I am getting fat. All six feet of me. Well, actually just the middle section. Stretched out frog. Green and protruding. I am wearing my fat jeans. They are rubber-banding me right under my belly-button (maybe they are castrating me into two sections?). I am waist-ed.

I blame James. He makes me fresh gnocchi. And I mean the real doughy shit—imports the flour form Italy, the Olive Oil from Italy. Mixes it with Organic, free-range eggs, straight from the womb of chickens that actually have sex (what exactly does chicken sex entail anyway? #nowthatsanimage). He hand rolls it carefully on my wood dining room table. Not the kind of gnocchi with potatoes, no (“Too light”). Gnocchi with ricotta cheese. He eats it raw. Pops it in his mouth like Kettle Corn.

Not me though. You might as well smear the damn dough on my ass. Cooked or uncooked, it rests in little pockets on awkward bodily spaces. Why can’t I take a little from my hips and squish it into my chest? Or (Ooooo!) buns? I mean, I could manage a bit of extra volume in the rear section. Wouldn’t that be a clever trick??

Dear God, I’ve grown.

I’m now padded—in pesto and asiago and vegan alfredo sauce and warm, wholesome pasta gestated in the hands of a simply superior human being. (But also!) I am now layered with ocean-wide love, and reverence, and devotion. I dare say I might be able to change the world with this newfound girth. Undoubtedly a sign of health, and healing. WELL FED. Expansive. Grounded. Whole. This is now me.

My darling, lifelong, friend came over for dinner the other night, feeling rotten. A truly hideous day. An hour later after her arrival she sighed and remarked with surprise, Gosh, I suddenly feel like an entirely different person.  I smiled. Closed my eyes, knowingly. Ahhh, I’m baaaaack.

It occurred to me as I noticed my (chubby-faced) contented look in the reflection of the sliding glass door…the more I am, the more of me there is to give. And so I eat and feed, and share abundantly. Full and again able to fill.