Flashback 2: Life at age 13

Though the fig tree does not bud
and there are no grapes on the vines,
though the olive crop fails
and the fields produce no food,
though there are no sheep in the pen
and no cattle in the stalls,
yet I will rejoice in the Lord,
I will be rejoice in God my Saviour.

The Sovereign Lord is my strength;
he makes my feet like the feet of a deer,
He enables me to go on the heights.

Habbakuk 3:17-19


My dad was fat, to a lesser degree now, but he certainly carried his potbelly with pride as though the size of one's waist is directly proportional to how well to do one is in life. It did not trouble him much not knowing whether his shoe laces were untied, and on occasion, would slap his tummy with great satisfaction knowing that the deep tremors unleashed would overshadow similar efforts of lesser men.

I did not share his sentiment, though I did inherit the same gene that makes the blowfish blush. Cute is a label I loved to loathe. Cute was a reference to an oversized teenager buying clothes 4 sizes larger. Cute was a pronunciation of unending suffering by well-meaning, cheek-pinching aunties. Cute was the word of choice for teachers striving for political correctness.

In school, cute did nothing for me, literally. Cute meant rejection and loneliness. Cute meant being chosen last, albeit begrudgingly, whenever it was time for pairing up for PE. Cuteness provided a convenient and available avenue for those more physically strong to vent their frustration on. Cute meant failure in every aspect of physical life. Lastly cute forced me to endure unceasing redicule from those who built their self-esteem on the ashes of others.