Dribble, Shoot, and Run-101 Baskets

"You need to lose a few pounds," always said her ex-boyfriend with his mouth full while stuffing his fat face with food and beer, which is why he's her ex-boyfriend.

Kettle black, he should talk, if she had his BMI, body mass index, she'd weigh 50 more pounds than what she weighs now. Losing her sexy curves, with her thighs rubbing together and her ass seemingly needing another zip code, she hated herself for gaining so much weight. She hated how she looked and how she felt. With all of her clothes suddenly tighter but for her sweatshirts and sweatpants, she wished she was thinner and took a smaller dress size than a size 18.

* * * * *

Somehow envying her, Charlotte looked at 80-year-old Mrs. Morrison knowing that she no longer needed to be a slave to fashion and/or to her perceived body image. Retired and living alone after her husband died of a heart attack brought on by his Diabetes and with him being obese too, no longer having a man to please, she was now free from all of that. Only, after Mrs. Morrison confessed to trying to lose weight all of her life and being unhappily unsuccessful, in the end, now that her life is nearly over, what has diet and exercise done for her other than to make her a miserably, unhappy failure?

Now that she's old and wrinkled, eating as much as she wants, whatever she wants to eat, and whenever she wants to eat it, not losing any weight or gaining any weight, she's still overweight. With her food and medication causing her mood swings, still sadly unhappy, but for Charlotte caring for her, she's alone and as alone as Charlotte imagined she'd be at her age. Unhealthy with a laundry list of medical issues, she's seemingly waiting to die while watching commercials for products she'll never buy, items she'll never use, and things she'll never try.

With excess eating more emotional than physical, even Oprah with all of her money, all of her programs on obesity and overeating, her personal chef, and personal trainer, even with Dr. Oz chiming in, was unable to lose weight until recently. Struggling with obesity all of her life, she wondered how Oprah was finally able to conquer the internal monster that caused her to pack on the pounds. She couldn't deal with being overweight any longer. Not wanting this to be an issue when she's in her forties, fifties, and sixties, she needed to lose weight now.

At only thirty-years-old, Charlotte looked at Mrs. Morrison with sudden insight as if she was looking at herself in the mirror fifty years from now. If she continued down this road of excess eating and of hating herself because she's overweight, this could be her life when she's Mrs. Morrison's age, if she lived that long. Or she could prematurely die of a heart attack in the way that her mother did at three hundred plus pounds when she was only 44-years-old. If she's going to make a change, she needs to make it now. If she's going to happily live her life, she needed to start happily living it now.

Just like Mrs. Morrison, after trying to lose weight all of her life and being unhappily unsuccessful, she constantly and continually beats herself up for failing herself. Trying as best as she could, it was then that she realized that she didn't fail herself. It was the diet and exercise plans that failed her. It was those damn commercials lying to her about this diet aid, this guaranteed diet product, this celebrity endorsement, and that diet that failed her. A captive audience in her own home, how dare they come into her house through the miracle of television to take advantage of her and to steal her hard earned money?

"Bastards! Dirty bastards! No good sons of bitches!"

Obviously, a disclaimer that advertisers should legally be forced to state, what works for some doesn't work for all. What works for some seemingly doesn't work for her. If Charlotte learned one thing from Mrs. Morrison infirmity is to live life now while doing the things that she enjoys doing. It doesn't matter so much what she looks like as long as she's happy. Learning to be happy for who she is inside, her personal happiness is her key to her losing weight or not losing weight.

Because she's so miserably unhappy inside is why she's still so heavy and unable to lose a pound. Now without a man in her life and not yet looking for another man to replace her ex-boyfriend, free from all of that tension, catering, and emotional drain, she didn't need to lose weight for yet another man who wouldn't want to marry her. She no longer wanted to care for and worry about another man who would, no doubt, look at other women, younger women, once she's older and fatter. She no longer wanted to endure another man who ate all that he wanted to eat while admonishing her for not losing weight.

