Sometimes I get lost in thinking about all of the possible titles for my weight loss memoir. I’ve spent a fair amount of time cataloging the words I’ve been called during this 45 year dance on earth; and I’ve decided that all of the insults (me and my body have confronted) would be hidden on page 53 — along with the running list of playground nicknames. I love lists.
Read MoreEvery year, for the last 16 years, on April 22nd, I celebrate my Boobiversary. What’s a Boobiversary, you might ask? Twenty four years ago I lost 160 pounds on my own and, for my 29th birthday, I decided to buy myself boobs. The excess skin I carried from the self-propelled weight loss was a menace to my mental health so I took my 0% interest rate credit card and marched to Madison Avenue — managing my thoughts, chafing folds of back skin, and deflated breasts with plastic surgery.
Read MoreWhen I was growing up in Brooklyn, we used to go and vist my Aunt Deb and Uncle Al on Long Island. The trips were primarily made on summer Saturday’s and involved what felt like a sweaty, traffic filled, ceremony of torture and teasing before we even arrived. My chubby young body was squished between both of my brother's hairy legs in the back seat of my dad’s navy blue Chrysler Fifth Avenue. While the back of my thighs stuck to the navy blue leather interior and adolescent male leg hair, I wondered if and when we’d ever arrive.
Read MoreFor one whole year, almost every day after school, I would sit in our backyard garden and wait for Desmond to call me on the phone. Underneath the lush, twisted grapevine poles, clad in green and purple edible fruits, and beside my grandfather’s prized magenta rose bushes, I placed our home portable phone, a soft blanket and a plush cushion from our plastic patio furniture. It was 1993 and I was reading The Catcher in the Rye. Holden Caulfield was my decoy, my escape to the outside world, to wait for Desmond, so no one would know we were talking. I was prepared to pick up on the first ring.
Read MoreAfter 3 hours of travel, I arrived at my Uncle’s front door. A batch of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies sat in a long tupperware at the bottom of my purse. I was nervous and somewhat anxious for the visit. I walked into the house, removed my boots and, then, my coat. Everything was just as I’d remembered, with one giant exception. I hugged my aunt. She breathed heavily on my shoulder as she cried. We walked into the living room together, the buzz of S
Read MoreI’ve known Derek for 6,056 days. That’s 16 ½ years. I count our time in days because the expanse of time that I’ve known, and loved him, feels infinitely longer than the number 16 ½. And on a warm July evening, 2,308 days ago, after returning home from a Friday night at the Brooklyn Museum and Trader Joe’s, I received a text from Derek that read, “Hey, how are you?” It had been months since we spoke. How many days? I actually don’t know. I placed my grocery bag on the kitchen floor and began to empty it. I placed the pink spray roses I bought myself in a vase next to my bed, then I sat on the edge and replied. “Hey.”
Read MoreMy Uncle Anthony was a music lover and a dancer. The Hustle King of East Flatbush Brooklyn, well, not officially, but he was to me. He loved his cologne and his scent would trail through our house and linger in the hallway for hours after he left for work. But far greater than his carefully curated cologne shelf, music collection, and his dance moves that made the ladies swoon; were his dresser drawers full of t-shirts.
Read MoreThe rate in 1989 to clean my grandmother's bedroom was $20. The $2 a week I made from my parents, doing nightly dishes and cleaning my room, was peanuts in comparison. In 1989, $20 could buy me 80 $0.25 bags of Wise, ridged, sour cream and onion potato chips. 80 bags! We never had chips in the house, so I mainly spent my $2 a week on a few bags and a pack or two of Double Mint gum to wash away the scent from my mouth. I always wanted to buy Doritos and Cheetos, but those were too risky.
Read MoreDear Apt B2, Thank you for your beautiful crown molding, sconces and archway. My first real kitchen to cook and eat in; a New York dream that most never experience. The first time I saw you, my jaw dropped at the possibilities of how I would decorate you and what could happen between you and I. You were big enough to hold real, adult furniture, plants and my creativity. Spacious. White walls that reflected the outside light; where golden hour tree shadows danced in front of me like lovers as I laid on my chaise lounge. And while heartache walked in and out of your front door, heartache that I myself was responsible for, you also brought me joy.
Read MoreHave you ever taken 3 hours to eat avocado toast and sip coffee, in public, while alone? If not, I suggest you try it. You might think avocado toast would get soggy and your coffee cold, but it was perfectly delightful. The bread held up with its weight of grains and seeds, and the coffee was not piping hot, but remained pleasantly sippable at room temperature; warm in my mouth and palatable. A 3 hour avocado toast and coffee is nothing like eating a dreadful bowl of soup after it has lost its heat.
Read MoreOn a late winter day in 1998 my mom and I began the quest to find me the perfect prom dress. We walked in and out of stores that accommodated my size, the walls of each shop lined with floral fabrics that were loud, shapeless and billowy. There was no doubt in my mind that these options would prove unflattering to my round shape. Formless fabric would drape on my body and age my plump, youthful face by years, possibly decades. I hated shopping. I timidly stepped into the fitting room with a series of A-line dresses that promised to narrow at my bust and widen as they went down my body; a form likened to a tent.
Read MoreThe rate in 1989 to clean my grandmother's bedroom was $20. The $2 a week I made from my parents, doing nightly dishes and cleaning my room, was peanuts in comparison. In 1989, $20 could buy me 80 $0.25 bags of Wise, ridged, sour cream and onion potato chips. 80 bags! We never had chips in the house, so I mainly spent my $2 a week on a few bags and a pack or two of Double Mint gum to wash away the scent from my mouth. I always wanted to buy Doritos and Cheetos, but those were too risky. They would leave my fingertips and fingernails stained with bright orange cheese powder evidence, and I’d need a lot more than Double Mint Gum to cover my naughty traces.
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