by Romi Moondi
Maybe I should moisturize more often.
My right hand however was much more fun to look at and noticeably smoother. I should use this hand when I’m caressing a guy’s face.
I wrote a quick line about my “right hand hotness” in the corner of my notebook, while the meeting carried on at a stifling pace.
“So when you look at the peak of the graph over here, it shows how the inventory might surpass our target. And that would be a problem.”
Yeah, problems suck.
No one said a word for five whole seconds, as Mike stared deeply at the left-hand corner of the room. Or at his imaginary friend. I still wasn’t sure.
Once he resumed my eyes dropped down to my thighs. I was consumed by how they looked so expansive in the seated position. It was such a weird phenomenon, how the skin spread wide like a liquid mass in the polyester casing of my pants. I’m sure this was a disappointing moment in the dating process, to see a girl in her chair for the very first time. Double the thighs, half the fun.
But how would they look if I crossed my legs? It wasn’t something I normally did, but when I tried it out I was astounded! As soon as I lifted one leg on the other, I watched in amazement as the inner thighs kind of, absorbed each other.
What a marvelous re-assignment of body mass!
This was turning out to be a very educational Monday, as I’d already learned that I should show off my “younger” right hand, and that crossing my legs produced the disappearing inner-thigh effect. Feeling rather accomplished, I proceeded to take a “brain nap” with my eyes blankly open, as I often would in any kind of meeting at work.
“Are there any questions?”
My brain stirred awake as Mike stood waiting for a response. His eyes of course were locked on his imaginary friend, who was now sitting by the window.
“Well yes, I have a question,” said an all-too-eager-looking Indian woman. “I had a similar method of inventory management at my previous position, and it’s funny how they both have some common threads. For example...”
Priyanka---the nerdy office version of me---carried on, as I wondered if she even had a question embedded in her five-minute statement.
I cringed and twisted in my seat, so hateful of this girl’s thirst for knowledge. Why would anyone ask a question at two minutes past eleven? We should’ve been out of here by now!
My impatience and complete disinterest made me wonder why I worked in a corporate job to begin with.
Within seconds I remembered how my parents had squashed my archaeology dream, with their common sense and unquestionable authority: “You want to dig in dirt all day and never make any money? No, you’ll be going to business school like your sister.” Since I’d failed to convince them to support a line of work that at least sounded smart, of course I’d never manage to convince them I should chase my dream of writing. But hadn’t I written a parody column for my high school newspaper? Okay…maybe that was nothing, but what about those times my articles were published? On the Internet mind you, but that still counted for something! Or the time I tried to write a novel?
The more I thought about it, the more it wasn’t much at all. Maybe my parents had been right for once.
Four years of business school, plus four years and counting of “building a career,” and now I take brain naps.
By the time Priyanka had finally shut her trap it was a quarter past eleven.
That’s fifteen minutes of Internet-surfing I just lost. You academic cow.
I returned to my desk and started an important Google search. I was looking for extremely effective workouts, ones that would tone up my body with a minimal amount of effort. I paid particular attention to websites that would promise the butt, thighs and abs of my dreams. By the time I was finished, I had saved enough links to cover almost every major body part. All that was missing was a way to get the wrists of my dreams, and maybe some sexy “dream knees” too.
I e-mailed myself all the links, trying not to focus on the time I’d need to spend on all these workouts. Still I was motivated, as the image of bikini models pranced around my head.
My vision of a brand new body vanished with the sound of high-pitched squealing.
“Finally you’re here!”
It was Eleanor with Amy by her side, my two best friends in the office. We settled ourselves at the table near my desk, with our healthy new year’s lunches now before us. Healthy January lunches were consistent across the board no matter what a person’s weight issues were; we all lie to ourselves in January. My lunch consisted of carrots, non-fat yogurt and an apple. The excitement was palpable.
I turned my gaze to Eleanor, who somehow appeared to be enjoying her little salad.
