Fat Girl Walking: Sex, Food, Love, and Being Comfortable in Your Skin…Every Inch of It by Brittany Gibbons
Authors: Brittany Gibbons
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Representative had kindly completed, and walked out at peace having no idea what I would be when I grew up, which ended up being pretty okay because I had plenty of things to keep me occupied, like having mental breakdowns and failing at lesbianism. We all have our journeys.
7
ADORABLY MENTAL
A MONTH BEFORE I left for Ohio State, my grandmother was diagnosed with various forms of cancer. It started in her lungs and then bounced around like a Ping-Pong ball in her body, finally culminating in the diagnosis of terminal. I can’t say it was entirely surprising; she had smoked her whole life, and you couldn’t sit on a couch in her living room without reaching under the cushion to find a hidden pack of Kool Menthol 100s.
Everything moved really quickly from that point. Hospice moved in, and her bedroom was transformed into a medically enabled den of comfort; oxygen machines, beeping monitors, tiny cups full of pills on her bedside table, and a large-screen television on the center of her antique dresser. None of this was meant to keep her alive, but rather present and accessible for the rest of us.
Bedridden, her small and bony frame soon took up only half of the familiar indentation worn into her mattress. I’d spend my afternoons curled up next to her under a down comforter reading aloudfrom gossip magazines, fashioning her silk headscarf like she was in an Erykah Badu video, and lying uncomfortably quiet beside her as she willed me random belongings from her room and shared with me all the knowledge she wouldn’t get a chance to tell me later.
“All my jewelry and furs are yours,” she’d whisper alongside the low hum of the oxygen from the tube in her nose. I cringed thinking of the matted rabbit fur pimp coats in her closet. It’s like she had no idea that you couldn’t wear that stuff in public unless you were Courtney Love.
“I like Andy, but you should really date a Filipino before you settle down; they make amazing lovers,” she’d muse.
“You are going to fail at a lot of things, so when you do, do it on such a grand scale that half the room gives you a standing ovation, and the other half gives you the middle finger.”
My grandmother was the most beautiful woman on earth. She had pale skin, auburn hair, and long, thin legs and fingers. She knew I didn’t want to go to college. But she also knew that following Andy was my best chance of not ending up like my parents: married young, broke and struggling. My grandma and grandpa lived in a matching ranch next door, separated only by a creek and some trees. When my parents were fighting or working late, I walked across the deep creek between our two houses and showed up on her front doorstep, black mud up to my knees, and spent the night.
My mom would tell me her parents were often too busy for her when she was growing up, but I found them to be a much-needed constant in my life. (I think that’s a pretty normal grandparent thing, as I can now attest, my parents are way better at grandparenting than they were at parenting.) I’d nestle into one of the plaid couches in her living room, and she’d hum old Irish songs in the kitchen and peel the skin from apples in one long, unbrokenstrand. My brother always ate the apples; I always ate the skin. Then we’d watch old Judy Garland movies and drink tall glasses of orange juice like diabetes wasn’t even a thing.
My grandmother had an amazing gift to make you feel like the most interesting girl in the room, and it disarmed you from feeling insecure, so you’d end up talking about yourself for hours, which felt good when you lived in a life where no one else asked. Even when she was dying, frail and thin, leaning against me as she slipped on her shoes to go to another appointment, she’d ask me what made me happy that day and kiss me on my shoulder.
“Thank you for helping me stand,” she said squeezing my arm. I was thick and strong, and had spent eighteen years perfecting the art of supporting
7
ADORABLY MENTAL
A MONTH BEFORE I left for Ohio State, my grandmother was diagnosed with various forms of cancer. It started in her lungs and then bounced around like a Ping-Pong ball in her body, finally culminating in the diagnosis of terminal. I can’t say it was entirely surprising; she had smoked her whole life, and you couldn’t sit on a couch in her living room without reaching under the cushion to find a hidden pack of Kool Menthol 100s.
Everything moved really quickly from that point. Hospice moved in, and her bedroom was transformed into a medically enabled den of comfort; oxygen machines, beeping monitors, tiny cups full of pills on her bedside table, and a large-screen television on the center of her antique dresser. None of this was meant to keep her alive, but rather present and accessible for the rest of us.
Bedridden, her small and bony frame soon took up only half of the familiar indentation worn into her mattress. I’d spend my afternoons curled up next to her under a down comforter reading aloudfrom gossip magazines, fashioning her silk headscarf like she was in an Erykah Badu video, and lying uncomfortably quiet beside her as she willed me random belongings from her room and shared with me all the knowledge she wouldn’t get a chance to tell me later.
“All my jewelry and furs are yours,” she’d whisper alongside the low hum of the oxygen from the tube in her nose. I cringed thinking of the matted rabbit fur pimp coats in her closet. It’s like she had no idea that you couldn’t wear that stuff in public unless you were Courtney Love.
“I like Andy, but you should really date a Filipino before you settle down; they make amazing lovers,” she’d muse.
“You are going to fail at a lot of things, so when you do, do it on such a grand scale that half the room gives you a standing ovation, and the other half gives you the middle finger.”
My grandmother was the most beautiful woman on earth. She had pale skin, auburn hair, and long, thin legs and fingers. She knew I didn’t want to go to college. But she also knew that following Andy was my best chance of not ending up like my parents: married young, broke and struggling. My grandma and grandpa lived in a matching ranch next door, separated only by a creek and some trees. When my parents were fighting or working late, I walked across the deep creek between our two houses and showed up on her front doorstep, black mud up to my knees, and spent the night.
My mom would tell me her parents were often too busy for her when she was growing up, but I found them to be a much-needed constant in my life. (I think that’s a pretty normal grandparent thing, as I can now attest, my parents are way better at grandparenting than they were at parenting.) I’d nestle into one of the plaid couches in her living room, and she’d hum old Irish songs in the kitchen and peel the skin from apples in one long, unbrokenstrand. My brother always ate the apples; I always ate the skin. Then we’d watch old Judy Garland movies and drink tall glasses of orange juice like diabetes wasn’t even a thing.
My grandmother had an amazing gift to make you feel like the most interesting girl in the room, and it disarmed you from feeling insecure, so you’d end up talking about yourself for hours, which felt good when you lived in a life where no one else asked. Even when she was dying, frail and thin, leaning against me as she slipped on her shoes to go to another appointment, she’d ask me what made me happy that day and kiss me on my shoulder.
“Thank you for helping me stand,” she said squeezing my arm. I was thick and strong, and had spent eighteen years perfecting the art of supporting
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