If I were a young doctor who wanted to make my mark in the world, I would try to find a way to transplant fat from one person to another.
Since I wrote about not having enough belly fat to reconstruct two breasts after cancer, almost everyone I come into contact with has offered to donate some fat. My husband was the first.
Unfortunately, this is not an option. But think how wonderful the world would be if it could be done. Instead of having starving skeletal people in one country and obese people in another, the whole world would be just the right size.
There would be an organization to facilitate the transfer of fat, just as the Red Cross does with blood. The Fatmobile would come to your neighborhood. You’d go in and donate your fat, eat your cookies and juice, and you would be considered a good citizen. People in faraway places could be taken by their mothers to the Fat Clinic, where they’d get a good dose of fat to beef them up a little until they can make their own fat. Despots in those countries would be far less likely to divert a truckload of fat than one of food and supplies. I mean, there’s only so much fat a person can use, and there would be plenty to go around from the rest of the world. That isn’t to say that some evil doer wouldn’t find a way to sell fat on the black market. You’d have to be careful you weren’t getting beef fat or chicken fat.
Your doctor wouldn’t say, “You should watch your weight. Let’s make an appointment with the dietitian. And cut down on your drinking, too.” Instead the doctor would tell you to look in the newspaper for the Fatmobile schedule, or maybe just send you down to the lab to give a pound or two of fat.
People would have certificates on their office walls reading “I am a hundred-pound fat donor!” And when you get your driver’s license renewed, they’d ask if you wanted to be a fat donor.
But knowing people, there would be some fun in this fat donating, too. You’ve heard of Botox parties. Well, how about fat parties? Prizes for the most fat donated. Or combine it with a jewelry party or a clothing party. The options are endless. Fat would be the new Thin!
The job opportunities in the growing fat transplant business would be enormous. You could be a Fat Technician in a medical facility. You could set up a fat grading company, unless the FDA beats you to it. You could be a fat packager. You could have an ad agency that would market fat. You could start up a Fat Transfer business with a fleet of semis pulling fat trucks. You could go into the Fat Railroad Container business and see your name whizzing past as you wait at the tracks on Mankato Avenue. Just think, “Edstrom — Bringing Fat to Your World!” could be my motto. Or better yet, “Fran’s Fat!”
Restaurants would clamor to put calorie counts on their menus. “Rib Eye Special! Great fat builder!” “How about dessert — don’t forget to increase your fat!”
Your grandmother’s recipes would be back in fashion. Jello salads would see a resurgence, with oodles of little marshmallows and frosted with lots of cream cheese. For the main meal, it would be fried chicken, or pork steak with gravy, maybe mac and cheese or cheesey potatoes on the side, and for the healthy vegetable, cauliflower with cheese sauce. Dessert? The possibilities are endless, but doesn’t apple pie ala mode sound good? And then after you rest a while, grandma will pass around the box of chocolates Uncle Freddy sent.
Fat would become revered. There would be a resurgence of interest in the paintings of Peter Paul Rubens, the Flemish Baroque painter who gave us the term “Rubenesque” for full-figured women. People like Demi Moore and whatever wraithlike model is hot now would be suddenly out in the cold. Kirstie Alley would gain back all her weight. Weight Watchers and Jenny Craig would become penny stocks.
All it takes is one bright young doctor to make the discovery. Isn’t this a great country?