“Is it good?” I asked.
“Oh it’s awesome,” she said. “I put in strawberries, sliced almonds, spinach and a light vinaigrette!”
Is she on crack? It’s a SALAD.
Eleanor was a few years younger than I, and basically the office hottie. With her long brown hair, striking blue eyes and sexy bod (plus that killer booty), she could round up the guys in impressive numbers. In other words, an excellent candidate for a wingman.
Amy was a few years younger as well. She had a loving boyfriend and a rock-hard body she’d developed from her boxing class. With short dark hair and big brown eyes, her biggest asset was her huge and inviting smile. This was also her biggest flaw, since at any given time some freak-boy in the office would be stalking her with “let’s do coffee” voice mails.
As Amy peeled her orange she shot me a sideways look. “So Romes, tell us EVERYTHING about your holidays.”
Which should I go with first, the public weigh-in or the arranged marriage deadline?
I decided to leave out the “weigh-in” from my update. Maybe years from now I’d reveal it at a drunken pool party (where I’d feel fabulous in a bikini), but today it made my family seem like freaks. So I explained the rest of the tale and finished with the action plan: “Which means I have to meet an amazing guy this year. Then make him fall in love with me. Then maybe get engaged by the end of the year.” I nodded as my affirmation grew. “Because my parents can’t hook me up if I’m already engaged!”
Eleanor poked at her salad, never looking me in the eye. “Engaged? Well I guess that’s a goal. But wait: does this mean you’re actually into guys again?”
I gasped. “I was never NOT into guys, I just wasn’t looking! And why do you say it like that?” I frowned. “Do people think I’m gay?”
“No one thinks you’re gay! You were just…taking a break. Good for you!” She finished with an awkward smile.
I rolled my eyes. “Look, I know I’m almost twenty-eight and I haven’t had a date in two whole years.” I scrunched my nose. “I shouldn’t be saying that out loud.”
Amy shook her head. “You really shouldn’t.”
I rolled my eyes. “Okay I got it. It doesn’t look good if you’re Canadian, or Indian, or alien. I just wanna know how to get back in! Where do you go, where do you meet them? Has dating changed in the last two years?” I sighed. “And you might have to be really detailed here, ‘cause I wasn’t very good at it then.”
Amy answered first, as I eagerly awaited all the wisdom.
“But you don’t just walk into a ‘guy store’ and pick one up. I mean that’s what your parents are trying to do, and you don’t want that! You’ll probably find someone special when you’re not even looking.”
That’s the best she’s got?
Realizing quickly that “relationship girls” were useless in these matters, I turned to Eleanor with a smile. “So what if I AM consciously looking, what should I do?”
She crossed her arms and beamed, enjoying the conversation spotlight. “Well fifty percent of the world is guys. So get out in the world and check ‘em out! You might even have some fun along the way. Just don’t spend every night at home in your fuzzy pajamas with a slab of cake. Fuzzy pajamas and cakes are f
or girls who’ve given up or for girls who have a cold!”
This young-faced hottie was right. When was the last time I’d visited a trendy bar? Which ones were “in”? Which ones were tainted by cougars on the prowl? I’d need to sap young Eleanor of her knowledge, and maybe even ask her how she’d sculpted out the butt of my dreams.
Eleanor tossed her napkin in the waste bin and gasped. “Why didn’t you take your Christmas box home?”
I sighed. “Do you know…how much…it disappoints me, that our employer gives us THIS as a Christmas gift?” I hauled out the heavy cardboard box from underneath my desk, setting it down on my lap. “I mean look at this; generic salsa, and gourmet chocolate cookies that don’t even appear to be made from real chocolate.” I sneered as I set each item on my desk. “And wait, there’s more! Some ugly-ass wooden tray that weighs ten pounds, a bottle of olive oil, and some cheese spread that was packaged god knows where and when. I bet these are all a bunch of reject products from a warehouse!”
