Moore To Love

by Faith Andrews

  MY TUNE IS MUCH DIFFERENT this morning. Less a song, more a battle cry. “Ouch! Ooo. Eee. Ahhh.” I can’t even get my legs over the mattress without wincing. How the hell will I ever get them to walk again? The sore-beyond-belief lumps of dead weight that seem to have replaced my legs, protest everything my brain is telling them to do. And, you know what? I don’t blame them. The shit I made these poor, flaccid, underworked muscles do yesterday—“I’m so sorry,” I cry, rubbing my legs in hopes they’ll sympathize with me and get to doing what they were designed to do.

  But I can’t wait for them to move of their own accord so I force myself to roll off the bed—yes, roll—and land on the floor with a loud thud. “Jesus!” I whimper, soothing my elbow where I banged it against the bed frame. I’m a walking—well, not really—disaster. This can’t be good and there are no excuses. Be stronger than your excuses, Leni. If I can get through this pain and go on with the workout plan, I can do anything. I’m sure of it. However, I’ve gotten pretty comfortable here on the plush, cream carpet and I’ve just spotted a giant bag of Kit Kats hidden under the bed! Oh my God! Mecca!

  I almost reach out for the bag of wonderfulness but force my nose in the air in disgust, remembering that nowhere on the “what to eat” list from Jane and Mandy are Kit Kats or their equally yummy counterparts Twix (the backup plan buried deep inside my closet). Willpower, I apologize to you, too. Just like my leg muscles, you’ll be tested in ways you’ve never imagined possible.

  I hate that I forgot that stash because it’s just another obstacle to zig zag through, but just like the gym, I’ll face this head on. Tossing every smidge of leftover candy in the trash moves straight to the top of my to-do list. Which also includes crawling to the bathroom so I can wash up, stuffing my junk in the cute pair of yoga pants and running shoes Tatum helped picked out on our shopping spree at the athletic store, and setting my feet to the pavement at Central Park. I hope my body cooperates because it actually sounds like a great start to my day. A new start I hope to implement into my daily routine and one that Jane and Mandy suggested since my options stretch far beyond the gym. “You don’t have to sequester yourself to the four walls of this torture chamber, as you like to call it, Leni. You can work out—aka a nice, brisk, break-a-sweat walk—anywhere. Your home, the park, the mall. Just make sure you incorporate an hour of cardio at least five times a week, and you’ll keep me—and your scale—very happy, babes.”

  Jane’s lecture rings loud and clear through my thoughts as I drag myself to the bathroom. I consider texting Tatum to see if she wants to put her new sports bra to use, but decide against it because I want to do this for the first time on my own. There’s something empowering about being able to face your fears without an entourage of people holding your hand. I know I’ll need all the support I can get in the coming months, but doing this solo just seems right.

  I almost yank the pedestal sink out of the wall hoisting my ass off the tile floor, but once I’m in an upright position I take a deep, soothing breath, and smile at myself in the mirror. Time for the daily pep talk. Ashley told me about these books she reads by Joel Osteen. I’m not exactly a fan of preachers shoving the praises of The Lord down my throat, but Ashley’s advice—and her daily Instagram posts—resonate. Now, while I would totally prefer the Cliffs Notes version of said books, I’m happy to let Ashley pump me up with the key lessons she took away from preacher man’s sermon.

  Today’s message: you may think there is a lot wrong with you, but there is also a lot right with you, is where I start. I look long and hard, focusing on all the things I actually like about myself. My long, wavy, umber locks, swirling with natural golden highlights. Chestnut-colored eyes that sparkle with amber flecks. Unblemished ivory skin with the tiniest of freckles peppering an upturned nose. And heart-shaped lips with a pale pink hue. I’m not a horrible sight—in fact, I think I’m kinda pretty—but I doubt Osteen’s message is skin deep. He wants us to look further, dig deeper, see the big picture. So I do. I look past the extra layer of plump skin that serves as a double chin and ignore the bit of flab hanging over my pajama pants. My weight is something I’ve always considered a negative, but there are so many positives that will help me get through this and once I’ve shed some of the negativity, the world will be my oyster. Well, I hate oysters, so let’s call the world my triple decker bacon burger with mushrooms and cheddar. Yeah, that sounds much better.

