So I’m sitting in the car after chauffeuring that lady I call ‘Mom’ to a doctor appointment today.
And it comes completely outta nowhere… “Your okole doesn’t look SOOOO BIG…” (*emphasis on the SOOOO)(Okole, phonetically = Oh-koe-lay) Work it out, people.
Umm. Yeah. I think we were talking about the impending doom that is my upcoming 20-year reunion. And how most people from other states won’t be making it out because of the travel expenses and these economic times. The words ‘fat’ or ‘my body’ had not been uttered from my lips during the discussion.
So lemme break this down for those of you who are not familiar with A) Hawaiian terms or B) the wacky world of hypercriticism that is my Mother.In order to more accurately decipher this Mother Mumbo Jumbo, at this time, please turn to your Mom to Crazy Dictionary to assist you in translation.
Okole means hind quarters in Hawaiian. Butt. Ass. Hind parts. Posterior. Onion. Booty Jumpin’ Off. Whatever your preference.So a loose translation of my mom’s statement, “Your okole doesn’t look so big,” roughly translates into, “Your ass used to look like the size of South America, you need to get your roley poley in the gym and for God sakes, call Jenny TODAY.”
I understand my mom means well. And she probably didn’t mean it the way that it came out. In some weird, jacked-up, motherly way, it may even have been a really nice compliment rolled in dog crap and sprinkled with maggots with a detonator in it. My mom was being nice. I think.
My mom is a ‘regular mom.’ She does regular mom things. Like not trusting her own parenting skills. She raised me and armed me with enough smarts and common sense to make decisions for myself. Yet she still thinks I’m too stupid to figure out to take outer garments in inclement weather. That drives me up the phackin’ wall. And yes, I do know that desserts do not count as a Fifth Food Group, get off my back. I will start eating healthier after I’m diagnosed with some semi-serious, life-altering but not limited to life-threatening disease.
So I suppose it didn’t surprise me when she made a comment about the enormous wagon I’m apparently draggin’.
Much to my own chagrin, I did not get angry. I did not pitch a fit. I did not eat it on a house. I did not eat it with a mouse. I do not like it on a tram. My mother thinks I have extra ham. Initially, I was stunned. But I didn’t immediately lash out at her as I am usually wont to…
At least not until after I had privately visualized flames shooting from my eye sockets and melting her face off her skull to the consistency of nacho cheese right there in the passenger seat of my little Corolla. And in my imagination, nacho cheese does not lift off that easily from fabric upholstery. The clean-up was a nightmare. I don’t recommend it.
I kinda chuckled to myself. After I pulled the twisted knife outta my gut. My mom is pretty skillful with verbal shanks and jabs.
I’m not gonna lie. It owned me. In my head. For at least two minutes.I got all squirrely and shifty in the driver’s seat at a red light and thought of a really chippy retort. But I decided against it. Because I’m tired. And I don’t want to keep fighting the battle. This battle. The battle that’s been waging over generations and cultures between Mothers and Daughters since Jesus wore huaraches (he is part Hispanic, isn’t he?). I am fighting just for the sake of being right. I don’t want to do that anymore.
At this stage in her life, my mom is my mom. She is who she is. She is not going to change. She’s going to continue to say things that aren’t intended to hurt my feelings but do anyway and she’s STILL not going to get it when I point it out to her. This is the same woman who told me I had wide hips when I was twelve. Twelve. I was TWELVE. Oh, and did I also mention that at the time I was TWELVE?
But I think I’m moving further away from those markers in my life that wounded me in my past and I’m starting to let go of the stuff that I don’t have room in my Suitcase of Issues to carry around any more. (I gotta make room for the new stuff.) I’m happy being me. South American Ass and all…
So I’m not going to spiral into an eating disorder. And I’m not going to work out for five hours tonight. I will however, go to the drive-thru of Crap in the Box and order my 1,677 calorie sour dough jack special with onion rings (I’m on a first name basis with the window guy, Joe)…
Because for once, I’m ok. And mostly, I’m kinda humbry.
Someone basically called me fat… and to my face. Someone that supposedly and allegedly loves me. And I’m ok. I really am ok. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an exorbitant amount of fat and calories with my name all over it.
And, better take a sweater … it’s cold out.
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