I tossed the items back in the box and shook my head. “Do either of you want it?”
Amy frowned. “Most of that stuff is still sitting in my kitchen. None of the food even tastes good.”
“And THAT’S the appreciation you get for a year of working hard.” I dropped the box with a thud, and used my foot to push it back in its spot. “Let the cockroaches eat it.”
My irritation was replaced with a nervous shiver, when I glanced at the display on my desk phone. A report was due in two hours. Too bad I hadn’t even started.
“Alright ladies, it’s time to break this up.”
“Aren’t you gonna join us in our new year’s stair climb?” said Eleanor. “A bunch of us are doing it to break through the desk job laziness.”
I snorted. “Please, I lose my breath just from walking and talking simultaneously.” Right after I said it I froze. Maybe I wasn’t overweight, but was being out-of-shape “heart and lung” wise excluding me from social opportunities? Was this the gateway to being an old bag with no friends who mutters to herself and feeds pigeons in the park? I glanced at the clock again, remembering there were more pressing things to attend to.
“Maybe next time though! For now I better finish this damn report. Same time and place tomorrow?”
“Sure. We can start with lesson one: how to smile at guys in the elevator.” Amy tossed me her patented giant smile as she started to walk away, while Eleanor’s ass followed bouncily behind.
“Whatever!” I shouted after them. “The guys in this office are gross!”
I hope no one heard that.
***
A wrap-up of November-December sales was due by three p.m.
Where to begin?
As an Advertising Analyst, this wrap-up meant a lot of things. Things like: finding out how much dog food we sold, how much toilet paper we sold, how much dish soap we sold, and of course how these numbers fared against my expert predictions. If we didn’t do as well as I’d thought, or as well as we’d done last year, I needed to find a scapegoat. Anyone but me and I’d continue to have a job.
It would take a bit of time for the numbers to appear from the database, which left me with a chance to get things started on the presentation slides.
Not surprisingly I lost my focus, in favour of a stare-down with the far off CN Tower. I wondered how many men there were in Toronto. One and a half million? I wondered how many of them were single. Eight hundred thousand? I wondered how many of the single ones were under forty. Three hundred thousand? I wondered how many of the under-forty ones weren’t freaks, jerks, or extremely unattractive. Eighty-three? And how many of the eighty-three would actually fall in love with me? Two?
Well two wasn’t bad. I only needed one after all.
***
Somehow the clock had shifted forward to two p.m. The database had gathered all the numbers by now, while I’d sat here simply staring out the window.
I read through the numbers for a couple of minutes, and discovered that our sales had sucked. Seventy percent of my forecasted sales to be exact. It was not the kind of number that would work on a report card, and it was not the kind of number that would work on big executives. So I would simply explain it away. Somehow...
I searched real hard for the brainwaves that made up my excuses. I came up empty. I spent the next twelve minutes saying “hmm” and twirling my hair. I then stopped to eat a granola bar, which I considered an allowable two-thirty p.m. snack.
Shit, it’s two-thirty. Where are my excuses?!
And then, in a sudden burst of light, the powder-puff knowledge spewed forth and I filled up the slides:
“Our sales took a hit in the final season, due to several external market factors. These included winter storms that affected our weekend sales on five out of nine occasions. With these decreases in traffic and Walmart’s unexpected below-cost killer prices, we were not equipped to meet 100% of our forecast this year.”
I added in the snowstorm excuse when I remembered all the snow I’d been shoveling in November and December. And Walmart was always a bastard with their cost-efficiencies, so that one had to be true as well. Once that was done I referenced some products specifically, so they would know I had actually studied the report.
It felt good to put my writing skills to use, even if the cause was a bullshit one. The added confidence was enough to make me drop in some pie charts. Who doesn’t love pie?
I sent the file to Todd with one minute left.
Phew.
