But they’re rarely useful, just curious, like circus-curious. I have never met a woman with hands as big as mine, and few men.
When my now-husband offered me his class ring when I was in high school, I couldn’t wrap angora around it or melt candle wax on it to 
achieve a snug fit. It was, in fact, too small for me to wear, so I turned it down. I have no choice but to shop in the men’s department for gloves. “One size fits all” is a lie that Isotoner tells. My mitts are attached to wrists that are too large for watches, bangle bracelets, and shirt sleeves.
Then there is my prodigious bosom. There was no training bra that could prepare me for a lifetime of carrying these things around. When a bra is as big as mine, it is only fitting to call it a “brassiere.” First graders can’t count as high as the number on my bra label. There’s no pretty lace, just sturdy fabric, uncompromising straps, and as much metal as in a small toaster oven. My brassiere is a courageous adversary of the laws of gravity. “Boobs and balls” is an apt description of my physique and bearing.
I have felt too fat at every weight for a half century. Even when I wasn’t fat. I look back at pictures and see that I when I was a teenager, I was a healthy, fit weight for my frame. How sad that I felt fat at the prom, as Kate in Taming of the Shrew, at the altar in my wedding dress.
It wasn’t easy growing up with Janet Reno’s hands in Julia Child’s body. My grandmother said it would be great to be so tall that I could 
Photo credit: Paul Child, courtesy of Alfred A. Knopf
reach the hat boxes on the top shelf. My mother reassured me that I would eventually be grateful for my size. That didn’t happen when I couldn’t buy a cool madras dress in the Junior Department. It didn’t happen at the prom, where the basketball players paired up with the short cheerleaders. And it didn’t happen on graduation day when I was the last girl in line because I was tallest.
But I have to hand it to my mom; she was right: When I’m not dwelling on my clumsiness, bulk, brawn, height, or mannishness, I appreciate my big body. In fact, I’m finally, finally, pretty comfortable in my skin. Sixty-two years it took for this to happen. What a damn waste of time. Time I could have spent contemplating something important.
My body was the perfect size for intimidating middle schoolers. It was ideal for carrying boxes of library books. It was just the thing for confronting bullying male administrators. And, Grandma, although I have yet to reach for a hat box, it is occasionally handy to get something down from a top shelf. (I like to hand the Kellog’s Bran Flakes to short old ladies at Krogers.)
My body may not be feminine or sleek or coy or demure, but my husband likes it just fine. it is sturdy. It has withstood countless falls, recovering quickly from the occasional injury. It took me to work nearly every day for thirty years, tolerating the 5:00 AM alarm. It will never need to take the Activia challenge. It will not swoon or collapse, or succumb to food poisoning. It has carried me up high mountains with my husband, high slides with my kids, and high achievements on my job.
It’s a body designed for birthin’ and nursin’ babies. It rarely gets sick, and it has a little buffer on the backside if it does. It’s hearty and stalwart and forgiving and dependable. It’s your grandpa’s big old Oldsmobile, and it gets me where I’m going.
“I hope the gentle reader will excuse me for dwelling on these and the like particulars, which, however insignificant they may appear to groveling vulgar minds, yet will certainly help a philosopher to enlarge his thoughts and imagination, and apply them to the benefit of public as well as private life . . .” from Gulliver’s Travels by Jonathan Swift
Copyright © 2015 Sandy Lingo, All Rights Reserved.
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