My Own Private Grinch

It was Christmas in Whoville, and all through the village

The stores were afrenzied with stockpiles to pillage.

The shops were all decked out in festive attire,

With snowflakes and garland suspended by wire.

Each clerk did their work, keeping smiles in their places

With holiday stressors untouched on their faces.

They rang out their welcome, embracing of wallets
For this-a-ma-bobbles and that-cha-ma-callits.

The square had its share of events for all ages
With reindeer on rooftops and skaters on stages.

The ice sculptors sculpted. The carolers caroled.

And kids threw their snowballs at poor uncle Harold.

And one place in town you could spend half the winter

Was Mark's Mega-market, your superstore center

With doors opened wide for the masses to enter

(Though getting back out was a bit of a splinter).

Its grocery counters were filled to capacity
Taking in caking for baking tenacity.
Mounds of Who-briskets! And mountains of sauces!
And leaflets of lettuce for salady tosses!
Who-pudding! Who-dressing! Who-cider! You're on!
Stack pies to the skies filled with peach and pecan!
The feast! O the feast! How the Whos loved to feast!
Stuff their bellies with jellies of flour and yeast.
From the west to the north, and the south to the east,
All the Whos would be feasting 'til tummies increased.

And off in the distance, a jovial Who
(Little Cindy-Lou Who, who was now twenty-two)
Had the plate full of cookies she baked every year
For a friend of the Whos, who she held very dear.

She tapped on his door with no hint of a warning
And called to the Grinch with a chirpy "Good morning!"
She heard a low shuffle of clothes in a spin
And a few moments later the door opened in.

He stood there, bedecked in his outfit of yore,
That red Santa jacket he'd worn long before,
The rim and the hem at the bottom he'd laced
With a billowy cotton that covered his waist.

She smiled when she saw him, the funny old Grinch,
And she leaned in to give him a Christmasy clinch.
And although he returned it, not pausing to flinch,
He seemed to retreat- maybe just for an inch.

But no matter. The Grinch had his own way of being.
Today was a day full of sledding and skiing.
But first, Cindy-Lou Who had something to do.
"I brought you some cookies. I made them for you."

The Grinch took one look at the delicatessen;
His semblance in icing of azure and cresson,
A dozen or so little Grinchy surprises,
With smiles on their faces and gleams in their eyeses.

"My dear," said the Grinch, "You're so thoughtful and kind.
I'm touched by your presents. Now if you don't mind,
There's a spot on the table to lay the tray down,
Then we'll hop in my sled and we'll glide into town."

"But Grinch," Cindy giggled, "They're warm and they're fresh.
The dough and the icing? They perfectly mesh.
So why don't you try one before we go out?
I'm sure that you'll like them. I've nary a doubt."

The Grinch felt unease with the leering dessert,
But his friend was aglow, and had feelings to hurt.
So he said, "Don't you see, I've been stuffed on Who-tater.
I'll work off that meal and I'll save them for later."

Who-tater? thought Cindy. That seemed rather odd.
For this climate was hardly conducive to sod.
And his claim of its stock, through his foregone seclusion,
Was giving the Who a slight touch of confusion.
See, Cindy was young and a little naïve.
It was still in her nature to trust and believe.
But her time with the Grinch made her just a bit wise,
And she noticed a glimmer of pain in his eyes.

"Dear Grinch," said the girl, "Is there something the matter?
You seem disenchanted by sight of the platter.
Or have I been rude with the frosting I smatter?
I meant no offense by your likeness in batter."

"No child," said the Grinch, "You've impeccable skill.
And I'm sorry my words have provoked an ill-will.
So I'm happy to try your green cookies and cream."
He grinned, and he laughed, and he stifled a scream.

He lifted a pastry right up to his lips
With its gooey confection in nectarous drips.
The fragrant aroma infected his snout,
But his jaw was determined to keep the thing out.
He grinded his teeth at his troublesome stall
And decided a taste wouldn't harm him at all.
So simple. One bite. Take the treat in and swallow,
But try though he might, his mouth just wouldn't follow.

He set down the cookie, this cast of himself,
And he lowered his head and he leaned on the shelf
And he slumped in his chair at a rickety slant
And he whispered to Cindy, "I'm sorry. I can't."

