Once upon a time there lived a misfit and her mini-me.
Our misfit was all about taking up taking up space in the world, being big, strong and HEARD.
Her mini-me, while only 7.75 years old, appeared to follow suit.
She, too, loved being
She knew she was her own superhero:
She loved the SIZE & *BULK* of her burgeoning muscles and would display them without being asked.
Our big MisFit was pretty damn
She wasnt arrogant or judgmental—but she thought she had the whole MamaRoleModelThing down.
Until she stumbled.
Until she almost fell into the ABYSS not of FAT TALK but OLD TALK.
Great googly moogly I look tired. Im like a grandma this morning!
Or uttering things like:
Holy crapballs Im old. Im like a ninety year old right angle in the mornings!
In the same way it would NEVER occur to her to whine I feel fat!! she found herself *whining* I feel a million years old this morning!! without giving it a second thought.
She found herself completely *matter-of-factly* stating to her mini-me as she climbed out of her beloved beanbag chair:
Wait. Wait. Im not a spring chicken any more. MamaOld. This may take a while.
(whilst grunting and groaning for effect.)
One morning after some such I AGING! I CREAKY! remark the MiniMisfit turned to her Mama and said:
Mama, I dont want you to be old.
And, in a way reminiscent of the best John Hughes movie montages, all the OLD TALK snippets our misfit had uttered came rushing back to her.
- Comments made in jest to a MiniMisfit who didnt yet ‘grasp’ the jesting.
- Comments made to her husband (in front of her mini) all in the name of laughing “we’re aging together!” camaraderie.
- Comments made about being or getting old said with humor—but damaging none the less to little ears.
Our misfit realized–in this one swift AH HA! moment–all the ‘pridefullness’ she’d possessed at never uttering the words diet, fat or good/bad-foods was practically eclipsed by the message she’d been sending about anxiety/losing self love related to aging.
Anxiety and worry she did not feel—but that mattered NOT when they were what exited her mouth and found their way into little ears.
Once she became aware of the foible of old talk our Misfit noticed it all around her.
She overheard the same interactions—mother/child—on the playground.
She eavesdropped on old talk among female strangers.
She carried on her own old talk with friends—she was no where near perfect.
Which all led her to ponder:
As we women make strides in conquering our FAT TALK must we, invariably, switch to a different kind of negative self-talk?
And, as all good misfits do, she brings her queries to you.
- Whether in 20′s or edging past 40 have you found yourself slipping into ‘old talk’?
- Have you discovered old-talk to be the new *fat-talk* as a way women connect/relate to other women?