Because the Fat Life is all about weight, always, forever. That’s something Marley and Georgia understand, Georgia more so than Marley. Marley wanted to be thinner, but she didn’t seem as obsessed as Georgia and I were. She has that great family . . . her mom used to send contraband food, and Marley was so funny when the counselors took it! Anyway, she’s always been heavy, but in a nicer way than Georgia and me. And even Georgia isn’t in my world of the super obese.
I try not to hold it against them.
Anyway. Three of the fat people (all skinnier, of course) made eye contact, which gives me hope. The other five did not. God forbid we seem like a club or something.
I dressed carefully this morning in a dark blue shirt (to hide sweat stains) and a long skirt and the extra-wide shoes I just bought. Flat-ironed my hair, did a full makeup job, making sure I looked as good as I can.
I’m one of those “you have such a pretty face” fat girls. In fact, Other Emerson, the reason I know you’re beautiful is because you look exactly like me, minus 175 pounds (fine, fine, 200, fine, 250). Both of us have green eyes, amazing cheekbones.
Two years ago, I was pretty close to beautiful. I weighed only 269 pounds. Good old speed will do that for you. Whoops! I mean phentermine. I had to go to four doctors before I could get a prescription, and I had to lie about my father’s heart attack to get it.
But there was a reason those other three doctors didn’t want me to have it. My family history caught up with me, and after an utterly terrifying night in the hospital where I thought I would die alone in a too-small johnny coat all by myself, the phentermine was taken away. Obviously, I miss being thin (ish). Miss not being hungry. Miss having such a clean house. Don’t miss the feeling of my chest being crushed, unable to breathe. Don’t miss the uncontrollable shaking, constant nausea and paranoia that went hand in hand with cold turkey.
Still, I’d go back on it if I could.
Anyway, back to the job.
The chair held me—score one. Score two, I already knew how to work the phone system, because it’s a phone system and not Aramaic. I have an IQ of 138. Two points short of genius, Other Emerson. No doubt, when you took the IQ test, the computer saw your beautiful face, and you got boosted the extra points, so there’s no doubt of you being in Mensa territory.
Yes, I’m underemployed. I don’t care. This job gives me a place to go every day.
Other Emerson, I’m positive I’ll lose weight now for sure, now that I’m not home with all that food calling my name.
Dawn of a new day. I’m thirty years old, Other Emerson. Time for my real life to start. I think you’ll be proud of me.
* * *
• • •
Hi again, OE. It’s been a couple of months since I wrote to you. Sorry about that. I’ve been kind of blue. By that, I mean I’ve been hating myself a little more than usual. Eating more. Sometimes I think I shouldn’t have taken this job.
There are parts of my job that I love. For example, clients can’t see me; I’m just a pleasant voice at the end of the phone. My customer ratings are the best of anyone, even though I’ve only worked here two and a half months.
But there are parts of my job that I hate.
There are a lot of skinny women here in the Chat Room, as we call it, these rows and rows of gray cubicles. Some of the skinnies are perfectly nice, even if they do scan me up and down, their eyes just a little too wide with fascination. “My waist is smaller than her arm! Will she eat me? I hope not!”
“Hi, Emerson!” they might say. Most of them are younger than I am, since this is entry-level work. “Wanna get drinks with us after work?”
“Oh, thanks, that’s so nice, but I have plans,” I lie, because A) it’s no fun to be the enormous fatty in a group of delicate fawns; B) I think they’re just fascinated by my size, and even if they weren’t, we can’t forget; C) the good chance the restaurant chairs will have arms, in which case I might not fit. Even if they don’t have arms, who knows if they’ll be sturdy enough to hold me? Also, will the tables be too close together for me to even get to a seat? Will the waiters stink-eye me because they have to move furniture for me?
You never have to think about that, do you, Other Emerson?
In addition to the Delicate Fawns (four of them, a little band of wide-eyed does on spindly legs), there are the not-so-nice women. Megan, Isobel and Tina. Let’s be honest. They’re bitches. All of them are overweight themselves, enough to see that yes, if they don’t Do Something for Real This Time, they’re going to end up like me, currently tipping the scales at 386 pounds.
