by Becky Siame
Conscience: So tell me again why you just shelled out $49 to get on this site to meet men?
The minutes tick by and I still haven’t answered. Maybe KnightinShiningArmor77 really is a valiant man who won’t mind my weight. I can’t believe I’m in this quandary. Lie and send him into shock when we meet, or tell the truth and send him into shock now?
I decide to tell the truth. I’m not a liar. I’m not like Tiresa and Mika. I’m better than that.
ShyNSweet: I’m available this weekend but I need to tell you I’ve put on a few pounds in the past few years. I don’t have an athletic build.
I hold my breath waiting for his reply.
KnightinShiningArmor77: Looks aren’t everything. I’ve broken my nose a few times playing rugby, so it’s slightly crooked. I don’t mind a few extra pounds. It’s not like you’re morbidly obese lol? How much do you weigh?
“Moment of truth,” I sigh and type in my weight, which is significantly higher than the weight stated on my profile.
ShyNSweet: 126kg
And just as instantly as the chat window opened, the text goes grey and a message appears:
KnightinShiningArmor77 is no longer online
I wait online a few minutes, but it is safe to assume KnightinShiningArmor77 isn’t experiencing a power outage. I log off, shut down the laptop, and open a second bottle of wine.
CHAPTER FOUR
“You’ve got to accentuate the positive, and eliminate the negative!”
FROM BELLA’S BLOG
http://www.thelightersideoflarge.com/ch4
I stare at myself in the full-length mirror. “Fat may be what I am, but not who I am,” I say.
It doesn’t work.
There is nothing more terrifying for a fat person than to look into a full-length mirror. Multiple times a day, I traverse the Walk of Shame - also known as the hallway in my home - where at the far end the tormentor hangs. Dad noticed I didn’t have a proper mirror and gave me a full-length one he had lying about. He even came around with the picture hooks and hammer to hang it. What could I do, refuse his well-meaning gift? Until then, I mercifully had a small face-mirror in the bathroom, which let me avoid viewing parts of myself I prefer to keep out of sight.
Most days, I make the Walk of Shame with eyes lowered, but try as I may to not look, sometimes I just can’t help myself - like now. I am a sucker for self-torment.
“Being fat doesn’t define me. It’s simply extra baggage which I carry and I won’t carry it forever,” I tell the bloated image, trying to sound convincing but I’m not so sure. I know all too well the hard work which goes into “losing” extra baggage. And not just a few pieces of luggage - it’s a cargo load.
The tormentor reveals all. A huge flabby apron hangs around my midsection. Thunder thighs with jello cellulite glisten and wink in the sun. More gelatinous mass hangs under my arms, which wobbles and rolls and juts out whenever my arms are flush against my body. It’s a hard task to not get lost in the disgust of it all. I mean, who wants to look at my fat ugly rolls and love handles? Ironic name, since nobody loves them.
But I do have amazing eyes and a great smile, complete with two cheeky dimples. I inherited my best physical features from both parents: my late Polynesian mother’s caramel-latte skin, high cheekbones, perfectly oval face and full, pouty lips; and Pa’s glittering emerald-shaped eyes and unruly curly hair.
“I am a strong, beautiful, confident woman, mother and friend. My weight does not enslave me,” I pronounce to the woman in the mirror. And then my shoulders slump. “Hello, who am I kidding?” I sigh. To say it doesn’t enslave me is optimism at best, denial at worst. It has been the bane of my existence for most of my thirty years. I stop short at saying affirmations are a waste of time, but some days it’s easier to believe them than others. Today is not one of those days.
Defeated, I resume my usual activity of picking up after my two darling but messy children. With eyes cast down, I work while trying to avoid the hippopotamus at the end of the hallway. Even still, I nearly trip over an open photo album lying in the doorway to the kids’ room. Fi loves to look through the albums. This one contains pictures from university through to Fi’s birth.
University. Back when I was only a few pounds overweight. Back when Tiresa and I were inseparable. The album page is open to a shot of the three of us on the day Mika won the Student Body President election. We stood with arms around each other’s shoulders, wide grins on our faces, a banner behind us emblazoned with “Mika for Prez”.
