My friend Brent Arp says he and I don’t have a weight problem — we have a height problem. I like his way of looking at things.
Most of my height problem, though, is my own fault and can’t be blamed entirely on the short frame God gave me. I can, however, place some of the blame on my late grandmother, Grace Roberts. She was a pusher — a food pusher.
My dad’s mother was a good cook. We ate well when we visited her home in Hannibal, Mo. I was skinny back then.
After I’d finished one serving of everything on the table, Grandma would look at my empty plate, and the conversation would go something like this:
“Take some more fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, corn and coleslaw, honey,” she’d say.
“No thank you, Grandma,” I replied.
“Oh, come in. There’s plenty left.”
“No thanks, I’m full.”
“Just a little more, hon. Don’t you like it?”
Then I’d give in. “Oh, OK.”
Grandma’s gone, replaced now by another pusher, a voice in my head that says things like, “I’m really good, Phil, so eat me” or “If one serving is good, two are better.”
I’ve always been too quick to give in to those voices — Grandma’s and the one in my head. But WeightWatchers and I are working hard to change that.
Copyright 2010 by Phil Roberts, Creative Enterprises. Submitted as a column to The North Scott Press, Eldridge, Iowa.