by Pamela Ribon
I didn’t hug her. I didn’t even move closer to her. Still, she must have known I was contemplating it, because she said, “That’s okay.” It came out of nowhere, the air so thick and the words so loud that they just hung there, stuck in the space between us.
“Ian is going to be at the wedding, you know.” She said it with that look on her face, that look I hate. I wanted to wipe it off of her, make her apologize for wincing, for lowering the corners of her mouth like she was holding back the world’s best advice.
The sudden energy propelled me forward. I lit a cigarette. “Fine. Of course he is. He’s supposed to be there.”
“I’m just saying.”
She was warning me. Telling me to prepare.
Then those stupid words poured out of me: “Is he bringing Susan?”
“Probably. You should bring someone, too.”
There was that tone in her voice. That sad voice used when someone’s not dealing with life. That pity voice that says “We’re only here for so long before you’re just wasting our time.” The tone that told me to suck it up and move on.
After Becca left I went to my kitchen junk drawer, pulled out a measuring tape, and measured out forty-six inches. If my hips were laid out flat, they would be almost four feet long. Holy shit. My hips were almost as tall as I was. How much ass is that? How much fucking ass is that? That’s an assload of ass. My refrigerator, minus the freezer, was the size of my ass. My entertainment center, from VCR to television, was the size of my ass. My bathtub was the size of my ass. I continued measuring things around my apartment, moving from room to room with my arms outstretched, the measuring tape pulled taut between my fingers. I was a measurement zombie—eyes bulging and mind swimming as I walked stiff-legged through the heat from one target to another. You could fit three Taylors on my ass. You could store all of my clothes in my ass. My bed? As wide as my ass.
I grabbed a piece of paper and a pen. I tossed my Diet Coke in the recycling bin and poured a tall glass of water. I sat down and wrote at the top of the page: CHANGE.
Eight months until the wedding, where people could say “She’s really doing so much better. You should have seen her last fall. No, she was a mess. Trust me. Should have seen that ass. We’re so proud.”
LOSE WEIGHT. That belonged right at the top. I added a sub-heading: (NOT BECAUSE OF ANY MAN, BUT BECAUSE IT’S HEALTH-IER TO BE THIN AND YOU’LL FEEL BETTER ABOUT YOURSELF AND SELF-ESTEEM IS GOOD FOR YOU.) Just in case there was any doubt.
Next on the list: QUIT SMOKING.
I crossed it out.
DRINK MORE WATER.
Much easier, that one. Cigarettes were part of the diet plan. I wiped my forehead dry as I gave a glance around my apartment.
BUY NEW FURNITURE.
It was time to make this place presentable. I had stacks of books I’d read mingling with stacks of books I wanted to read dancing with piles of old bills that scattered the floor. All it would take was a trip to Target and I could contain it all. Just some shelves, a few storage units, and a shoe-holder thing. How hard could that be? Organize. Buy some drapes. Curtains. Didn’t nice apartments always have curtains?
GET OUT MORE. I was still learning this “alone” thing, but it was time I went out by myself. I didn’t always need to go out with a friend. I didn’t always have to have plans. I could see a movie all by myself. Or eat in a restaurant at a table for one. I’d never done either of those things in my life.
NEW JOB. I was sick of the librarian gig. I didn’t want to work there forever, they didn’t pay me as much as I could be making elsewhere, and I didn’t know if I could handle the new school year that was quickly approaching without strangling a freshman. I should be a writer. I should be out there making a name for myself. But just where exactly was “out there”? Getting a different job would take away from my Anna K time. I updated and sent e-mails during the day since I did most of my daily duties at the school within the first five minutes. I was really paid to be there in case something happened to the network or some kid tried to look at porn in the computer lab. I was the glorified porn police.
NEW HAIRCUT. I’d been tired of my hair, but I was scared to do anything different to it. It hung here, long and boring.
I decided to start Task One immediately.
000015.
