What I’m doing with my life:
I’m a local producer and personality for a morning radio show. I dance; I read; I write; I hang out with my friends. I wonder what the hell else I’m supposed to be doing!
I’m really good at:
Dancing, meeting new people, untying knots, and spelling.
Clearly what I was not good at was keeping my cool when men who met my standards at first glance expressed the slightest bit of interest in me. Seriously, Whitney, I told myself. He wrote, Hey Whitney! How are you? Message me if you want to get to know each other ;-). He didn’t propose marriage, for God’s sake.
As I shakily crafted a response, I chided myself: You deserve a man who you find attractive. You deserve a man who piques your interest. You deserve a man who is smart and well-educated.
After exchanging a few OkCupid messages, I gave Owen my phone number and we texted for a couple of hours. He was intelligent, charming, and hadn’t done the most dreaded thing—he hadn’t asked me for “pics.” When I realized it was one-thirty in the morning, I told him I had to go. My work week started in two and a half hours. As I lay in bed, my head spun with possibilities. Owen and I had covered a lot of ground in those few hours and he’d already tentatively suggested hanging out the next time he came to Greensboro. We continued texting throughout the following day, and when I woke up before the sun on Tuesday, I had a late-night text from him that read:
Whitney, I enjoy talking to you so much and your smile makes me smile every time I see it. I can’t wait to meet you in person.
Reading those words made my heart jump. I knew I was getting way ahead of myself, considering we hadn’t yet met, but I was so hungry for a partner. We solidified plans—he would come to town Friday night for our date. I ran through a mental checklist of everything I needed to do before then: clean room, clean apartment, buy a new outfit, completely clear my skin up, lose fifty pounds, increase the thickness of my hair by 75 percent (remember, PCOS thins your hair, that bitch), cultivate an interest in an obscure but relevant social issue, hang impressive art on the walls, shave entire body including face…It seemed doable, but I’ve always been an optimist.
I allocated Thursday after work as my date prep time, starting at noon and finishing whenever I was done. That way, all I would have to do on Friday was shower, obsess over meeting him, and pretend to relax. But, naturally, life got in my way. Everything that could go wrong went wrong. Thursday morning my coworker asked the intern and me to drive down to Raleigh, an hour and a half away, to interview the band Fun. and attend their concert that night. I had been a huge fan of the lead singer when he was in another band, called The Format, and I loved the Fun. singles currently playing on the radio. I didn’t want to miss out on this opportunity, as any perks I enjoyed from being employed at the radio station were few and far between. I’d never interviewed or even met anyone famous before and I was clueless about where to start.
As I scrambled to think of questions to ask, I received intermittent texts from Owen, full of reassurances and encouragements. And then the dreaded question: he asked me for “pics.” (A gateway to sexting, and a total romance-killer.) And not just any kind of pics—he wanted a full-body picture. I’d explained to him casually in our initial conversation that I’d lost a hundred pounds a year before but gained about fifty back, and that I felt I was on my way to self-acceptance but not there yet. In reality, had I actually weighed myself, I would have known I had gained more like seventy pounds. And I wasn’t on that path to self-acceptance quite yet—rather, I was still driving to the forest where the path would eventually unfold. I stood in my apartment, looking at his text and realizing that I had literally never taken a full-body selfie. I didn’t respond. He knew I was busy, so I could probably get away with not sending one. A few minutes passed.
I want to see your concert outfit, his next text prompted. Fuck. Now not only did I have to produce my first full-body selfie, I had to match the same level of style I’d seen in his photos. Owen was not only conventionally hot with his chiseled features and glittery eyes, but he was also stylish and well groomed. His hair was the ideal combination of careless and perfect. He wore expensive shoes and outfits just trendy enough to betray his fashion sense, but not so much that you’d think he was too materialistic. Then there was my outfit: a gray cowl neck sweater, black leggings from Walmart, and the only boots I owned, bought on clearance at least three seasons ago. Fuck it, I thought, racing through the apartment and judging my reflection in each mirror. None of them allowed me enough space to really get my entire body in lengthwise, but I finally settled on the one in the dining room, which allowed for midthigh up. I snapped a couple of photos, with my hip cocked and one hand on my comparably slim waist. As I flew down the stairs to my car, I sent them and then threw the phone in my purse to await his reaction.
