"Childhood is that wonderful time when all you need to do to lose weight is to take a bath."

I wonder what it would be like to be thin. Well not thin, but not fat. Average size. Normal. A size 10 or an 8. Yes, an 8 would be just right. At a 22, an 8 seems unreachable. I suffer at the 22. I am a confident person - quite happy and accomplished, sexy and funny. And yet, the 22 me yearns for that 8’s body; that 8’s confidence, the carefree easy "I don’t have to worry what people really think of me" 8’s way of looking at life. An 8 me would jog and wear sleeveless dresses. An 8 me would know I don’t have to try so hard to be smart and sexy because as an 8, things would come naturally to me.

The 22 me knows this is a load of shit. The 22 me is positive she’s smarter and more evolved. The 22 me is funnier, wiser, and abit sadder. So, the 22 me, as shallow as it is, aches for her 22 stomach and thighs to melt away, to shrink down, fizzle into nothingness, or at least into eightishness. The 22 me tires of focusing all her attention on her pretty toes and gorgeous brown curly hair, skipping over the curves and all the wobbly bits in the middle. The 22 me would love to slip into that perfect size 8 dress, slide on a gorgeous pair of sling back high heels and waltz out the door to no one in particular, never giving a thought to how she looks, because she knows deep down she is just as damn beautiful on the outside as she is inside.


I wrote that passage last year as an assignment for one of my writing classes. It seems to sum up where I'm at these days. The how I do it (as long as its healthily) is less important to me than actually achieving this 50 lb. goal. I know 50 won't get me into an 8, but from where I sit today, it would allow me to see its possibility and put me back on the other side of 200. A place I haven't visited in a long long while. I am focusing on the food angle right now, until I can set myself up with a place to work out this week. Activity is the key and I'm fairly lazy in that regard, but determined. If only I could find a way to work out and read at the same time.


Which brings me to my new friend, Paddy Clarke. I take back now what I said earlier about not liking writing from a child's perspective. This is a delight. A gem. I haven't been to Raheny (in Co. Dublin), but in my imagination, the sights and smells of my many trips to Ireland fill in the gaps.


There's a funny passage early in the book where Paddy decides to make communion hosts from regular bread, flattening it down and leaving it on the windowsill to harden. Later, he wonders if its a sin to be even making the hosts. Undaunted, and despite the bits of mould that have grown on his "hosts" he still administers communion to his little brother, Sinbad.


I'm a leper! Wobble wobble wobble.