Backwards Jumping Jacks
(and Why There’s a Bruise on the Back of My Leg)
10 AUGUST
Maybe you’re one of those perfect people that pay for a gym membership and then always, always go. Every morning you bounce off with your perfect ponytail and your teeth gleam as your perfect little mousy voice goes “I’m off to the gym!”
First of all, if that’s you? Be thankful that nobody has stabbed you in the eye. Yet.
I’m not one of those people. I’m not even close. I forget to exercise until someone reminds me. I don’t like to run unless my life is being threatened. I certainly only try to break a sweat during sex.
Also, it’s hot in Texas. It’s particularly hot here in Austin this time of year, and it gets so hot that it’s physically impossible to move more than a few inches at a time. You have to remain as still as possible, only shifting to lower the air conditioner. It’s the only reason I’m still coming to work, since I don’t have A/C in my apartment. It’s so ridiculously hot that we air condition outside this time of year. Amusement parks like Six Flags don’t want a thousand people dropping from heat stroke while waiting in line for the Log Flume, so the outdoor areas have overhead cooling units. Mmm, Lovely Overhead Cooling Unit. Why won’t you move into my apartment building?
Still can’t understand what kind of hot I’m talking about? You try it. Lock yourself in your bathroom, turn on the shower at its hottest setting, and put on a few sweaters. That’s what it feels like to walk outside these days. Go sprint in that, bitch.
There’s this wedding coming up that I mentioned before, and I’m pretty sure that as my friend was measuring my hips she was shaking her head and sucking her teeth. I could be horrible here and mention that as she was measuring my hip to foot distance I noticed that the hair on the top of her head was thinning and I could see her scalp. But that would be mean and I’m not a mean person so I didn’t say that. I don’t know where you heard that.
Since I just about broke down after seeing my measurements on paper yesterday, I decided to grab an old Tae Bo tape and work out. You remember Tae Bo, don’t you? With everyone’s favorite scary, sweaty black man, Billy Blanks? His name’s a registered trademark, don’t you know.
Y’all, I got schooled by the world-famous Billy Blanks World Training Center.
I had to do these crazy hop things and then punch and run backwards, like I’m a member of the Dallas Cowboys. I’m pretty sure I saw my downstairs neighbor moving out of the house while I was working out. I guess he was just sitting around until heard me jumping up here for the umpteenth time and said, “Well, that’s it. The crazy bitch has broken me.” And then he started loading all of his things in his truck and moved to Montana.
In one particularly aerobic set of moves you lift one knee, lift the other, kick, kick, and then do four jumping jacks while moving back into your starting position. So I’m doing the knee, knee, kick, kick, jumping jack, jumping jack, jumping jack, jumping jack, and I’m feeling pretty proud of myself:
BILLY BLANKS (tm)
Knee! Knee! Kick! Kick! Jumping jack! Jumping jack! Jumping jack!
Jumping jack!
Knee! Knee! Kick! Kick! Jumping jack! Jumping jack! Jumping jack!
Jumping jack!
ANNA K
Oh, yeah!
BILLY BLANKS (tm)
Again! Knee! Knee! Kick! Kick! Jumping jack! Jumping jack! Jumping jack! Jumping jack!
Again! Knee! Knee! Kick! Kick! Jumping jack! Jumping jack! Jumping jack! Jumping jack! Let’s go! Let’s go!
ANNA K
That’s what I’m talkin’ about, Billy.
BILLY BLANKS (tm)
Again! Kn
ee! Knee! Kick! Kick! Jumping jack! Jumping jack! Jumping jack! Jumping jack!
Knee! Knee! Kick! Kick! Jumping jack! Jumping jack! Jumping jack!
Jumping jack! That’s it! That’s it!
ANNA K
I know that’s it. I know! I rule!
BILLY BLANKS (tm)
Knee! Knee! Kick! Kick! Jumping jack! Jumping jack! Jumping jack!
Jumping jack!
TAYLOR
ReeeeeOOOOOOOOWWWWW!
TABLE
Crash!
ASHTRAY
Flip!
BOTTLE OF WATER
Splish!
TAYLOR
Weeooow!
ANNA K
Ow! Damn! Ow!