As I was driving to the station to meet the intern, my thoughts went around in a ridiculous loop…
He’s going to realize you’re bigger than he thought. He’s going to cancel. So what if he cancels? Then he’s either a dick or he’s not attracted to you. Better to know now. But if he just met me in person, I’d win him over with my personality. God, please, let this work. Let one thing work.
I didn’t pull my phone out of my purse until I was in the station vehicle with the intern and on the highway to Raleigh. Then I knew I had to face it.
Damn. Those hips make me feel things. I’m glad I decided to come see you.
Before I could be relieved, I had to reexamine the photo and decide how much thinner and better it made me look than I did in real life.
We bantered playfully through text message on the way to Raleigh. When I got there, the intern and I conducted the interview, asking mostly lighthearted questions with some word association games thrown in, and had our pictures taken.
After the interview, the intern and I went for a beer at a restaurant next to the venue, as we had a couple hours to kill before the concert. I told Owen that we’d survived the interview and that we were going to have a drink. A couple hours later a text came through.
How’s my pretty drunk girl?
Not drunk, I replied, feeling my face flush at his use of the word “my” and the possessiveness it implied. I then proceeded to get drunk at the concert. I was a sweaty mess and gathered my two hundred strands of hair into a bun within minutes. I danced and enjoyed the music and felt butterflies every time my phone lit up with a notification from Owen.
A girl I’d been chatting with was overly friendly and also conventionally attractive. For a brief moment I wondered if she was flirting with me, but I dismissed it. When the concert was over, she held my head close to hers and handed me her phone to enter my number. An hour later, in the passenger seat of the station car while the intern drove back to Greensboro, I received a text from her.
If you like girls, let me know. We could have some fun. :)
“Why?” I lamented to the intern, banging my head against the headrest. “Why do girls always like me?” I closed my eyes and hoped Owen would feel the same way when I met him the next day.
When I arrived home at two-thirty A.M., I plugged in my long-dead phone and was greeted with a barrage of texts from Owen, the kind you’d expect from a boyfriend. There was the How’s the concert? text, followed by the I hope you’re having fun! text, and then the concerned Where are you? Did you get home safe? text.
Yes, I replied, explaining that my phone had died. I told him about the concert and he asked me to send him my favorite Fun. song. I instead chose a Format song called “On Your Porch” and sent the YouTube link.
I like it, he texted back. We should make out to it tomorrow.
The next day, I walked into Katie and Jared’s office for our daily postshow meeting. I was a nervous wreck for my upcoming date and extremely sleep-deprived. I collapsed into a chair.
“So tonight’s the night, huh?” Katie asked me with a quick raise of her eyebrows.
“What’s tonight?” Ja
red asked, not liking to be left out of any gossip, especially gossip that could provide fodder for the program.
“I specifically didn’t tell you because I can’t risk him finding out I’m talking about him on the radio.”
“Who?” demanded Jared.
“This guy, he lives in Asheville.”
“He’s not even in our listening area! Who is he?”
Not one to keep exciting things to myself, I launched into the whole story, and Jared immediately demanded to see pictures of him.
“Oh no. There’s no way,” he said when I showed them. “There’s gotta be something wrong with him. No offense, but he is way too good-looking.”
Instead of being offended, I said, “I know.” I was so tired and nervous that I was on the verge of tears, swimming in the anxiety of knowing Owen would be seeing me in person in mere hours.
“Whitney,” Katie began in her usual diplomatic tone, “look, you’re not going to know until you know. So get it together and quit worrying. Be yourself, have a good time, and if it’s good, it’s good. If not, on to the next.”
She was right. I collected myself and left.
“Whitney!” Katie called from the office. I poked my head back in.
