A Well-Rounded Woman

LeBesco has found that, for her African American students, being attractive is "partly an attitude thing and partly where the fat is distributed." She also reminds me that while blacks are generally more accepting of girth than whites, that acceptance is not unlimited. Translation: "It's fine to have a big butt, but not a big stomach."

As my Cousin Mimi's maid of honor in 1993 , it was my duty to look as stunning as possible on a college student's budget. I carefully chose my sage green suit -- my way of supporting Mimi, who had to be talked out of wearing a green wedding dress that Christmas season. The music began, and I strutted down the aisle, taking my place out front. There were no other bridesmaids. The best man, who also stood alone, was a chiseled Morehouse man I deemed worthy to stand as my equal.

Then I got the pictures back from Walgreens.

My face! Round and plump and ugh. Clearly, I hadn't intended for my weight to show up here. And just like that, I convinced myself that mommas say nice stuff just because they're mommas, and that men really don't know what they like. I decided to drop some pounds, and did.

Over the years, my weight fluctuated by 10 or 20 pounds, depending on my social calendar. I still wasn't model-thin, but I decided I was okay with that. You see, the positive feedback from friends, relatives and even strangers never stopped. Plus, American culture is fickle, and I'm not one to keep jumping through hoops. Look at poor Nicole Richie who, after being called out for having a little meat on her bones, is now tabloid fodder for being too thin.

With my self-esteem back in working order, I was doing my thing -- working, hanging out with my girls, dating. Then came my annual checkup three years ago with Dr. B.

The ritual was always the same: The physician's assistant would ask me to step on the scale. She'd push the bar to the weight I appeared to be. A little sarcastically, I'd say, "Keep going." She'd try hard not to look astonished as she kept sliding. I'd rescue her, saying "Just put it at 200, then go forward a bit." She'd write down the number and tell me to take my place on the table. Dr. B would come in, pronounce me "heavy" and gently encourage me to lose weight.

But this time was different. Dr. B had gotten my blood work back and called me in for a consultation. She motioned me to get on a fancy new digital scale. She left and came back in carrying a readout from the scale with my body mass index and the results of my lab work.

"Carla, you've got to lose weight," 51. 21 pounds, according to the scale, she told me.

I was stunned.

"Do you know how skinny I'd be if I lost that much weight?" I asked.

My body mass index, or estimated percentage of body fat based on height and weight, was 34.6, outside the healthy range of 18.5 to 24.9 percent. My total cholesterol was 245, Dr. B. said, and more than 200 is considered unhealthy. Convinced it was the Red Lobster shrimp feast I had inhaled the night before, I blew it off. Obviously, I was too young to have what I called "old man issues." Dr. B ordered another test, and the number came back a few points lower, but remained well over 200.

She told me I was going to have to stick to a low-fat, low-cholesterol diet. She also repeated that I'd need to lose 50 pounds. I read up on the ill effects of high cholesterol -- possible heart attack or stroke -- and that did it. I vowed to change my eating habits and fashion a fitness routine for a woman determined to live a long, healthy life.

But with her curves.

Every morning, I ate a breakfast of assorted fruit, whole grains and soy, and headed off to Bally's for my workout. One morning on the way back home, I stopped in at Honda to get my car checked. Ernest, my service consultant, seemed disturbed. So much so that he felt the need to warn me.

"Okay, now, whatever you're doing, don't lose too much."

"Shut up, Ernest," I said and took my place in the customer lounge.

We've gone back and forth like this for the past three years. During that time, I've lost some of the weight -- including a nice bit right before my wedding last year -- and my cholesterol is now below 200. But I'm trying to focus more on building and maintaining healthy habits than on the number on the scale. Maybe healthy for me doesn't mean losing 50 pounds. Maybe I'm in denial. We'll see.

During a recent visit, Ernest explained why he gives me such a hard time. "Women today are too concerned with being thinner," he laments, recalling Pam Grier and Jayne Kennedy, the voluptuous black celebrities of his youth. Without going into too much detail, I tell him I'm trying to lose for health reasons.

"I bet your husband's got something to say about that," he says.

Stephen's position is very clear, and he lets me know mostly with his hands . It is good to be here, in a place where my body is fully appreciated.

So, at this very moment, how do I appear to myself?

It's the morning after my rendezvous in the kitchen with Stephen. In the door mirror of our home office, I stand straight, feet together and shoulders back. I see an attractive woman in a white linen blouse and an apple green cardigan that fits her full bust to a T. The blazer drapes gracefully over her waist. The skirt will soon sway like the perfect pendulum over her ample hips. The sweet chocolate open-toed wedgies on her feet keep her balanced. The look she gets from her husband makes her late for work.

Carla Broyles designs pages for The Post. She can be reached at broylesc@washpost.com.