There are legs and a baton in this picture–it is hard to decipher which are which.

Some adolescents try desperately to lose weight; I tried desperately to gain weight. Throughout junior high and high school, I despised wearing shorts and wanted to disappear every time we had to change clothes in the locker room. Name-calling and skinny jokes took their toll on any self-esteem not already destroyed by growing up in an alcoholic household.

But the pity party ends there, because as the old adage goes, “what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger.” It is also true that it will finally either fuel a sense of humor in you or make you go to such ludicrous lengths to be “normal,” that you will send yourself to the loony bin. A little of all of these hold true for me.

I didn’t covet models, clothing, and makeup in the magazines I read. I instead, was enamored with advertisements touting weight gain. I carried a magazine around with an ad promising “alluring leg curves” until it was tattered by wear. When I finally saved up the $5.95 to send for my miracle cure, I was disappointed to receive a booklet in the mail, showing black and white line drawings of exercises to do while standing on a stack of books or sitting in a chair. I expected a magic pill. For the next several weeks, I would put the chair in the middle of the living room, neatly stack two or three books on the floor, and open my booklet on a nearby table, while I stretched and grunted my way to perfection. I never developed those beautiful, sexy calves shown in the drawings. I still have no calves. The truth is, I could stand next to a bull moose in a sexy legs contest, and his spindly legs would be more attractive.

Months later, I found my magic pill. I was ecstatic. No more scams. This was the real deal. It was guaranteed to put “weight on.” It was profoundly called. . .”Wate On.” I tore out the advertisement and hid it under my mattress, secretly looking at it when I was alone, much like an adolescent boy might peek at “Playboy,” with the same longings and desires, only channeled into a different direction. When I saved up enough money to buy the mail order product, I sent my $9.99 off and received a small treasure bottle of wafers. I diligently ate them all. I also began overeating everything I could get my hands on. I ate donuts, cakes, sweet cereals, and pies for breakfast–nothing. Chips, chocolate, cookies, and candy bars for snacks–nada. For every meal, I would heap extra helpings on my plate and always be the last one at the table–zip. Just what did a girl have to do, to deliberately get fat? I secretly longed so much for that.

Finally, just before the high school homecoming of my seventh-grade year, I found a very real solution to my problem. This was about the time I had a crush on a sixth-grade boy who was drop-dead gorgeous. I couldn’t afford a new outfit and my friends were wearing dresses, so my neighbor cut my ankle-length dress off and made it into a short dress. Because I didn’t dare show my scrawny arms, I asked her to make long sleeves with the leftover yardage. Covering up those toothpick legs would have normally been my greatest concern instead of baring them, but I had been plotting my “weight gain” for several weeks. The night of homecoming, I pulled the dress over my head and put on my pantyhose. Then I put on my pantyhose. Again, I put on pantyhose. And again. By the time I went to the basketball game and dance, I felt like a million bucks. Never mind that I walked stiff-legged and looked like the entire last pair of hose had been tightly stuffed into a nearby orifice–you know the one, where the “sun don’t shine.” It didn’t matter that my legs looked like I was of Middle Eastern descent while the upper part of my body was ghostly. I looked good and I knew it. It wasn’t until I sent my friend to ask my cute sixth-grade boyfriend to dance with me (because 7th graders didn’t directly communicate) and he informed us he was breaking up with me because I was too skinny, that I decided maybe I didn’t look so great after all. I was crushed, but I learned the real truth that night: I couldn’t do anything to hide my emaciated-looking body.

The next morning, my mother found my stash of pantyhose that I didn’t bother to take off one at a time. As she peeled one layer of cocoa brown L’eggs brand pantyhose off the next, much like an onion, she and my sister counted one . . . two . . . three . . . four. . . NINE. Nine pairs of hose. They laughed louder with each layer. I’m glad I wasn’t in the room to hear it all. I’m not sure I could have taken it.

When they repeated the story to me and asked why I’d done that, I couldn’t believe it wasn’t obvious to them. Being too scrawny was all I thought about at that age. They eventually broke me down, and I saw the ridiculousness of the situation. Their infectious laughter couldn’t be stared down, so I joined them. I grew to love their retelling of my traumatic night and it became one of my funniest personal memories.

I would give a lot today to go back to that skinny little girl nick-named “frog-legs” and teach her to hold her head high and proudly strut her stuff!

