I’m Just a Number — A Number on a Scale
“Oh. You’re bigger.”
Those were the first words my mother said to me when I bounded up the porch steps to wrap my arms around her. And she was right; I was. In the year that had gone by since our last visit, I’d put on 7 pounds, and she has the uncanny ability to guess anyone’s weight with the accuracy of an anorexic.
Was she anorexic? Honestly, I never thought about it until I wrote the word just now. But looking back on the evidence, I guess I’d have to say it’s possible. She’s not gaunt; she’s not boney, but she’s at the low end of the scale for her height. And she’s very focused on fat and food.
I had been dreading my visit for that very reason. I knew she’d tell me again that she weighed 120 pounds and felt best at that weight. Or she’d say she had gained a pound and was laying off the ice cream for a while. Or she’d tell me she usually skipped lunch — she just wasn’t ever very hungry. And lest you think that this last was probably due to her age (92) since old people often lose their appetites, if my memory is right, she's been saying it for 50 years at least, maybe longer.
My mother’s greeting had been different when I’d visited a year ago. I’d lost 30 pounds, and she was effusive in…