  Okay. So let’s add walking through Central Park to the list of things I hate besides oysters. Hate. Check. Done. Well, not really done because it’s barely been twenty minutes and I have to clock sixty, but if I’m being honest, I wanted to be done after ten.

  My first eager steps onto the dirt loop were super awesome. I had a kick to my step and a happy sway to my ultra curvy hips. My new pants and sneakers gave me that dress for the part confidence I would have lacked if I’d thrown on a pair of ratty old sweats and the only rubber-soled shoes I own—my Chucks. But, looks aren’t everything, remember? Except that they are because I don’t know if it’s just me or what, but Central Park is flooded with the hottest of the hot and I simply do not belong here.

  On the Reservoir Loop alone, I ran into a woman whose shorts were so skimpy I could see what she ate for breakfast, a dazzling young man with washboard abs and the brilliant decency not to wear a shirt while his sweat glistened in the sunlight, and a gaggle of middle aged women that I could swear I saw on an episode of New York Housewives once. The terms you’re out of your league, you’re fooling yourself, and you’re better off running in the dark where no one can see you, jog through my mind at a faster pace than my feet can hit the pavement.

  I can’t help thinking that I look like some wanna-be trying to fit in with the cool kids. I try to push the negative thoughts aside and overcome the pessimism—the way Ashley and Joel would pray for me to—but this has been my struggle for so long it’s almost a part of who I am. When you grow up being made fun of for your flub and eventually learn to accept that you’re not getting the hot date because you chose Oreos over the treadmill, it kinda sinks in that this is it. This is me, and even though I’ve tried to lose the weight many, many times before, the truth remains the same. I’m chubby. I’ll never be a twig, but that doesn’t mean I don’t deserve happiness in the form of—holy shit—of that!

  A gorgeous guy in expensive looking running shoes, a sweat-soaked V-neck T-shirt, and the sexiest manbun I have ever seen, zooms past me. He winks and smiles as he whooshes by in a mix of sweat and man and some kind of delicious body wash. Dayum! A wink for me? Nice! I would walk five hundred miles (and I would walk five hundred more) just to see that guy once a day! I crane my neck and slow my pace to get a better look, but he’s gone, disappearing behind a dip in the track, before I can ogle any longer.

  Just like that, the torture of getting into shape has its visual advantages and plenty of pros to outweigh the cons. Pros: I’m here, I’m moving, I’ve got a blood-pumping, feel-good attitude, and manbun dude gave me a wink. Cons: this sucks, I’m hungry, I’m tired, and I’d rather be reading than walking. Luckily, my warped mind is smart enough to focus on the pros list. So I dismiss everything that could possibly weigh me down, turn up the volume on my iPod, and lip sync the words to Fallen by Imagine Dragons while I jog it out. It’s a beautiful day, I’m rocking new kicks, one of my favorite bands is blasting motivational lyrics in my ears and as Joel would advise, if you cannot be positive, then at least be quiet. Anyone who knows me can vouch that I’m a gabber—quiet is not in my blood—so I guess that only leaves one thing. Positivity fucking rules, right?

  MOST PEOPLE LOVE THE WEEKEND because it means two days off from the daily grind, but not me. Saturday is always my busiest day of the week. I have five clients coming in today to get their makeup done. Three bridesmaids and the mother of the groom, and the other, a long time client, headed out for a night on the town with her boyfriend. Easy enough, no use in complaining, but it also means that I have to cut my workout short this morning
to get into the salon on time.

  That alone has me making all kinds of excuses as to why I can skip one measly day. I could’ve slept an extra hour, I worked really hard all week, I ate like a champ and didn’t go over on my calories. If I bail on the cardio for one day, what’s the crime? There is none! My rebellious decision is made . . . until I get my daily text reminder from G.I. Jane.

  Jane: Morning Sunshine! Thinking about going to the gym burns between zero and zero calories. Get your ass in gear, babes! Xo

  As quickly as the guilt sinks in, I also remember that Tatum and I made a running buddy date today. “Dammit! I don’t want to!” I cry into my pillow, wishing there was an easier way to melt this fat away. I mean, it’s definitely vanishing somehow. I’m down twelve so the goal is getting closer, but don’t I deserve a day of rest? God had one. It was Sunday. Can’t mine be Saturday? I just want a break!

