Circumstances too painful to mention brought me in contact today with the 1996 Metropolitan Life Insurance Weight Tables. My dear old friends.

My objective was to see if I was within 12% of my ideal body weight. Why such a traitorous objective was thrust upon me is my own business. The results, I'll share: I was 18 % away from what they thought I should weigh, and 7% away from my own personal ideal weight. (Have I just given you enough information to algebraically compute my weight? Hope not.)

To be specific, the ranges I'm discussing are on the excess side, not the malnourished side. Whatever names you may call me, “underfed” will never be one.

The problem lies entirely with my bones. They are large, and made of lead. Five feet and seven inches of me can wear the same pants size as another 5'7” woman, yet I will weigh 20 pounds more than she does. Always. Ever since adolescence.

And somehow nearly all of my gal pals are skinny waifs, former ballerinas, adorable and petite size 2's. I didn't plan it that way. But it's always made me feel like a moose.

An exceptionally strong moose. The first time I ever hugged the college boy who became my husband, he gasped, “Geez, you're strong.”

This is not what a young girl in love wants to hear after a first, fearful embrace.

Sweet, beautiful, sexy, smart, fun, wonderful, yes. Strong? No.

He saw my embarrassed disappointment, and hastened to reassure me.

“No, it's great, it's just that your back is so strong. I've never felt such a strong back on a girl.”

Only later did I wonder if he'd made a practice of feeling and analyzing girls' backs. Backsides, undoubtedly. I don't want to know.

I have a rule: he is not allowed to carry me. Not even over the threshold on our wedding day. I didn't want to enter wedlock with a freshly injured groom. More to the point, I didn't want to hear him grunt as he lifted me. It would destroy the mood.

Only to snatch me from a fiery inferno may he carry me, and only then if I'm unconscious so I don't feel his heart palpitating under the strain.

He tells me he likes me just as I am. Bless his heart. He said the same thing when I was nine bloated months pregnant, so he lies, but still, bless his heart.

To the extent that I dissociate myself from image insanity, and stop fretting over how I look or what I weigh compared with other women, I find that I really like my body, every ounce of it. I feel substantial and capable. This solid frame has carried me through four pregnancies, hoisted boys in and out of vans dozens of times a day, packed up and moved, renovated houses, played contact sports. My sheer mass helps me withstand frontal impact, ice slippage, and even contagious diseases. I am pioneer stock, farm-fed and bred for endurance. I'm unbreakable – never even had a sprain.

But to the extent that I shop in women's boutiques, and change in dressing rooms, I loathe my size and feel like a walrus. Sometimes I even start barking in the dressing rooms. “You okay, ma'am?” “Sorry, just thought I was a walrus in this dress. I'm okay now. Do you have it in blue?”

But then I consider: the female walrus is a sexy beast. Truly a femme fatale. Male walruses fight violently for the right to woo her. Miss Moose wields a similar appeal – two bull moose may fight to the death over a well-turned moose ankle, either in combat, or by locking antlers until the competing bulls eventually die of starvation and exhaustion.

We only talk of passion, and dying for love. And is it the skinniest walrus or moose female (both referred to as “cows” . . . hmm . . .) whose siren song is the Call of the Wild? I doubt it.

Big is bold. Big is beautiful. Big-boned gals bring bulls galloping and bellowing from afar, bulls who care nothing for what the Metropolitan Life Insurance Company may say.

Moo.

© 2005, Julianna Berry.