Figuratively Speaking...
Slim is in? Hmmm…. Am not too sure about that. On second thoughts, slim maybe in, but underweight is definitely not. Ask me. I know.
Pretty rotund as a kid, I grew up. And I shrank. Now don’t ask me where the flab went. I am as clueless as my parents were.
Age 16, and relatives were shaking their heads at this gaunt teenager who looked like she had just escaped from Somalia. By eighteen, I was the butt of every conceivable joke from ‘broomstick’ to ‘drumstick’ to ‘skeletal remains’. Sport that I am, I took it all in my stride albeit a bit fuddled about the extreme physiological change.
Suspecting that a flab-threatening sickness was ravaging my body, I was subjected to an intense examination by a plump doctor (Emphasis mine!).
‘Do you have any problem swallowing?’
‘Uh? No, doc. No problem’ (Except when it comes to swallowing my pride!)
‘Do you feel nauseous at the sight of food?’
My friends snicker, ‘No way, doc. Heck, she loves food.’ I jab them in the ribs with my bony elbow.
‘Ok, stick your tongue out.’
‘But doc, what does my tongue have to do with my weight (or the lack of it)?’
Apparently a lot, I guess. The verdict came right after I’d stuck my tongue out for nearly a mile. ‘High Metabolic Rate,’ he declared.
The way he shook his head, I was sure it was fatal.
‘Uh?’ was all I could manage.
‘Oh, it’s not life-threatening. It’s just that your energy level’s too high. Whatever you eat just gets used up too fast. You just need to slow down a bit and you’ll put on some kilos soon.’
That was at age 19. At 20, I was surrounded by friends who’d exercise their lungs enough to let out a mighty scream if the scales showed even a trivial increase. I’d watch them struggling to fit into undersized clothes. I, however, had no problem. I could very well fit in baby clothes if I tried. So while friends and family hesitated in front of a lavish spread, I dug in and devoured every morsel. A car full of people, bursting at the sides, but Sneha has always fit in.
Age 29 and 5 ft. 6 inches, I am still hovering over a shockingly underweight figure of 48. The cries of protest grow louder, ‘Gosh, it could affect you later on, you know.’ I, however, am still on a roll. Skinny but healthy Sneha, unperturbed by all the fuss to ‘put on some meat on your bones, dear’, is privy to one little secret. In the face of all the pressures and the demands, she mulls over it. She works on it. It’s the same little secret that takes her through all the facets of life. Contentment.
Pretty rotund as a kid, I grew up. And I shrank. Now don’t ask me where the flab went. I am as clueless as my parents were.
Age 16, and relatives were shaking their heads at this gaunt teenager who looked like she had just escaped from Somalia. By eighteen, I was the butt of every conceivable joke from ‘broomstick’ to ‘drumstick’ to ‘skeletal remains’. Sport that I am, I took it all in my stride albeit a bit fuddled about the extreme physiological change.
Suspecting that a flab-threatening sickness was ravaging my body, I was subjected to an intense examination by a plump doctor (Emphasis mine!).
‘Do you have any problem swallowing?’
‘Uh? No, doc. No problem’ (Except when it comes to swallowing my pride!)
‘Do you feel nauseous at the sight of food?’
My friends snicker, ‘No way, doc. Heck, she loves food.’ I jab them in the ribs with my bony elbow.
‘Ok, stick your tongue out.’
‘But doc, what does my tongue have to do with my weight (or the lack of it)?’
Apparently a lot, I guess. The verdict came right after I’d stuck my tongue out for nearly a mile. ‘High Metabolic Rate,’ he declared.
The way he shook his head, I was sure it was fatal.
‘Uh?’ was all I could manage.
‘Oh, it’s not life-threatening. It’s just that your energy level’s too high. Whatever you eat just gets used up too fast. You just need to slow down a bit and you’ll put on some kilos soon.’
That was at age 19. At 20, I was surrounded by friends who’d exercise their lungs enough to let out a mighty scream if the scales showed even a trivial increase. I’d watch them struggling to fit into undersized clothes. I, however, had no problem. I could very well fit in baby clothes if I tried. So while friends and family hesitated in front of a lavish spread, I dug in and devoured every morsel. A car full of people, bursting at the sides, but Sneha has always fit in.
Age 29 and 5 ft. 6 inches, I am still hovering over a shockingly underweight figure of 48. The cries of protest grow louder, ‘Gosh, it could affect you later on, you know.’ I, however, am still on a roll. Skinny but healthy Sneha, unperturbed by all the fuss to ‘put on some meat on your bones, dear’, is privy to one little secret. In the face of all the pressures and the demands, she mulls over it. She works on it. It’s the same little secret that takes her through all the facets of life. Contentment.
posted by Sneha&Rob at 1:19 AM
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