If losing weight will make her happy and healthier, then she needed to lose her excess weight for herself. Obviously, setting herself up for failure, losing weight for someone else doesn't work. After living her life for someone else, her mother, her friends, her co-workers, and her boyfriends, everyone but for her, now finally she was living her life for herself. Pressured by her peers, she was tired of trying to make some man happy. A man who she could never make happy unless she was taller, blonder, bustier, and wealthy, the only person she had any hope of making happy was herself. Needing to take more of a self-centered attitude than to waste her time worrying about others when they didn't worry about her, she needed to take care of herself for her hoped for happiness.

* * * * *

Always overweight since she was a kid, easier for her to gain weight than to lose weight, Charlotte couldn't lose a pound. For every pound she lost, she somehow gained back two. Lacking confidence and considering herself plain Jane vanilla, a wallflower who hid herself in the shadows hoping to disappear, with her long, golden blonde, lush hair and big, bright blue eyes, she always felt that if only she was thinner, she'd be prettier and more sexually desirable. If only she was thinner someone would want her enough to marry her and give her a baby.

Always so critical of herself, if she looked like anyone, she looked like a fat Cybill Shepherd when she starred in that movie, The Last Picture Show back in 1971. In the way that Cybill looked then, Charlotte looked now, albeit a beautiful woman trapped in a fat body. When she recently watched Cybill Shepherd in that movie on TV, as if she was looking at herself in a mirror, she couldn't believe the striking resemblance. Yet, always in the way of her God given good looks, every single thought of her negative personal monologue had to do with her weight.

Attributing all of her failures to her excess weight, as far as she was concerned, not even seeing her pretty face, her beautiful, blonde hair, and her pretty blue eyes because of her weight, the only thing she thought she had in her favor was that she was busty. She had what most men wanted in a woman. She had big tits, not giant breasts, but shapely C cup breasts with an impressive long line of cleavage. Whenever prominently displayed, which was rare, her breasts were big enough to attract the attention of a man and big enough for her not to think about getting implants as many of her friends have foolishly done.

Even if she weighed a hundred pounds more than what she weighed now, she'd never be the type to have gastric bypass surgery in the way that her mother's doctor recommended her mother have. Only, not making it to the operating table, her mother prematurely died before the scheduled surgery. If nothing else, giving her the encouragement not to be morbidly obese, she'd rather be a little fat than to have some surgeon cut open her stomach to tie it in a knot. No thank you. What she'd do instead is to get professional psychiatric therapy to find out why she's so attracted to food, why she never feels full, and why she eats to an excess. Even though she doesn't overeat as much now, with the damage already done and the extra fat cells already created, she overate before. Even though she doesn't overeat now, having tried everything, every diet, and every exercise to eliminate her excess weight, her body refuses to get rid of her unwanted weight.

Perhaps, if only she'd dressed more seductively to show off her shapely, albeit full figure, she'd feel better about her self-image and that positive feeling about herself would jumpstart her weight loss. Only, always ashamed of her body, she never dressed seductively. If asked for the definition of sexy, never including her name on the list, she'd recite the names of various celebrities and movie stars. For her to succeed at losing weight, she needed to like herself enough to include herself on the definition of sexy list.

Instead of wearing clothes that complimented her figure, she wore drab colors, dark grey, forest green, black, navy blue, or brown clothes to hide her body. Maybe if she lost some weight she'd dress sexier but if she had to describe herself with one word, that one word wouldn't be sexy. That one word would be fat. Defining herself as fat, no doubt about it in her mind and sabotaging and defeating any attempted diet plan, even fatter on the inside than she is on the outside, she's fat. Fat, fat, fat, she's always been fat and as far as she's concerned, she'll always be fat. Even if she lost a ton of weight and was thin, she'll still be fat. When she looks at herself in the mirror, hating how she looks, all that she sees are rolls of fat around her stomach, hanging from her arms, collecting on her thighs, and blowing up her buttocks.

