Aunt Marisa’s Hunger For Life
And her struggle of eating in public as a fat person
My aunt Marisa was the embodiement of the word bold. Her raspy laughter could silence a room. Her presence was infectious. Men, women, kids and animals adored her.
She wore fishnet stockings which revealed glimpses of soft white flesh through the little squares. She preferred her clothes to match her fire-truck coloured hair, and her favourite piece was a frilly orange angora sweater with sequins. I loved to lay on her lap while she painted her nails and get a whiff of the deliciously strong-smelling chemicals. When I conjure her image up in my head today, I see her in this sweater, lounging on the sofa, smoking a Marlboro Red.
Aunt Marisa was a big person. She wasn’t just what people call chubbby or overweight. She needed an extension belt in the plane, and she didn’t fit in the seat of a rollercoaster.
She also swore like a sailor, could drink any man under the table and told jokes that made gangsters blush.
Aunt Marisa was the only adult who cried with me when my guinea pig died.
I admired her zest and I wanted to be like her.
Her boyfriends were a speedy carroussel of fiery man — many of them had a tiny moustache, none of them had what my mother would…