That was only three weeks after we first met Mika”Ko-mo my tang guh,” I repeat after Tiresa, who explodes in a fit of silent giggles. We are in the library. I’m supposed to be helping her write a persuasive essay for English Comp, but she’s having too much fun teaching me Samoan insults. Insults I never learned while growing up with a white father of Scottish descent while Tiresa grew up with our maternal Samoan grandmother and extended island family.
“What did I just say?” I whisper, trying hard not to giggle because Tiresa is giggling.
“You said, ‘dumb bi-’,” she wheezes but can’t finish the sentence. Tears squeeze out her eyes.
I gasp. “And you said that to your teacher’s face?” Tiresa grew up with much more boldness than I did. The worst thing I ever did in class was chew gum. Once.
Tiresa nods. “It’s not like she knew what I was saying - until she called Mama Rose and repeated it to her. Mama Rose was on her side until Mrs Hammond blamed my ‘island upbringing’ for my attitude.” She spoke so loudly, you could hear her through the phone. You should have seen Mama Rose turn red. Aunt Flo ran out of the room, she was so scared.”
“What happened after that?” Her Samoan heritage was Mama Rose’s pride. You did not joke about it, let alone insult it.
Tiresa’s eyes sparkle. “Mama Rose called her a muli lapo’a and hung up on her.”
“Moo-lee lah-poh-uh,” I repeat. “Which means?”
“Fat ass!” Tiresa whispers and we collapse in another fit of giggles.
When I recover, I gasp, “And I thought Dad was bad!”
Tiresa looks at me, puzzled. “I don’t remember Frank ever saying anything bad or swearing. He was always so sweet.”
“He has quite the temper when provoked.” I nod. “Once, he got so mad at someone that he threatened to shove bagpipes up the man’s backside so that you’d hear Scotland the Brave play whenever he had flatulence.”
Tiresa politely chuckles but I can tell she isn’t amused. I feel sheepish for mentioning Dad. Dad was the only father Tiresa had ever known. After our separation, Tiresa only saw him on the few visits I made to Mama Rose during summers and on holidays. She usually seems angry when I mention Dad, like he abandoned her, not that she was taken from him against his will.
“Tiresa.” I place my hand over hers. “Dad would have adopted you, but after Mum died, he didn’t have any parental rights to you. The family wanted to take me away, too, but Dad wouldn’t let them.”
“So he fought for you but not for me. I understand. I’m not really his daughter, so it doesn’t matter. Maybe it’s a cultural thing. Samoans appreciate family more than the Scottish do.” She brushes the subject aside.
We were brought up in two different cultures. Dad tried his best to instill the traditions and values of my dual ancestral cultures, both Polynesian and Scottish. However, he knew more about the Scottish heritage than he did about our mother’s side. I was brought up practically white and a proud Scot to boot - much to Mama Rose’s dismay.
When we both showed up at orientation at The University of Canterbury, we decided to become roommates and reconnect. All the fun and affection we shared as girls came back in a flood. We might as well have been Siamese twins, going everywhere and doing everything together.
“What do the Scottish do?” a voice asks. We look up to see Mika Fomai, one of the most gorgeous guys on campus - gorgeous and popular and rich and drives a nice sports car. And he’s standing there talking to us.
Tiresa flashes him her biggest smile and bats her eyes. “They wear kilts commando, for starters.” She winks as she says it. How she manages to be a sultry siren on cue is beyond my comprehension. The frumpy artist is my forte.
“And you came by this knowledge how?” he asks, just as teasing as she is.
Tiresa tosses her long hair and laughs. “I know a thing or two.”
Mika nods. “Great, because I need the opinion of someone who knows a thing or two about speeches. I’m running for Student Body President and I wrote a speech for the election rally next week, but I’m not convinced that it’s as persuasive as it can be.”
“Let’s hear it.” Tiresa flashes her winning smile again.
“I was just helping Tiresa write her persuasive essay for English Comp, so we’re in the zone for persuasion,” I add.
