Interior Monologue

This story is true.

For as long as I can remember, my dad always called me a “big girl”. The man has five kids, including four daughters, and most of them are very….willowy. From a very early age I was bigger than my (older) sisters. My dad always treated this fact very casually, and would say things like, “that’s ok honey, you know you’re a big girl.” Or maybe, “yes, but you are a big girl.” Context is irrelevant. Big girl was the running refrain.

My adolescent brain equated “big girl” to something like “plump girl” or “heavyset girl.” Maybe not all the way to “fat,” but a far cry from the petite, dainty sisters that preceded me. The big girl. Compared to them I was like Gozdilla, rampaging through our neighborhood. I weighed 140 lbs by the time I was 13, but then I was also 5’ 7”. What’s a (big) girl to do?

So this was my life, for as long as I could remember, and I had just accepted it and internalized it and put it into a small box somewhere deep in my psyche and locked it away. And then one day, sometime in my late teens, my dad and I were watching TV. Specifically, we were watching beach volleyball, and even more specifically, we were watching Gabrielle Reece wrecking house. Just dominating.

For those of you that don’t know, Gabrielle Reece is a former professional volleyball player – slash – model. She is also 6’ 3” tall.

So there we were, watching this towering blonde powerhouse, totally dominating, and my dad says oh-so-casually “now that is a big girl.” Half a beat passes while I process the words I had just heard, and then I lost it. I could not let that casual insult pass. He wants to call me a big girl? Fine—I’m no supermodel, I could stand to lose a few pounds. That woman, that walking bundle of sinews, is not a big girl. There is no version of reality where she is any permutation of overweight.   

So I wheeled around to face him, and then I started yelling.

“That woman is a wall of muscle. She does not have a shred of body fat. Explain to me, please, how Gabby Reece is fat.”

My dad’s face transitioned from bemusement at my outburst to bewilderment at the sentiment.

“Fat?” He furrowed his brow. “Fat? No way, she’s not fat. I never said fat.” I could see him piecing together what had happened, the realization dawning upon him, and then he started speaking to me very gently.

“Honey, I said she is a big girl, as in tall. Like you—tall. She is a really tall woman. Just like you. Tall”

Now it was my turn to have a dawning realization.

“Do you mean to tell me… that my entire life, when you have called me a big girl, you meant….tall? You think I am a tall girl?”

“Yes! Tall! You know you are a tall girl!”

At that point we both started laughing, and I think I also started crying, and my dad probably apologized for the years and years of psychological damage he had done to me. He looked a little sheepish, I’ll admit, but he also looked at me just a little sadly.

“I’m sorry, honey. I never said you were fat.”