“And don’t sleep with him!”
I nodded and drove home to attempt to get my shit together before seven. After taking one look at my apartment, I called in the reinforcements. Ashley was on the balcony having coffee.
“Oh, Lord,” she said, assessing my harried appearance. “I have to work at five, so I won’t be here to do your hair and makeup, but I’ll help you clean.”
“Perfect. Thank you. I love you,” I said as she retreated inside for the cleaning supplies. I still wasn’t sure I’d have enough time to accomplish everything I needed. I called my mother.
“Mom, seriously, you don’t understand. This dude…I’m going to focus on my room and Ashley’s going to do the kitchen, but maybe you could help me, like, dust the blinds or something.”
“Whitney,” she started in her Southern drawl, “if he’s busy looking at the dust on your blinds, that’s your first problem.”
“Mom!” I shrieked, borderline hysterical. “Please. Please. Please. I want everything to be perfect. Don’t you want grandchildren?”
“Why is he seeing your interiors on the first date?”
I let out an exasperated sigh. “He probably won’t, Mom, but just in case we come here after dinner or something. I have literally five hours and fifteen minutes before I have to be in the shower. Please!”
Before hanging up, she made a sound that signaled she would give in to my request while reminding me she wasn’t happy about it. For the next five hours we cleaned the apartment top to bottom.
Once Ashley had gone to work, I took my drenched, hungry, bleary body to the shower. I let the hot water run down my face as I tried to calm myself. After the shower I sat at my desk with a glass of wine and began applying makeup. I cursed my hair, which was neither wavy enough to be cute nor straight enough to not need to be straightened. Time was running out.
Owen texted, asking me about the restaurant I’d chosen. It was Korean and he’d looked up the menu online. Want to meet me at 8? I typed, furiously digging through the clothes in my closet. He agreed.
As I drove to the restaurant, still fifteen minutes away, I realized I hadn’t scouted out the seating arrangements ahead of time. It had been a few months since I was there, and I was bigger now. Unsure of whether I would fit in the booths, I called Donna.
“Boo Boo!” I said breathlessly. “Can I fit in the booths there? Are they the kind attached to the wall or can I move them?”
“I think you can fit,” she answered. “But I’m not sure. Maybe ask him to get a table.”
“I’m sure he’s already there!” Using voice-to-text, I messaged him, asking if he was already there, praying there were no typos.
I am, he replied. Where are you?
On my way! I said. Sorry I’m late—bad first impression, I know.
Then, realizing that if I couldn’t change a potentially awkward situation, I wanted to at least be prepared. I asked, Are you at a table or booth?
A booth, of course :)
Great.
I parked at the restaurant with sweaty palms. When I walked inside, I saw him sitting at a booth, every bit as handsome as I expected. He stood to give me a hug. Miraculously, I slid into the booth with a couple inches to spare. We made small talk, which was easy enough. We talked about the side dishes that came with our food, and I made sure to pick at them, instead of devouring them like I wanted to. I hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours, but this was not the time to make it obvious. We playfully argued about the name of a Greek isle we’d both visited.
“I’m positive,” I said, waving my metal chopsticks in the air. “It’s Rhodes.”
“You’re cute,” he said in response.
I laughed. “Thank you. You’re cute. And handsome.”
When we finished dinner, he asked if I wanted to get a drink. Not wanting to deal with any more unknown seating situations, I offered an alternative.
“We could just go to my house and watch a movie or something.”
“That sounds good,” he agreed as he leaned in toward me and kissed me.
I smiled. “Follow me?”
On the way back to my apartment I called Donna again with a feverish update. “He’s normal. He’s hot. Maybe the slightest bit of a lisp. He kissed me!” I barked.
“Whooo! Go Boo Boo, go Boo Boo!”
“Call you tomorrow!”
When I turned on the lights to let Owen into my apartment, he surveyed the illuminated living room. He walked to the couch, slowly turning around. “It’s very tidy,” he observed.