With no more Monday deadlines, my brain switched off and I sunk into office down-time mode. This meant some Hollywood gossip online, my eighties Madonna playlist for a soundtrack, and a key recollection of the things I’d learned today: showcase my younger right hand, cross my legs, and use my friends to help me find a guy...
Chapter Four
Should I eat before the gym? Or should I starve?
I was reminded of a Leafs interview from at least ten years ago. In it the star forward described his pre-game routine, which included eating boatloads of spaghetti before every hockey game: “You have to pack it in before you play. Otherwise you’re losing ten to twelve pounds in one game just from sweat.”
Losing weight from sweating too much didn’t seem like such a bad idea.
I brushed my teeth and returned to my room. Screw breakfast, I need to learn how to run without passing out.
I was three weeks into January now, and a little disappointed that this Saturday morning was my very first visit to the gym. My plans had gone to Hell after pulling an ass-cheek muscle, from one of those workouts I’d discovered on the Internet. Eleanor had later explained that just because the spandex-wearing blonde in the video could do fifty “ass curls,” it didn’t mean I should too.
So why did that bitch-blonde instructor say “keep on pushing”?
By now I was free of any pain in the posterior region, so I held up my shiny membership card, comparing the photo to my image in the mirror.
I wanted the photo to be ugly, and I was fairly certain I’d hit the mark. I could barely even look directly at it, what with the greasy matted hair, fresh uncovered acne, and noticeably chapped lips.
Of course it wasn’t my own inventiveness that led to a nasty photo. That’s just how they did it in the ads for losing weight: ugly before and beautiful after. Often times the woman hadn’t even lost a lot of weight, but her “After” shot looked fabulous (with the help of bridal make-up and a spray tan). My goal was a similar one. I still intended to lose a few pounds and get in shape, but no matter where I stood with my goal, I would always look better than the membership card (thanks to the mascara and bronzer I applied before each workout).
The bigger goal of course, was to have a sexy gym attendant swipe my card. He’d be repelled by the photo, but then he’d raise his eyes to see my face: “Wow, is that really you?” he’d say. “Looks like you’ve been making some progress!”
A few visits later, maybe he’d ask me
for a date.
And that’s how a quest for romance begins.
I put down the card and focused on my image in the mirror. My hair was only half tied up, with enough wisps falling down to conceal my “monkey left ear.” I’d never figured out if it was better to have two symmetrical monkey ears, or instead one perfectly normal ear, and another one modeled after monkey DNA. All I knew was that slicked-back ponytails were a no-no.
Next I examined my body in these brand new gym clothes. At five-foot-seven and a hundred and fifty pounds, my flab was only pronounced in particular areas of wrongness. The worst right now was the jiggling upper-arm effect. I was only a child when I’d first seen a woman with the “upper arm jiggs.” It happened on a hot summer day, when our tank-top-wearing teacher started writing on the chalkboard. As she wrote the assignment in her swift and sweeping cursive, her upper arms went wild. This way and that they rocked, swinging like a hammock in the wind. Call me superficial but I didn’t want to be a human hammock.
Besides my upper arms I was struggling to hide my back fat.
And those love handle things.
For all of these reasons I had chosen a roomy T-shirt.
On the bottom were my black and provocative workout pants. I had purchased these a week ago at Bebe Sport, and though I may not have looked like the Eva Longoria poster that was modeling the extra-extra-small-sized version, I loved what they did for my butt.
I wasn’t sure what special ingredient they’d injected into the spandex, but my butt looked rather slappable in these pants. It made me wonder if the women who shopped at Bebe Sport were more interested in wearing these pants on their leisurely strolls in the city, than for actually working out. Well whatever they did, I’d be wearing them for sure in non-workout situations.
Despite the creative clothing there was serious work to be done, and being home for the weekend meant my parents would be quick to remind me.
“Romi! Are you going to the gym today?”
From my mother’s voice upstairs to my asymmetrical ears, I now had my first reminder.