BILLY BLANKS (tm)
Knee! Knee! Kick! Kick! Jumping jack! Jumping jack! Jumping jack!
Jumping jack!
ANNA K
Shut up! I fell over a table, Billy! Give me a second to fucking recover.
BILLY BLANKS (tm)
Jumping jack! Jumping jack! Jumping jack! Jumping jack!
ANNA K
I’m sorry, Taylor, is your tail okay?
TAYLOR
Fuck off. I am so incredibly pissed at you. You know I always stand right behind you when you work out and you know that jumping backwards is a stupid idea, but you did it anyway, and now my tail hurts, and you spilled water all over me, and now you’ve left me with no choice but to go into your bedroom, find one of your bras, and vomit a hairball into it.
ANNA K
I understand.
BILLY BLANKS (tm)
Come on now, I know you’re tired. I know you wanna quit. But
DON’T GIVE UP! DON’T QUIT! YOU CAN DO IT, BABY!
ANNA K
Okay, Billy.
BILLY BLANKS (tm)
ARE YOU WITH ME, BAYBEEE?
ANNA K
OKAY, BILLY!
BILLY BLANKS (tm)
Keep that hip out when you kick. And don’t scream so loud your neighbors call the cops, Anna K.
ANNA K
Sorry.
BILLY BLANKS (tm)
Uh-huh. That’s good, right there.
ANNA K
Billy, can I ask you a question?
BILLY BLANKS (tm)
Sure. As long as you do some shoulder-to-shoulder punches while you do it.
ANNA K
No problem.
BILLY BLANKS (tm)
Punch a little higher. Good. Now, what’s your question?
ANNA K
Am I officially hallucinating?
BILLY BLANKS (tm)
I’d say that’s a pretty safe bet.
ANNA K
That’s what I thought.
BILLY BLANKS (tm)
Now, a lot of people want to quit when they start hallucinating. Anyone can quit when they start seeing shit and their stomachs are all fucked up and their thighs are trembling and screaming.
ANNA K
It’s like you can see into my soul.
BILLY BLANKS (tm)
But don’t you think that’s a small price to pay for firm thighs? Front kick, back kick. Ready? Go.
GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PAST
You need to concentrate. Here, let me help you with those kicks.
ANNA K
That’s it. I’m turning the tape off.
BILLY BLANKS (tm)
Are you sure you wanna do that? Only fifteen minutes left.
GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PAST
You can do it, Anna K. I have faith in you.
ANNA K
Of course you do.
So, I’m sitting very quietly at my desk today, as my butt is throbbing beneath me. I learned my lesson. I can’t just become an athletic person in one day. It’s not like I stored up all my past workouts until I decided to take my ass off the pause button. And most importantly, I probably shouldn’t do peyote right before I work out.
Love until later,
Anna K
000016.
Subject: Vacation?
Anna K,
Hi, it’s Tess! I’m writing this to you from my school’s computer lab. I’m probably going to be in so much trouble now because I was reading your entry instead of working on my history paper, and some people heard me laughing and now they all think that I am a very strange or crazy girl. I’m not crazy, right? Hee!
You know I live in Dallas, don’t you? That’s so close to Austin! Anyway, if you ever want to come and visit, don’t be afraid to ask! I’ve got plenty of room at my apartment, and lots of hotels close by if you’d like your own place to crash.
I’ve got to go back to working on my paper now, but I wanted to check in and see how you were doing. By the way, I met this totally crush-worthy guy at a bar this weekend. He thinks I’m twenty-five! Argh! Starting my new relationship out with lies! I guess it’s pretty silly to call it a relationship already, since we just met and all, but I really think he’s cute and he seemed to be interested in me. That’s all it takes. I’m easy!
Later, Tess
-----
Subject: Tae Bo
Anna,
Thanks for making me feel guilty about ditching my Tae Bo. My thighs hate you. My arms aren’t too thrilled with you, either. Billy, however, should get a kickback.
-Deb
-----
Subject: re: re: re: re: re: Ramblings.
AK
A) Yes, it stands for Lloyd Dobler. I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you the nickname is a total chick magnet.
