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If American men are obsessed with money, American women are obsessed with weight. The men talk of gain, the women talk of loss, and I do not know which talk is the more boring.
I look at an ant and I see myself: a native South African, endowed by nature with a strength much greater than my size so I might cope with the weight of a racism that crushes my spirit.
One of the best ways to make yourself happy in the present is to recall happy times from the past. Photos are a great memory-prompt, and because we tend to take photos of happy occasions, they weight our memories to the good.
I was a weed. Such a skinny little weed. I just couldn't put on weight; I couldn't put on muscle. I was the oddest shape. And I thought that was it: that's how I'd look for the rest of my life. And I'd beat myself up about it so much. But you change an awful lot. You're 16. Your body's not even halfway to what it'll end up being.
I went from being a beanpole - like a normal kid of the 1950s - and exploded. The weight piled on and didn't stop until into my adulthood.