MY ONE TRUE LOVE

It's poetry month, so I've been attempting to attend as many poetry readings as my schedule will allow. I've heard some very good poets. I'm a rather jaded individual, so when I'm moved to smile or get a chubby from the spoken word, I know that I'm listening to an exceptional wordsmith.

I was at a reading, listening intently to a woman who is readily becoming one of my favorite poets. She was gesticulating as she spoke. At one point she moved her hand toward her breast. I held my breath in anticipation of her caressing it. She faked me out. She simulated the near breast stroke for the remainder of her poem. It was disconcerting to me. Clutching her breast would have been the perfect accentuation to her poem about her romantic encounter but she chickened out! I was devastated. I looked around the room, distraught. I felt betrayed.

As I was surveying the room full of writers, it dawned on me that we really like to eat! The majority of the people in attendance were extra large. All of the poets that read that day were extra beefy. One even read a poem about her struggle as a big girl accepting the unconditional love of an average sized man. I knew that despite of the reaction this piece might garner I had to comment on this subject.

I Know Why The Poet Eats!

I've been a big fella most of my life. When I came into this world, my great aunt lived right next door to my family in an adjoining flat. At the point I was able to eat solid food, she stole me from my family and spoiled me rotten by attending to me all day long. she would not allow my older brother in her kitchen. It was she and I; a bliss that can only occur between a child and a loving adult.

I still remember being in her kitchen, sitting in a high chair as she fed me steak with rice and gravy. I was about 16 or 17 months of age at that time! Child psychologist would have you believe that children that young do not retain detailed memories. I distinctly remember, the smells of her kitchen and the taste of the food, the melodic tone of her voice as she fed me. On one occassion, I tried to sneak over to her flat after my father refuse to let me go over there. I remember how enormous that first step looked to me so I attempted to walk along the 2 inch lip that extended along the wall of the back entrance. I clung to the wall and inched along the tiny ledge then became afraid that I might fall. I betrayed myself by crying out of fear for my safety. My parents came and rescued me from the ledge.

I was a normal sized child before Aunt Lottie began feeding me adult sized portions of that wonderful food she prepared just for me. I quickly learned to associate love with good food. My foundation as a fatboy was established.

Comfort Food

My mother was a better cook than Aunt Lottie. When she was in love with my father and secure in her relationship with him, she prepared some of the best meals anyone could ever enjoy. I developed a profound love of food. My father's closeted fear of familial success was our nuclear family's undoing. Right as I was reaching the dickshardeverysecondoftheday stage of puberty, our family unit was dissolving. My developing sex drive was obscured by our family dysfunction. I took my frustrations out at the kitchen table. I had been a pretty big boy, all of my childhood. By age 13, I ballooned to over 300 pounds as my inablilty to mismanage a sexual relationship with a girl my age pervaded my juvenile psyche.

As I aged, the dichotomy of never being sexually satisfied - which was the cause of my overeating - effectively prevented me from achieving the amount of sexual gratification that I thought I deserved. A vicious cycle that could never resolve itself.

As I listened to those poets, I realized that they lived with the same dichotomy. And like me seek solice in comfort food. Our passions fuel our artistry but our frustrations tax our blood sugar and clog our intestinal tract. O woe is me!