At 5'7" tall and 180 pounds, not terribly overweight and still very seductively shapely, she could stand to lose 20 pounds, 30 pounds, or an impossible to lose 50 pounds to be at her ideal weight of 130. Any thinner than 130 and she'd look emaciated and unhealthy. Weighing any less than that and she'd start looking like the queen of plastic surgery and Botox, phony Marie Osmond. Only, after reading diet books, exercising to diet videos, trying diet plans, and diet pills, every time she lost a pound, she'd gain back two more. With celebrities leading the charge, the average woman thinks that they can look like them without having an inexhaustible supply of money to pay plastic surgeons and hair and makeup cosmeticians. A huge scam to bilk us all out of money we don't have, the whole image thing is nothing more than a fantasy for someone like her and a reality for only the superrich.

* * * * *

Then, one day, something amazing happened. After working for Mrs. Morrison for a few months, while looking out the window of the elderly complex where she worked, she stared down at the swimming pool, the tennis court, and the basketball court. She's seen them a hundred times before but too busy watching television commercials when not giving Mrs. Morrison her personal care, it's funny how she really didn't pay attention those amenities before. It was good that they were hoping to keep some of their residents active but too many of their residents were too old, too weak, and too infirmed to walk never mind to swim, play tennis, or shoot a basketball. She wondered how many residents used the facilities.

Now that she was staring down at them, routinely looking for people taking advantage of them, she never saw anyone on the tennis court or on the basketball court. Perhaps in the warmer weather, she'd see some of the residents enjoying the pool. She didn't swim. She never learned how to swim after she nearly drown as a kid. Just as one would think that being fat as a child would want to make her be thin as an adult, one would think that nearly drowning would want to make her learn how to swim. Yet in the way that nearly drowning gave her a fear of the water, food that gave her comfort as a child gave her comfort as an adult.

Yet, always wanting to play tennis in the way that some people want to play golf, she didn't know how to play tennis and even if she did know how to play, she had no one to hit the ball back and forth with her. Watching tennis matches on TV, it looked like a fun game to play. All the tennis players on TV were thin and she wondered if she took up tennis if she'd be thin too. Realistically, she wondered how many tennis games she'd have to play to be thin, tens of thousands probably. Tennis looked easy enough to play not very well, but without a partner, unable to play the game alone, she was dead in the water.

She stared from the pool and from the tennis court to stare at the basketball court. Having enjoyed watching basketball games on TV, not even deeming shooting a basketball as exercise, especially in the uncoordinated way that she played, as if it was a shiny penny she found in the street, the basketball court beckoned to her. Something that she could do alone and preferred to do by herself, playing basketball and shooting baskets suddenly appealed to her.

She used to shoot baskets with her brothers when she was a kid. Easy enough to shoot a basket, she could do that. She could dribble a ball before standing there to shoot the ball up at the basket. That was easy too. It was making the baskets that was hard. Nonetheless, it would be fun to see how many baskets she could make out of one hundred tries. That type of exercise, exercise that didn't seem like exercise at all but exercise that seemed more like fun, appealed to her.

Even though she didn't live there, just worked there, she decided to give shooting baskets a try. True to her word, after work she went downstairs, retrieved the basketball from the closet, and walked outside bouncing the ball on her way to the basketball court. Just bouncing the ball made her feel as if she was a basketball player. Just bouncing the basketball, made her feel as if she was doing something positive for herself.

As if the tall buildings were cartoonish and leaning to watch her shoot baskets in the way of professional super tall basketball players on the court looming down at her, she was surrounded by high-rise elderly housing. For someone who never wanted attention, alone with her bad self, she felt a little conspicuous should anyone be looking out their window to watch her dribbling and shooting a basketball. With no one ever on the basketball court, feeling as if she was a trespasser with her not a resident there, she knew that she'd be attracting some unsolicited attention. Nonetheless the unwanted attention she may receive, it felt good to be out in the fresh air and sunshine while bouncing and dribbling a basketball. Finally, she felt like she was doing something for herself and not for someone else. Finally, she was enjoying the activity of challenging herself to make as many baskets as she could. No longer depressed, finally, she was happy and at peace with herself while being out in the world.