There are legs and a baton in this picture–it is hard to decipher which are which.

Some adolescents try desperately to lose weight; I tried desperately to gain weight. Throughout junior high and high school, I despised wearing shorts and wanted to disappear every time we had to change clothes in the locker room. Name-calling and skinny jokes took their toll on any self-esteem not already destroyed by growing up in an alcoholic household.

But the pity party ends there, because as the old adage goes, “what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger.” It is also true that it will finally either fuel a sense of humor in you or make you go to such ludicrous lengths to be “normal,” that you will send yourself to the loony bin. A little of all of these hold true for me.

I didn’t covet models, clothing, and makeup in the magazines I read. I instead, was enamored with advertisements touting weight gain. I carried a magazine around with an ad promising “alluring leg curves” until it was tattered by wear. When I finally saved up the $5.95 to send for my miracle cure, I was disappointed to receive a booklet in the mail, showing black and white line drawings of exercises to do while standing on a stack of books or sitting in a chair. I expected a magic pill. For the next several weeks, I would put the chair in the middle of the living room, neatly stack two or three books on the floor, and open my booklet on a nearby table, while I stretched and grunted my way to perfection. I never developed those beautiful, sexy calves shown in the drawings. I still have no calves. The truth is, I could stand next to a bull moose in a sexy legs contest, and his spindly legs would be more attractive.

Months later, I found my magic pill. I was ecstatic. No more scams. This was the real deal. It was guaranteed to put “weight on.” It was profoundly called. . .”Wate On.” I tore out the advertisement and hid it under my mattress, secretly looking at it when I was alone, much like an adolescent boy might peek at “Playboy,” with the same longings and desires, only channeled into a different direction. When I saved up enough money to buy the mail order product, I sent my $9.99 off and received a small treasure bottle of wafers. I diligently ate them all. I also began overeating everything I could get my hands on. I ate donuts, cakes, sweet cereals, and pies for breakfast–nothing. Chips, chocolate, cookies, and candy bars for snacks–nada. For every meal, I would heap extra helpings on my plate and always be the last one at the table–zip. Just what did a girl have to do, to deliberately get fat? I secretly longed so much for that.

Finally, just before the high school homecoming of my seventh-grade year, I found a very real solution to my problem. This was about the time I had a crush on a sixth-grade boy who was drop-dead gorgeous. I couldn’t afford a new outfit and my friends were wearing dresses, so my neighbor cut my ankle-length dress off and made it into a short dress. Because I didn’t dare show my scrawny arms, I asked her to make long sleeves with the leftover yardage. Covering up those toothpick legs would have normally been my greatest concern instead of baring them, but I had been plotting my “weight gain” for several weeks. The night of homecoming, I pulled the dress over my head and put on my pantyhose. Then I put on my pantyhose. Again, I put on pantyhose. And again. By the time I went to the basketball game and dance, I felt like a million bucks. Never mind that I walked stiff-legged and looked like the entire last pair of hose had been tightly stuffed into a nearby orifice–you know the one, where the “sun don’t shine.” It didn’t matter that my legs looked like I was of Middle Eastern descent while the upper part of my body was ghostly. I looked good and I knew it. It wasn’t until I sent my friend to ask my cute sixth-grade boyfriend to dance with me (because 7th graders didn’t directly communicate) and he informed us he was breaking up with me because I was too skinny, that I decided maybe I didn’t look so great after all. I was crushed, but I learned the real truth that night: I couldn’t do anything to hide my emaciated-looking body.

The next morning, my mother found my stash of pantyhose that I didn’t bother to take off one at a time. As she peeled one layer of cocoa brown L’eggs brand pantyhose off the next, much like an onion, she and my sister counted one . . . two . . . three . . . four. . . NINE. Nine pairs of hose. They laughed louder with each layer. I’m glad I wasn’t in the room to hear it all. I’m not sure I could have taken it.

When they repeated the story to me and asked why I’d done that, I couldn’t believe it wasn’t obvious to them. Being too scrawny was all I thought about at that age. They eventually broke me down, and I saw the ridiculousness of the situation. Their infectious laughter couldn’t be stared down, so I joined them. I grew to love their retelling of my traumatic night and it became one of my funniest personal memories.

I would give a lot today to go back to that skinny little girl nick-named “frog-legs” and teach her to hold her head high and proudly strut her stuff!