B) But sadly, I’m hardly the perfect man.
C) I found this webpage searching for sites about Barbies. My niece had a birthday coming up and I wanted to find a rare Barbie for her. I figured Barbie BackwardsLegs might be too advanced for the six-year-old set. Well, that’s what I used to think, anyway. I guess you proved me wrong on that one.
D) I think about you when I’m brushing my teeth. Once I thought of you as I unwrapped a piece of gum. Sometimes I think of you as I’m rewinding a video before I return it. It’s the little quiet moments. Then you flood in and I wonder what you think about while you go through the quieter moments in your life.
E) More importantly, will you tell me everywhere you are when you think of me? Also, when you’re doing this, what are you wearing?
Pittsburgh is mostly gray, mostly cold, and mostly dreary. When I look at it, I think about the history of hardship and suffering that went on here. It’s not a sad place, but it has that ache of an old wound—the way your scars feel different to the touch. Everything works and everyone’s happy, but the buildings in this city still carry the weight of the Depression and the clouds sometimes look like they’re dusted in coal. The town remembers everyone that ever died here and is constantly in a quiet mourning.
The people here, however, fall into what I like to call “The Three P’s”: Pale, Pasty, and Puffy. That’s mostly because of the lack of sun and the good Polish cooking. If you’re ever in town we’re going to the Polish Party House. You have no choice.
Print this e-mail out and save it. If you ever find yourself single someday, consider it a proposal for a date. Gosh, I’m getting feisty in my anonymous safety zone, aren’t I?
-LDobler
P.S.: More stories about you being all sweaty, please. Or just stories about your breasts.
P.P.S.: FEISTY!
-----
000017.
By Request (I Give You a Rack for a Day)
12 AUGUST
Small-chested girls and boys of all sizes: Today I give you a set of tits. You wanted big boobs your entire life and today you get to have them. After you’ve spent ten minutes in the mirror playing with them, get ready to experience the real world of big-tittydom. Here we go:
Your shoulders hunch inward, just slightly—a result of trying to make your chest look smaller while you were growing up, embarrassed to have people staring at you.
The seat belt never stays across your chest. It slides up and sometimes goes around your neck if you aren�
�t careful. You are terrified that you will one day be decapitated in an auto accident because of your 34Ds.
The cuter the T-shirt, the greater the chances it will not fit you. If it does fit in the arms and length, the logo on the front will be stretched so tight across your chest that you look obscene.
The strappy/backless fad? Forget it. Where are you gonna be seen without a bra? There’s no way. While you’re at it, you can pretty much forget one-piece swimsuits. They don’t make any that fit and hold you in. You’re buying separates forever.
When you’re cold, everyone else is going to know. They won’t tell you that you’re high-beaming, but will enjoy the free show. You might notice yourself, however, when you scratch your arm on your nipple. Again, the protective hunch will develop in time.
People will “accidentally” brush into you. They like to do this at bars, in tight hallways, and on buses. They will be all “Excuse me,” but will raise or lower their arms so that they brush into your breasts. They may even do the hard shove that presses their chest against yours. They won’t thank you for it, either.
Your mother will talk about your chest more than your career.
No running. Ever. Invest in three sports bras and wear two at once, but you’re still not going to run a mile. Use the elliptical trainer, treadmill, or Stairmaster.
The sight of speed bumps on the road may bring tears to your eyes.
Never close a hardcover book too quickly. You could get a nipple stuck in there. Yes, it happened, and no, I don’t want to talk about it.
Babies grab your breasts. They don’t know any better. It’s only mortifying when someone jokes loudly, “He’s looking for lunch!”
Lovers will try and name them. Don’t let them. Keep your dignity. Maybe one great name like “Fantasia.” But not “Bert and Ernie.” “Pooh and Tigger.” “Lefty and Lopsy.” Fuck that shit.
You wear bras all the time. Constantly. Underwires only. No frilly-soft-lacy-pretty things. Industrial strength. Straps an inch wide. You look like a 1950s nurse who’s into S&M.