Mika, who hadn’t noticed me before, brightens. “Are you a tutor?”
I laughed. “Oh, no, we’re sisters. I’m just helping her, that’s all.”
“Oh, okay. Well here it goes.” Mika pulls out the speech from a folder and reads it. Tiresa rests her chin on folded hands, watching him intently and smiling all the while. He glances up from the paper, always at Tiresa. When he finishes, she applauds softly.
“So, what do you think?” Mika asks, focused on Tiresa.
She nods eagerly. “I think it’s fantastic.”
Mika grins. “Thanks.” Then he turns to me and waits for my opinion.
I squirm. It’s not every day that Mr Tall, Dark and Handsome walks up and starts chatting and wants to know what I think about something. Heck, that sort of thing never happens on any day. “Well,” I drawl, unsure how to be diplomatic. “It can use some work.”
Mika’s eyes had drifted to Tiresa, but snap back to me, stunned. I shrug in apology. “I think you should add a humorous opening statement, followed by three key points about what you will accomplish in office instead of only talking about past offices and awards you’ve held, and then end with a promise of how the campus will benefit from your leadership and continue after you’ve graduated.”
Mika’s brow furrows. “So I shouldn’t talk about my qualifications?”
I shake my head. “No, by all means, mention them briefly or list them on a campaign flyer, but you need to give people a reason to vote for you not based on those but on the goals you plan to accomplish and how it will make campus life better.”
He pulled out a pen and began to jot down my ideas. “And tell a joke at the beginning?”
“Not necessarily a joke, but something funny. It will evoke an emotion from people and help them to remember you.”
Mika looked up, face scrunched. “I’m not good with funny.”
“I can think of something for you,” I volunteer.
“Me, too,” says Tiresa.
Mika bites his lower lip in thought. “Will you help me write my speech? I need help with it because I really want to win. I plan to attend law school and having won an election, even as stupid as Student Body President, makes my application look better.”
“Sure,” I reply, blushing.
Mika’s smile is the sun. “Great. Terrific. I’m Mika, by the way. What is your name again?” He holds out his hand for me to shake.
I take his hand shyly. “Isabella. But you can call me Bella.”
From that moment forward, it was the three of us. The Three Musketeers, partners in crime, inseparable and incorrigible. Mika won the election. His campaign speech - rather, my speech - received a standing ovation, as did his acceptance speech (also mine). He was the devil’s advocate, arrogant, confident and always right, even when he was on the wrong side of the argument.
Tiresa was the instigator of the trio. She always came up with madcap ideas. She took no thought of the consequences, but somehow always seemed to land on her feet - elegant, size 8 feet which supported her six foot tall, gorgeous body with supermodel features. Those features now earn her a six-figure salary as a PR executive in the music industry.
Then there was me, the creative one. I was studying for a Fine Arts Degree in design and drawing, when I wasn’t contributing editorials and cartoons to the campus newspaper and writing Mika’s column for it. However, my main role became caretaker. It was a course of study in itself to look after those two. I wrote for Mika and made sure as Student Body President that he always knew the right thing to say. I tutored Tiresa and made sure she woke up in time for class. And I was always the designated driver.
It was widely accepted that Mika would choose one of us as his partner. What a surprise when he chose me, little old dumpy me, who caused Tiresa no end of grief with my lack of fashion sense. Me, whom no one ever noticed when Tiresa was around, which was all the time.
Sure, Mika and I were compatible in the way we thought. In fact, we were a very good match in that respect. He had ideas; I knew how to execute them. But based on looks, anyone would have guessed he’d pick Tiresa. A gorgeous wife on the arm of a successful lawyer would have been the icing on the cake. A curvaceous, delectable, Tiresa-shaped cake, not a bulging Bella apple pie.
Dropping out of school after one year and marrying Mika after he graduated and started law school seemed as natural as breathing. It was an extension of the role I had already assumed. When I wasn’t writing speeches and papers and articles for the law school journal and doing research for Mika, I cooked and cleaned for him, did his laundry and ran his errands. And as his wife, I had the right to expect him in bed. Or so I thought.
