What an amazing symbol of middle-class childhood in the 1960's: the Brownie Scout ashtray lovingly crafted for my dad. Wow! What were they thinking?All it took was a treasured photo, glass ashtray, some glue and some felt. Viola! A coffee-table symbol of childlike fidelity and adoration reminding the parental unit to think of me every time he lights up another Winston. Stunning. My mom found that trinket just the other other day, some 35 years later. And I've been looking at it in shock ever since.
But, mostly I've been feeling sad for the Brownie in the photo, staring back at me mutely from the bottom of the ashtray. She's so smart and sweet. And already so chubby way back in 1969. She doesn't have a clue that 40 years of plus sizes and the Big Girl Shop are coming her way. What a bummer.
I come from immigrant stock. That generation of caregivers thought they were giving us the American dream when they gave us unlimited access to soda pop, HoHos, twinkies and chips. Parental love American-style meant shoestring potatoes and trips to the Red Barn on Harlem Avenue. I didn't learn about mindful eating, whole foods or anything of the sort. And pretty soon I was whisked away from the super groovy Lemon Frog shop at the Six Corners Sears in Chicago straight over to the Chubby girls section. Pretty soon, there would be the abject terror of my total inability to perform the dreaded "flexed arm hang" in the President's Physical Fitness Challenge. (Remember those?)
I feel sad for that Brownie Scout Ann Marie--she had a lot of shit coming her way and she didn't have a clue. But I also feel glad for her. Because now that she's not chubby anymore, that girl in the ashtray can say eat my dust.
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