  The phone rings on my nightstand and interrupts my pity party for one. I groan as I reach for it and scrunch my nose when I see it’s Mom. It’s not nice to dodge your mother’s calls, but I know why she’s calling and I’m not in the mood.

  I answer anyway because she gave me life; I kinda owe her. “Hi, Mom. What’s up?” As if I really have to ask.

  “Have you spoken to Ashley yet?”

  See? I knew it. “No, Mom.”

  “Madeline! I thought you said you would call her! I don’t want to come off as the annoying, meddling mother-in-law and your brother—I can’t say anything to him without him zoning out or brushing me off. I need you, Leni! You have to do this!”

  What a Greek tragedy. Ashley and Rey have been talking about a destination wedding. My mother is up in arms. Nonna Rose and Papa Vito won’t fly and Aunt Millie on Dad’s side hasn’t been off of Long Island since 1965. But this isn’t my problem. “Ma, I can’t tell them where to have their wedding. I know I said I’d talk to her, but just like you don’t want to rock the boat, neither do I. I actually like my sister-in-law, she likes me, I want to keep it that way.”

  “What the hell are we going to do? Who gets married in Punta Cana, anyway? I’ve never heard of Dominicans making tiramisu! It’s your brother’s favorite. He needs to have tiramisu at his wedding!”

  The eye roll of the century nearly gives me a migraine. I would totally deserve it, too. “I’ll talk to them, Ma, okay? Can you leave me alone now?”

  “No, I’m your mother, I haven’t spoken to you all week. Are you avoiding me?”

  “No, I’m busy.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Living! Ma, really?”

  “One day I’ll be dead and you’ll miss me, you’ll see.”

  If I lost a pound for every time she used that one, I’d be a skeleton.

  A loud huff escapes her when I don’t respond. “You coming to dinner tomorrow?”

  Regret pummels my resolve. If I say no, she’ll get on my case all over again. “I don’t know if I should.”

  “What? Why?” I can hear the heartbreak through the phone.

  “Because I’m dieting, remember? Your menu isn’t exactly full of the healthiest fare.”

  “Oh, stop! So, you have one bowl of pasta and only a few meatballs. No harm. I’ll hide the bread.”

  Will she ever really get it? For a woman who wants her daughter to be thin, she’s always trying to feed me. “No, I’ll bring something with me. It’s okay. I’ve got to go, though. I have a full schedule today and a few things to do before I get to the salon.”

  “And you’ll call Ashley, too?”

  “Yeah, Ma! I’ll call her. Bye!”

  “Bye,” she sings. “Love you and you know you love me, too.”

  “Love you, Ma. Tell Dad I said hi and I’ll see you tomorrow.” I hang up, already feeling exhausted even though I just woke up half an hour ago. Talking to my mother will do that to you.

  On the bright side, I’ll have Tatum to bitch to. I guzzle down a shake with a shot of some green shit that seems to do the trick in holding me over until lunch as I slam the door shut behind me. Tatum’s waiting for me outside, chugging down some Starbucks concoction that would shoot my calorie count to shit.

  “Morning. You ready to do this?” I ask, love-tapping her on the ass.

  “Am now.” She winks as she tosses the empty cup into the trash can at the curb.

  “Breakfast of champions?”

  She nods, giving me pouty lips. “Rough night. Rougher morning. It was coffee or wine. And it’s come to my attention that wine is not a socially acceptable beverage at eight a.m.”

  “Bummer.” I giggle as we start to walk. “Want to talk about it?”

  She shrugs, looking both ways before stepping into the street. “Nah, no use wasting time regurgitating my crap. To sum it up, work sucked, I had a crappy date with Paul, and my noisy neighbors kept me up all night so I didn’t get much sleep.”

  I’m immediately sorry for my struggles, again. Seems I’m always inadvertently apologizing for my weight in some way or another. “Oh, Tay. You could have cancelled. I would have gone alone.”

  With a pat on my shoulder, Tatum smiles. “Don’t be silly. I want to be here. I’m happy to cheer you on and to catch up with you, which reminds me. We’re still on for tonight, right?”

  Shit! What’s tonight? I totally forgot. I feign recollection, seeing as I have no other plans anyway, and nod again and again. “Yup! We’re on like Donkey Kong. What are we doing again?”