The day my perfectly orchestrated life fell apart, Fi was barely two weeks old and I was struggling with postpartum depression. It was so bad that Mama Rose had taken Abe for a few days just to give me a little break. I felt like I was hurtling through the abyss of nothingness. The doctor prescribed me some pills but warned me that I had to stop breastfeeding so Fi wouldn’t be affected. So much for losing all my pregnancy weight the easy way. Breastfeeding burned calories like nobody’s business. I’d lost all of my pregnancy weight with Abe that way, but when Fi was conceived I was already two stone overweight. Now I had two more stones on top of that to lose. Or not to lose. I just didn’t care.
I remember Fi sleeping in her bassinet and I was staring at the TV, which was turned off, when Mika got home from work one Monday evening. I heard his car pull up, heard the car door open and slam shut, heard the side door open and close, footsteps on the new wood floor. Then he was standing in between the TV and me.
“I don’t love you anymore. I know you have this postpartum depression thing, but it’s not that. You’re not the woman I married. Just look at you; you’re not just overweight, you’re huge. I haven’t been happy for a long time. Tiresa and I have been seeing each other for a few months and she wants to move in, so you’ll need to pack your things and be out by the end of the week. I’ll support the kids, of course.”
He wasn’t remorseful. He made the decision without giving me a choice, without discussing our relationship to see if it was salvageable. I probably could have forgiven him, but he wanted her. I was not enough for him.
What does she have that I don’t? I ask inwardly. Automatically, my head answers for me: everything. She has everything. She is still a gorgeous island-princess with a successful career, a busy social calendar, enough designer-clothes to open her own shop - and Mika.
Since our marriage ended, I see more of my sister now than before. Tiresa picks up Abe and Fi, nephew and niece and soon-to-be stepchildren (no pregnancy stretch marks on her, not when she can get kids the easy way), every Friday. Mika, who is usually busy at the firm, returns them home on Sunday evenings. That’s it. They never ask for my forgiveness; I never offer it. It is the black hole in my soul.
I catch a glimpse of the hippo at the end of the hallway again. Darn.
CHAPTER FIVE
“ ‘Pride goeth before a fall.’ Pride preceding these moments is why you can never leave with it. It’s already ahead of you, ready for the next encounter with embarrassment.”
http://www.thelightersideoflarge.com/ch5
It’s a week before I see Sands again. On the way home from the grocery store, I stop by her gym. She’s just finished an aerobics class and waves me into her office.
“I did it,” I say as we step inside.
Sands whirls around. “You didn’t.”
“I did.” Out of nervous habit, I begin to jingle my keys.
“No way. Stop jingling.” Sands hates it when I do that.
“It’s done.”
“I told you not to!” she wails and plops into the chair behind her desk. “You can find a guy here for only $12 a month. How much did you pay? You paid double that amount, didn’t you? Triple?”
“It was a special offer. $49 for three months. But never mind,” I say as I squeeze into the narrow plastic chair in front of the desk and pray it doesn’t collapse. Its arms dig into my sides. Do chair arms really need sharp edges? “I’ll probably delete my account when I get home.”
“So did you meet anyone yet?”
“Yes and no,” I say vaguely.
She peers at me suspiciously. “You did. You met someone already and you’re going to meet him for dinner. No way you’re going alone. Text me when you find out where you’re going and I’ll go there and sit at a nearby table and make sure he doesn’t slip you the date rape drug.”
“You’re over-dramatising this just a bit, aren’t you? Yes,” I sigh, “I have chatted with a few guys and am unceremoniously dumped when they find out my weight.”
Now she looks at me like I’m crazy. “Your weight is a topic of conversation?”
I shrug. “I feel bad because my photo only shows an extreme close-up of my face and I want to be honest. I don’t want to lie to men. I want them to accept me, ALL of me.” I pinch my flabby upper arm for emphasis.
“Hence the extreme close-up. That’s really honest, Bella. What else did you lie about?”