No one has noticed that I’m down almost thirty pounds since last year at this time, since I didn’t work here last year at this time. Even so. Once you cross the 350-pound mark, you’re a freak.
My supervisor, Missy, is one of these obese-but-not-morbidly-obese people, and she doesn’t like that I’m doing so well at my job. She nitpicks on tiny things—“You didn’t say, ‘Have a nice day.’ You know that’s protocol.” When I tell Missy that I said, “Have a lovely day,” instead, she tells me that’s proof of my bad attitude, so I apologize, hating her and myself as I do.
She ignores the fact that the Delicate Fawns are incapable of getting to work by eight thirty. Ever. Or that I can handle a third more calls than they do. Or that their customer rankings aren’t nearly as good as mine. Last month, Delicate Fawn Katrine got a promotion to assistant associate manager. It’s only a title, but please. It should’ve gone to me. Katrine and I started the same day.
Fat discrimination is a thing, Other Emerson. I’m glad you don’t have to endure it.
Another thing that happens at work is that I get a lot of weight-loss information. “My friend?” one of the fawns will say. “She did this diet where you only eat kale? And she lost twelve pounds!” As if twelve pounds would help me. Or, “This friend?”—they always talk with question marks, Other E—“This friend? She had gastric bypass? And she’s down, like, a hundred and fifty pounds or something.”
“Wow,” I’m forced to answer. “Good for her.” I don’t want to eat kale. Been there, done that. It’s not that I don’t know what’s healthy, for God’s sake. No one knows more about nutrition than a fat American female. It’s willpower that’s the issue. All those fat-haters talk about how weak we are, us super-fatties. They leave out the fact that we might also be lonely, scared, isolated, poor, in pain, sexually abused as kids or any number of things. To much of the world, we’re just weak.
Anyway, about gastric bypass . . . well, I did want that. Right until I went to the horribly honest doctor.
First of all, I’ve always been scared of getting anesthesia, since my grandmother died that way. In for a lumpectomy, out on a slab. No wonder my mom was so sad. No wonder we had all those special nights cuddled together, EATING CRAP AND HAVING FUN AND GETTING HUGE. Gram left us a bunch of money, then Grampy left even more, so Mom didn’t have to work, which in hindsight was a problem, since she was so isolated after the divorce. I’m glad your mom is so happy, Other Emerson.
Unhappy childhoods are a leading cause of obesity. In my case, you betcha. A mother with chronic depression, a dad I didn’t see very often. Oh, and we can’t forget dear old Grampy, who liked to have “tickle fights.” Yes, I was molested.
Anyway. That was a long time ago. I don’t want to talk about it now.
Weight-loss surgery. Once, I thought it would be my savior, but nothing comes cheap, does it? I mean, sure, I’d lose weight, but would I really be healthier?
Here’s what they don’t tell you on that show where they dole out gastric bypasses like Chiclets. You’ll have the most hideous gas the world has ever known. You’ll feel sick after eating. Your breath will be foul. You’ll throw up sometimes, and you’ll poop yourself often. You’ll be more likely to get ulcers and be malnourished, believe it or not. Insert ironic chuckle.
If that’s okay w
ith you, you may still gain the weight back. Even if you don’t, even if you hit your goal weight (which is improbable), you’ll never look like a thin person. You’ll have folds of skin hanging off you—from your arms, like bat wings. Your thigh skin will drape and dangle between your legs, chafing until it’s raw. Your boobs will deflate and hang empty. The skin on your stomach will hang down past your crotch, and you can pull it out in front of you like uncooked pizza dough. Let’s not even talk about your ass except to say that Google has scarred me forever.
If you get that skin removed (not covered by insurance), well, it’s a high-risk surgery with lots of bleeding, hundreds and hundreds of stitches, tubes coming out of you for weeks and a high risk for infection, not to mention nerve damage. Doesn’t that sound fun? It’s also hideously painful, the doctor told me. The scarring makes it look like you were cut in half, and scars are forever.