Dripping with satisfaction, I said flippantly, “Yeah, well, that’s just the way I like it.”
We sat down together on the couch for a few minutes before deciding to go to my bedroom. I was still incredibly nervous, and had been reserved all evening. My boisterous laugh and outgoing personality were hiding under a blanket of insecurity, most likely in the fetal position. I think I’d subconsciously decided that if I didn’t show him too much of me, he wouldn’t have anything not to like.
I changed into a comfy gray Old Navy T-shirt and invited him under my down comforter. He balanced my computer on his lap and rattled off some Netflix selections.
“Oh, whatever, I’m easy,” I said, although nothing could be further from the truth. When it comes to entertainment, I am painfully picky. The choice of movie proved irrelevant, because before long he put the laptop on my desk and pulled me close to his chest, kissing me on the head. When I looked up, a full-on make-out session ensued. Between kisses, he positioned himself on top of me and sat back on his knees between my legs.
“Hmm-mm,” I said, pulling him back up to my face. I was determined to keep the night relatively PG, not because of a commitment to appearing chaste, but so my body wouldn’t scare him off on the first date.
I awoke early the next morning with Owen softly snoring in my darkened room. I went to McDonald’s and scarfed down a sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit and answered Katie’s texts about how the night had gone. God, it feels good to eat, I thought.
When I got back to the apartment, coffee in hand, Ashley was rummaging through the kitchen. Owen came out briefly before going into the bathroom.
Oh yeah, Ashley mouthed, drawing it out so big that I could see her molars.
I know! I mouthed back.
I was hosting a Zumbathon in High Point that morning, so I brushed my teeth and dressed quickly, telling Owen he was welcome to take his time and let himself out. After the Zumbathon was over, Donna and I went to Panera to evaluate the previous night.
“You seem calm, Boo Boo,” she noted, biting into a panini.
“Yeah, it was…nice. Comfortable. Maybe too comfortable. I felt pretty subdued. He’ll probably never text me again.”
No sooner was that out of my mouth tha
n my phone dinged.
Last night was fun.
“Wait five minutes,” Donna instructed in a stern voice.
After four, I responded: Yeah, it was.
Said Donna: “Add a smiley face.”
After continuously texting throughout the next week, Owen sent me some screen shots of fat women, fatter than me, in skimpy lingerie. One of the pictures was a fat woman posing with a cupcake. The photos made me uncomfortable for more reasons than one.
First off, I was uncomfortable looking at someone like myself naked. That’s why I didn’t, even in the privacy of my own home. I couldn’t stand the thought that I looked anything like these women in the pictures, even though I was pretty sure I did. I stood on my knees like one of the girls, naked on my bed, and checked out my reflection in the mirror over my dresser. To my horror, I looked almost identical to the soft-core porn image on my phone. The fat, the cellulite, the flabbiness, it all made me sick to my stomach.
Second, as I told Owen, I don’t like the food stuff. I’d spent so many years trying to hide the fact that I needed nutrition and sustenance like a normal person. I certainly didn’t like the idea of publicly indulging in cupcakes for the sake of some gross erotic fantasy.
Oh, I didn’t notice the food stuff, Owen wrote back. Likely story. Then I had a thought that knocked the wind out of me.
Wait…I typed quickly. I knew that Owen was a photographer. Do you work for this website? Are you trying to get me into porn? Is that what this is?
It would make sense. I had thought it was weird that Owen was interested in me. Maybe he’d just been buttering me up the whole time, trying to manipulate me, so that by the time he turned on a light and shoved a cupcake in my face, all he’d have to do is say, “Action!”
What?! No. His texts started coming in quick succession. I’ve never even shot a naked woman in the studio. Ever.
I told him I thought one of the girls was pretty, but I didn’t have smooth skin like hers. Owen wouldn’t know that because he’d only been with me in the dark. Now that I realized there were pretty fat girls doing porn, I felt doubly inadequate. Not only was I not a hot girl, but suddenly I didn’t feel like a hot fat girl, either.
I Do It with the Lights On Page 14