* * * * *

Yet when she went to shoot the ball, with the basket suddenly looking so very high up, she didn't even come near to hitting the rim.

'Wow! This is going to take some practice,' she thought to herself.

Using muscles she hasn't used in 20 years, and especially being that she was a foot shorter back then, she did better shooting the basketball when she was ten. Even when standing under the basket, it was hard for her to shoot the ball high up enough to even hit the rim. What looked to be fun from up in Mrs. Morrison's apartment was hard work on the basketball court.

A dismal failure, she sucked at shooting a basketball. Yet, not giving up, with her always quitting too easily and too soon before, she persevered in her quest to challenge herself to make a basket. A basket, how hard can it be to make a lousy basket? After missing shot after shot, she now had a new appreciation for those professional basketball players who played the game. Yet, then again, those who professionally play basketball are not only at least a foot taller than she is but also are skilled at playing basketball.

Nonetheless, even when she missed a shot, she was getting closer. Moreover, even when she missed a shot, she was feeling the physical benefit of shooting the ball at the basket. As if the ball was her magic elixir needed for her to lose weight, it was then that she perceived her basketball as a medicine ball albeit with air.

Again and again, pushing forward with her shoulders as if she was shoving someone back or doing a quick bench press, she used her back, arms, shoulders, and her legs to shoot the ball harder, higher, and more accurately. Again and again, not even close, with air ball after air ball hitting nothing but the base of the pole, not even coming close to the rim, she continued missing making a basket. Shooting the ball like a girl or someone mentally challenged, even though she sucked at basketball, she was determined to continue. Like anything else, with her pitted against the basket, an inanimate object and not allowing a mere basket to measure and/or control her success or failure, she knew that with a little practice, she'd be better.

Eventually coming closer, hitting the rim a few times before hitting the backboard, she finally made a basket. She made a basket. She couldn't believe she made a basket. With no stopping, she was on her way now. As if she saved the day by winning the game, a championship basketball game at that, she was proud of herself for finally making a basket. As if an imaginary crowd were on their feet applauding her, cheering her, and encouraging her to continue, she ran around the court with her arms in the air as if she was Rocky Balboa climbing the steps to Philadelphia's Museum of Art.

"Wow!"

After missing so very many times, as if she had just made 100 consecutive baskets, making that one basket felt good. As if sticking out her tongue at all of her thin, so called friends and all of her selfish ex-boyfriends, making that one basket was now her personal victory and her goal to beat. Now that she knew how, if she could make one, she could make another basket. If she could make another one, then she could make even more baskets. If only by the tingling in her shoulders, chest, back, legs, and arms, she knew that dribbling, shooting, and running after a basketball would work.

The difference was that shooting baskets was something that she wanted to do and not something that she needed to do. Shooting baskets was something that she enjoyed doing and not something that she hated doing. After watching a stupid exercise commercial with another skinny model flaunting her perfect body that only made her feel guilty and fat instead of making her feel motivated and inspired, shooting baskets was something that she wasn't required or forced to do.

With her developing a strategy that would work for her, it was then that she devised her own game and exercise plan at the same time. Her rule for shooting baskets was that when she shot the ball, wherever the ball landed, as if she was playing in a real game, she had to shoot the basketball from there. If the ball landed out of bounds, she had to return to the foul line and start her little game all over again. Only, so that the ball didn't get too far away from her, as if there was someone else running to possess the ball too, if only to keep it inbounds, she ran to the ball after shooting it.

Running after every shot, unless the ball bounced back to her, somehow this brief sprint didn't bother her in the way that jogging around her neighborhood did. Allowing everyone to see that she needed to jog because she was fat, she felt conspicuously fat when jogging. With her big breasts bouncing, men always stared at her and she never liked the attention she received when jogging. Not investing in a sports bra until she saw that she'd stick with jogging, she didn't. Different running after a basketball, with her secluded in the interior courtyard of the elderly housing complex, she felt safe from the lecherous eyes of men. Except for the residents looking out their windows, no one knew she was there shooting baskets.