Oh, and apparently you’re more likely to commit suicide after gastric bypass. Just putting that out there. BUT AT LEAST YOU’RE NOT FAT ANYMORE!!! Excuse me. Not as fat.
I guess I have some anger issues, Other Emerson. Sorry. I’m calming down now.
Another part of work I don’t like is the birthdays. There are sixty-two of us at this call center. That means that more than once a week, it’s someone’s birthday, and birthdays mean cake. Every dang time.
I don’t eat the cake. Or worse, I have a sliver, as in “Gosh I’m just a little mouse, can’t eat anything after that hundred-calorie salad I just had!” If I had a normal-sized piece of cake, that would mean I had the hubris to view myself as a regular person, and Megan, Isobel and Tina stand there like Macbeth’s witches, proudly not eating anything, looking at me with eyes full of judgment.
It’s not men who hate fat women. Or, I should say, men don’t hate fat women as much as other women hate fat women. When Georgia met Rafe, she was chubby, and he didn’t mind. She told me, a note of wonder in her voice, that he never even mentioned her weight.
I can’t imagine that.
But . . . here comes the fun stuff, OE.
Today at lunch, I headed for the cafeteria. I only eat salad, obviously, because fat people aren’t allowed to eat anything else in public, even if the woman behind the counter gives me a look that says I’m not fooling her. The salads here are pointless—iceberg lettuce, tasteless, anemic tomato wedge, one green pepper slice that makes me burp for the rest of the day. Diet Italian dressing in a little plastic pack.
Don’t worry, I told my hunger. I have Oreos. A six-pack. Six Oreos, only 252 calories. That’s nothing. I definitely could stick to a healthy diet even with those. I glanced left and right to make sure no one saw, then popped one into my mouth, whole.
Oh, beautiful Oreo! Like a giant black Communion wafer, the flavor so intense, so perfect that I wanted to French-kiss whoever invented these. I chewed slowly, savoring the taste—Enjoy when you DO indulge!
The salad was frigid, which took away its nominal flavor. I’d only had two eggs and two pieces of toast for breakfast, so no wonder I was starving. I ate the tasteless, chilled food slowly, but even so, I was done in under five minutes.
There were five Oreos left in my snack pack. I could finish them in the bathroom. My mouth watered at the thought of that black, crunchy deliciousness, made even better by its secret existence. Without another thought, I slid another whole cookie into my mouth.
“Hi,” someone said, and I jumped.
Other Emerson, prepare yourself. It was a man.
A man.
A man!
A not-bad-looking man, carrying a plate with about ten french fries and a wadded-up napkin on it. (He left ten fries. I don’t understand how people do that.)
“I’m Mica,” he said, and a blush prickled my chest. I waved, pointed to my mouth and smile-grimaced. I’d have to suck off the Oreo silt before I could talk. “I’m new here,” he added.
I swallowed, then covered my mouth with my hand so he wouldn’t see any black gunk stuck on my teeth. “Hi,” I said. “Emerson.”
“Beautiful name.”
The blush was burning my jowls now, working its way to my cheeks. “Thanks.”
“You’re in the Chat Room, right?” he asked, smiling, and that was some smile, Other Emerson. His teeth were very white and slightly crooked.
“Yes.” I remembered to answer. “Are you?”
“Yep. I started yesterday.”
“Welcome,” I said, hand still in front of my mouth.
“Thanks! Maybe we can have lunch sometime.”
“Sure.” My heart pounded like crazy. I’d said maybe six words so far, but I thought . . . it might be that . . . it seemed like he was . . . he might be asking me . . . on a date? Could that be?
He set his tray down on my table and leaned in a little closer. “Maybe we can go somewhere other than here. Not that I have anything against cafeterias. It’s just that there’s an Applebee’s down the street. Or the Italian place downtown? Anyway. Wherever you want. I’m probably being pushy.”
I finally felt confident that I’d sucked all the silt off my teeth, so I dropped my hand. “No, not at all. Um . . . yeah. I like both those places.”
“So that’s a yes?”