"You can't?" Cindy said as she reached for his hand.
And she patted his fingers like combing through sand.
"Please tell me," she said with the kindness of youth,
"The reason you waver. Please tell me the truth."

The Grinch drew a breath like the heat of a griddle,
And lifted the jacket that shielded his middle,
And showed her his belly of fuzzy acclaim,
And he grimaced, and scowled, and he grumbled in shame.

"This stomach I carry, this pitiful waist,
I cringe when I see it. This thing is disgraced.
I feel like a walrus with blubber to spare
Like it's building up here and it's storing up there.
And I've tried to get rid of it. Surely I've tried.
And I've tried, and I've tried, and I've broke down and cried.
And I stay here, not eating. I curl up and hide
And I bottle it up and I keep it inside."

Now, his tummy was round, but was really just fine.
You'd not think such a thing could provoke this malign,
But whatever the reason, his age or his stress,
A feeling's a feeling they need to address.

They sat there in silence, the Grinch and the Who
With neither one sure of what either should do.
But Cindy leaned in with an empathy's grace
And she gave him a kiss on the side of his face.

"Is it possible Grinch that this shape of your gain
Is a subtle illusion from some other pain?
And it feels like a burden you're destined to haul,
But it might not be swollen, or be there at all?"

"That doesn't make sense. I should see what I see,
And the me that I see is the girth of a tree."

"Sweet Grinch, what you're seeing," the little Who said,
Is anxiety speaking. It's all in your head.
This fear of the size of your abdomen's border?
It sounds like it's Body Dysmorphic Disorder."

"Body Dysmorphic Disorder? What's that?
Is it cause and effect for the unwanted fat?"

"It's more like a filter that colors your mind
By creating a flaw where there's not one to find.
I know this because I have friends in the town
And each has a notion they drown in their gown.

My cousin Cherie has this whimsy opaque
And a dream of perfection she's trying to shake.
And Ronald has talent demanding of stock
That makes him a target for hecklers to mock.

And then there's Melissa, whose pain as a child
Was to lose her regard when emotions were riled,
And those memories cluster and natter their toll
And it's sad, but rejection gives guise of control.

You're hearing a monster that feeds on its prey,
And it's cruel and collected and won't go away.
But you're never alone. There are others below,
And they gather together to learn and to grow.
Then imagine that moment if, in from the snow,
Came the Grinch with a struggle he'd like them to know.
That they reap what you reap and they sew what you sew.
Then they'll listen and hear you
And comfort and cheer you
And guide you and steer you
Whenever you're low
For a chance to connect is a gift you bestow
If you give them a shot. O, their faces will glow."

He ruffled the cotton from out of his lap
And hugged Cindy tightly, and balanced his cap.
From Whoville below rang a gentle inviter
Where Christmas, somehow, felt a little bit brighter.


When I was a teenager I developed an eating disorder without having any idea that's what it was. I was in college before someone suggested to me that I might be anorexic. I was puzzled, because I'd never heard of a guy becoming anorexic; we didn't experience societal pressure to be thin the way women did.
But the truth is, men can and do become anorexic. The statistical analysis is still very difficult to estimate because men tend to keep personal issues (including eating disorders) to themselves. That's why I wrote this blog post.
Here at the age of 43 I believe I treat my body much better than I did in my teens and twenties. I'm not as thin as I used to be, and I know in my head that I'm at a much healthier weight. But the voice of anorexia never leaves you. I hate and resent the three digit number on the scale. I see my belly as an uncomfortable sight. The temptation to skip meals is always present, because in some twisted way I feel like I'm 'winning' when I get the dizzy spells and the headaches and the tummy grumbles. If I can't control anything else in my life, at least I can control that.
But the truth is, I also know that treating myself badly hurts the people around me. Despite the pull towards poor self-care, I won't consciously harm my caring wife. In my lowest moments, I know she needs me to be better than my eating disorder. Sometimes it boils down to a simple reluctant choice.
My ultimate hope with this is that someone else out there might feel encouraged to admit to people they trust some burden that they carry; some pain that they can't fully be rid of. It doesn't solve the problem, but it's a step in the right direction, and a big one at that.
Seasons greetings. Don't be alone.