The Lighter Side of Large

by Becky Siame

  I shrug again. “I might have made being a stay-at-home mum sound a bit more glamorous.”

  Sands lets her face fall into her hands as she shakes her head in disbelief. Sands is my best friend from way back. A shrewd businesswoman, she is a fitness instructor and owns her own gym with plans to open more. Why we are best friends, I don’t know. She has everything yet chooses me, the antithesis of everything she represents, as a friend. She’s tall and beautiful and obsessed with staying fit and a consummate flirt. She gets any guy she wants, though ninety-nine percent turn out to be jerks. While my problem is not meeting any men, her problem is meeting too many men at her gym, the problem being that most take off their weddings rings before entering the gym or hide the fact that they have girlfriends until after she sleeps with them.

  “Like I said,” I continue, “I’ll probably delete my account. I can’t take more rejection.”

  Sands looks up and points a finger in my face. “That’s loser talk and you’re not a loser. You paid for three months and you’re not going to let the money go to waste.

  “You said online dating is dangerous and didn’t want me to do it.”

  Sands leans back in her chair and crosses her legs. “Forget what I said. You don’t want a guy from here, believe me.” She fails to make eye contact, which means only one thing.

  “Who is it this time?” I prod.

  Sands exhales. “Gregory, the blonde IT tech who joined a couple of months ago.”

  “Sands,” I say. “Girlfriend or wife?”

  “Wife. And get this: she calls right after we, well you know, and he answers the phone and then leaves because she needs him to pick up ice-cream. Can you believe it?”

  “No, I can’t believe it that you will hop into bed with a guy without knowing more about him.”

  “Do you think I’m a whore?”

  “Yes. But I still love you.”

  “Thanks. At least someone does,” she brightens. “There, you see? I get rejected too, so don’t let one guy’s rejection keep you off that dating site. You need to go home and get back on your laptop and meet some men. And then come back here tomorrow and start working out.”

  “Sands!” I protest.

  “No, I mean it. If you don’t want to lie about your weight, then you need to lose it so you don’t have to, full stop. Now get out of here and find a man. The wedding’s getting closer and you sure as hell aren’t going to take Cat or Riyaan as your date. It’s time to take charge, babe.”

  I stare at her. “Have you been talking to my Dad?”

  “No. How is he?”

  “Just as full of advice as you are.” I get lost in thought. “You know, honesty gets me nowhere, so I might as well lie online.”

  “You already lie online,” Sands reminds me.

  “I mean about my weight. I can’t count how many stories I’ve heard where people meet someone from a dating site and they don’t look anything like they made themselves out to be, or their profile photo was evidently taken several trouser sizes ago. So why shouldn’t I do the same in order to make first contact?”

  “And then it blows up in your face when they meet you in person. Yeah, that’s a great plan. Let me know how it works out.”

  I rise from the chair, taking it with me. “I’m taking charge of my life, just like you said,” I say through clenched teeth as I struggle to disengage the chair, which is firmly attached to my butt.

  “Let me help.” Sands gets up just as the chair comes off with a pop and crashes to the floor.

  “No, I can help myself,” I say and hurry out of the office before she can argue.

  •

  It works. Lying works. Lying works because I have a date.

  I stand outside Yummy’s Greek Restaurant awaiting his arrival, my keys jingling a mile a minute. We’d chatted for a couple of weeks online before Wesley, asked me out to dinner. Sure, he came off as a little arrogant, but successful businessmen often do and he is owner of a landscaping company which boasts a fleet of trucks and a dozen employees.

  I wear a new frock, made of black (black is slimming) gauzy fabric which is not clingy and thus does not emphasize my rolls and folds. The short shirred sleeves and empire waist with small bow accent create a Grecian effect. Coupled with gold metallic sandals, I think I look very well and feel more confident than I have in a long time.

  “ShyNSweet?” a voice asks. I look up to find Wesley standing there.

  “RockStarMan83?” I reply, flashing him a smile and stuffing my keys into my purse.

  “That’s me,” he grins in return and looks me over head to toe. I hold my breath. He now knows I lied about my weight but doesn’t show any sign of anger. “Are you hungry? Let’s get this party started,” he adds before I can reply.

  As we enter the restaurant, he holds the door for me. I’m nervous and perspiring and trying not to fidget while we wait for the hostess to get our table ready. Wesley stands with one hand in his pocket jingling change.

  “So how’s your day been?” he asks.

  “Great, just great. Been busy with work.”

  “You got that right.” He smoothes back his close-cropped black hair. He has a small bald spot on the back top of his head, stands about an inch taller than me and has a slight paunch. He opens his mouth to speak again when his cell phone beeps. He pulls it out of his jacket pocket and reads a text, then drops the phone back in the pocket. “Yeah, work has been crazy-busy, clients calling all day long and wanting their lawns done that day. I keep telling them they have to give us at least twenty-four hour’s notice if they won’t keep a regular schedule. They think I’m Superman and can do the impossible and then they expect me to show up with my crews. I mean, come on, I’m the boss. That’s why I get the office. I don’t work in the field anymore. I did my time. It’s like I used to always tell Michelle - that’s my ex-girlfriend - that I’m not available twenty-four/seven. I’m my own man. I have a life. I have plans. Don’t place demands on me.”