What would you say, Other Emerson? How would you deal with a cute guy—a cute, regular-sized guy—flirting with you? I decided that, for once in my life, I’d go for it. Maybe it was because he’d mentioned normal restaurants and didn’t seem to think there should be a law against me going to one.
“It’s a yes. Name the day.”
“Tomorrow?”
WHAT? ARE YOU LISTENING, OTHER EMERSON?
“Okay,” I said.
“Thanks.” His dark eyes crinkled as he smiled again. “I’ll see you around. I’m in row six, by the way. And you’re in four.”
Oh, my God. He'd scoped me out. He’d made a note of where I sat.
“Mm-hm,” I managed.
“See you later.”
“Have a great afternoon.”
“It’s already great,” he said, and there was something in his voice that made an unknown part of me squeeze and glow.
He left, and I watched him go, wondering if I'd just made that whole thing up.
Other Emerson, that has never happened to me before. I mean, I know you have Idris Elba and many other men who would cut out their grandmothers’ hearts to date you, but me . . .
This is a first.
Maybe I didn’t even want those other four Oreos after all.
CHAPTER 17
Georgia
Shop at a store for regular people. (Sigh.)
I spent an hour at Gwen’s textile studio going over her business plan, tweaking it. “If you hire at-risk kids, you’re eligible for this grant,” I told her, pulling it up on my laptop.
“That’s what I love about you, Georgia,” she said. “You’re always a step ahead.”
I smiled. I liked Gwen, and her work. Her prints were tasteful and subtle and would probably go over big in Cambry-on-Hudson and the other posh towns of Westchester County. Maybe I could convince Big Kitty to hold a home décor event to give Gwen some PR. Had to use those blue-blood roots of mine for something.
“Oh!” Gwen said. “The baby just moved. Want to feel?”
Without waiting for a response, she pressed my hand against her belly.
There it was, the mysterious roll and shift. I felt something hard—an elbow, maybe, or a heel, and unexpectedly, my throat tightened. Two years ago, she’d almost been killed by her husband. Now, she was percolating a life.
“Amazing,” I murmured.
“Yeah, who’d have thought, right? I mean, I never imagined I’d want another man, but here I am. Married and in love and pregnant. Do you have kids, Georgia?”
“I don’t,” I said, “but I have a nephew I adore.”
“Nice,
” she said.
“Send me this when you’re done,” I said, getting back to business, “and I’ll sign off on it for the bank.”
“You’re the best, Georgia. Here. Take these.” She handed me a stack of classy dish towels—ivory with tiny fern leaves, way too subtle for my bright red kitchen.
I’d keep them, anyway. I thanked her with a hug, and left.
As I drove back to town, I tried to imagine what it must’ve been like, being afraid of your husband. Even though I grew up surrounded by Hunter’s outbursts of fury, the notion that my husband might hit me had never once crossed my mind.
Then again, I’d married the nicest man on the planet.
There was that poker again.
Well. I had shopping to do. Workout clothes. Such a waste of money. I turned off the highway and headed for the mall, that most despised place.
Marley was waiting in front of the Apple Store, chatting up a hipster Genius who was staring at her boobs as he spoke. She didn’t seem to mind. When she saw me, she said, “Thanks for the tips, Rune. I will do all those things. Gotta run!”
“Was seducing an Apple youth on our list?” I asked.
“His name is Rune. I guess his parents hated him. Oh, this is fun, Georgia! Shopping in a regular person’s store. We should walk in with champagne. Too bad the Genius Bar doesn’t actually serve booze.”
However, our steps slowed, and we approached the store warily.
Pomegranate & Plum.
Oh, God. Every insecurity I’d ever had stared back at me. “Not here,” I said. “Let’s go to Marshalls.”
“Calm yourself,” Marley muttered, grabbing my arm as I tried to bolt. “You’re getting workout gear.”
“I have workout gear,” I whispered.
“I’ve seen those yoga pants,” she whispered back. “It’s time to burn them. Besides, we’ll be running. Those yoga pants would fall off you. Think of Emerson and how proud she’d be of you, shopping in this horrible place.”
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