I have decided to invent myself a “better angel” to hang out on the shoulder not already occupied by the combined Chorus of Doom-and-Good-Girl-Ness (i.e. my father, several particularly nasty gym teachers, Jillian Michaels, the “diabetes educator” my insurer forces on me, and the blue-haired women who threw me out of Girls’ State for being too interested in politics–think Nails-on-Chalkboard crossed with Rush Limbaugh). It will consist of my Nana (my mother’s very emphatic and dramatic mother who died when I was 2), a really good gospel choir, Ella Fitzgerald, and maybe Julia Child for good measure.
Yeah, I know, it’s a lot of voices to carry around with you. What can I say? I’m a creature with a serious inclination toward amplitude, and a taste for the baroque. I admire the heck out of an austere aesthetic, but it just doesn’t seem natural to me.
I have begun to think that I would have, left to become more of who I was meant by nature to be, still been large. It’s an interesting thought–that large is my natural state. It would mean that my not ever becoming small/thin was something of an achievement rather than a failure, and isn’t that an interesting thought? Kind of the sort of thing one’s Better Angel Chorus might point out.
This is not to say that it wouldn’t be good to be, well, less large–a large that put less pressure on my various systems and was a little easier to dress pleasingly, to move around in the world, and pack for (given the constraints of modern air travel, it’s be awfully nice if there were less fabric involved in individual pieces of clothing–it would let me put in an extra piece or two). But all that’s kind of another issue.