  “Um . . . Netflix and Chill except I’m not booty calling you, and between binging on Orange is the New Black, we’re redoing my resume. You totally forgot, didn’t you?”

  “Nope. It’s on my calendar. Swear. Crazy Eyes and resume polishing. Nine p.m.”

  “Good. Now, let’s get our groove on so I can go back to bed before the neighbors start in again.”

  When we arrive at the park, I take note of the usual suspects I’ve become accustomed to running into every day since I started my new routine.

  There’s the man with four dogs on two double leashes. He nods his ‘hello’ and I swear the dogs do the same. Next up is the thirty-something mother with her jogger stroller and her happy toddler. She lifts one hand from the stroller and waves at me. I return the gesture and smile. Coming round the bend are the boys from the track team. They have to be freshmen because they’re scrawny and pimply, still not into their own. The first time we crossed paths they nearly slammed into me in an inseparable flock. Now when they notice me approaching, they part like the Red Sea, making room for me with brace-faced smiles and squeaky hellos.

  “You’re like the mayor, Leni! Look at you.”

  I smile, pride fueling my tired legs. “Yeah, I guess. It’s only been three weeks, but these people make the track feel like home, ya know?” I look forward to their greetings and they encourage me to push further, bringing a warmth that can only be explained as Cheers syndrome, as I like to call it. You know, belonging to a place where everyone knows your name? I guess it’s silly since none of them actually know my name, but the point is, I feel welcome. Part of the crowd. Akin to these folks sharing the track with me.

  “Maybe you’ll meet someone, huh?” Tatum nudges me and winks.

  I roll my eyes and shake my head, dismissing her. It’s not so far fetched, except that of the all the people who’ve been so welcoming and warm, there’s only one whose attention I cannot seem to grab.

  “Too bad, Fancy Pants won’t even look my way.” I pout.

  “Who?”

  “Oh, just this guy who’s always wearing a snazzy pair of track pants. He’s really cute—more like knee-buckling-hot—with a badass tattoo wrapped around his bicep and shaggy blond hair that bounces with his stride. Dude never looks up from the pavement to give me the same courteous nod that most of the other joggers do. Whatevs.” I should rename him Rude Fucker, but I don’t like to judge. Maybe he’s having a bad day—consistently for the last three weeks. Maybe he’s concentrating. Maybe he just doesn’t want to give a chubby girl false hope in the for
m of acknowledgment. Who the hell knows. Either way, it’s started to grate on me. More like, it’s become a mission to get the guy to give me the time of day. I’m not asking for a wedding proposal, but a simple ‘hey’ would suffice.

  “You need to up your game, girl! Make him look at you!”

  “No. I have no desire to attempt flirting with a guy while I’m all sweaty and out of breath. Plus, I’d rather him not notice me until I’ve lost some of the weight. Better odds and all.”

  “Oh my God, this again? You make it sound like you’re a leper. You’re beautiful, you’re smart, you’re funny as hell. Any guy should be honored to flirt with you. You piss me off, so bad! You know that?”

  I shrug, shaking off the lecture I’ve heard over and over. “What? I’m just being realistic. I’m used to it. It’s okay.”

  “Well, stop being used to it. Go for what you want and if Fancy Pants is what you want, go forth and seize his fine ass. Otherwise, stop dwelling. It ain’t a pretty look on you.”

  She’s right. I know this. With each passing day I promise myself I won’t let it get to me, but it always does. I’m one of those people who thrive on the acceptance of others. Pretty stupid goal for a fat chick with self-esteem issues, but I’ve done a good job of compensating where I’m lacking, the way Tatum pointed out. I want to scream at Fancy Pants, People like me! Why can’t you? It’s true, it’s what’s on the inside that counts. I’ve tried to follow that motto, but unfortunately, society has its ways of judging a book by its cover.

  Thankfully today I have Tatum to overpower the voices in my head. I quickly change the subject. “So, you’re really thinking about quitting your job? You hate it that much?”

  A long, aggravated groan erupts from her dainty mouth. “Let’s put it this way . . . every morning I wake up and pray I’ll take a stumble down the steps. I’d love to break a leg or, better yet, both, so I can be laid up in bed on disability.”