  “Sure, you’re right, you deserve a break,” I agree, though I am surprised by his vehemence.

  “Exactly.” He nods, happy for the affirmation. “Michelle could never understand that. Work time is work time. I don’t need to be chatting on the phone with her all day long. And then after work, I like to have a drink with the guys, unwind, shoot some pool, play golf. But no, if I shut off my phone and turn it on again a couple of hours later, there are fifteen messages from her and clients griping that I’m never available. You know, screw it, I’m not available for people who don’t respect me.”

  I nod. “That’s smart that you stand up for yourself.”

  “Oh yeah.” Wesley continues to jingle change, which is annoying. “No one messes with me. Not gonna happen.”

  His phone beeps again and he pulls it out and texts some more.

  The hostess returns and picks up two menus. “Your table is ready. This way, please?”

  Wesley lets me go first, which makes me nervous as we wind through the restaurant. At least the tables are far enough apart that I don’t knock olives and feta cheese into anyone’s lap, but by going first, it gives Wesley a close-up view of my butt, which is not my most alluring feature and not one I want to promote on a first date.Our table is one of those cosy, romantic tables for two, complete with jar candle. “Do you mind if I sit there?” Wesley asks before I can pull out the chair. “I don’t like sitting with my back to the door.”

  “Sure, no problem,” I say and squeeze past him and the hostess to get to the other side.

  “Great, thanks.” He sits down without waiting for me to sit first or holding my chair. The hostess hands us our menu and leaves. Wesley doesn’t open his. “Do you know what you want so we can order right away?” he asks.

  “Uh, no, I’ve never been here before,” I reply, taken aback by his briskness.

  “I come here all the time. Want me to order for you? We’ll get our food faster that way.”

  I close the menu. “Sure.”

  �
��Great.” He nods and snaps his fingers. “Anatole, hey, we’re ready to order,” he calls.

  Anatole rushes to our table. “Wesley, good to see you.” A tall, slender man with olive skin and dark hair greets us with a thick Greek accent. “The usual for you? Start off with pita bread and hummus, then Greek salad and moussaka.”

  “You know it and the same for my lady friend here. Which wine do you recommend?”

  Anatole jots down our order. “Tempranillo or Shiraz is good.”

  “I trust your judgment. Bring whichever one you like best.” Wesley claps him on the back. Anatole gives a slight bow and hastens away. Wesley turns his full attention on me.

  “So, we meet at last. Do you meet a lot of guys online?” He folds his arms on the table and leans forward.

  I laugh nervously. “I just got on the site a few weeks ago and haven’t had much time to really get to know anyone. You know, work takes up so much of my time.”

  “Yeah, yeah. What is it you do again?”

  “Management of housekeeping and director of recreational activities,” I answer. He nods and begins to glance around the restaurant as if looking for someone.

  Uh-oh, he’s losing interest and the date just started, I think. “And on the side, I write a column,” I blurt out, “about social issues.” Well, I did back in college. I suppose you can classify campus club activities as social situations with issues.

  “Mm.” Wesley acknowledges this with a glance.

  “And I volunteer my time to help the homeless,” I add to make myself appear more interesting. I cringe inwardly at the exaggeration. I didn’t really think of Cat as a project to whom I was volunteering my time and felt badly for twisting our relationship for my own selfish gain.

  “Awesome,” says Wesley without enthusiasm. “Where’s that wine?”

  On cue, Anatole appears with a tray with the wine and appetizer and sets it on the empty table next to us. He deftly pours us two glasses of Shiraz and sets them down with a flourish. “Just leave the bottle,” Wesley orders. Anatole places the hummus and pita bread on the table and with another slight bow, leaves us alone again.

  “Homeless, you say?” Wesley asks as he dips the pita in the hummus and shoves it in his mouth.

  “Yes,” I say, but am saved from having to elaborate. A buzzing sound interrupts me. Wesley pulls out his cell phone.

  “Sorry, gotta get this,” he apologises, reads the message, texts something back, and places the phone next to his elbow.

  “So you play golf?” I steer the conversation away from my lie.

  “Twice a week. Last week my buddy and I met Todd Blackadder at the ninth hole. You know who he is, coach of the Crusaders? Yeah, he’s a really nice guy and we had a drink with him at the club afterward. He bought everyone a round. Not that I’m starry-eyed over his celebrity. I don’t care about that. It’s just nice to learn that someone who is a celebrity doesn’t let it go to his head, you know what I’m saying?”

  I start to reply when his phone buzzes again. He picks it up, makes an annoyed sound and begins texting. “It’s Michelle, my ex. She won’t stop bothering me. Can’t get it through her thick skull that we’re done with.”

  “You can always block her calls or just turn off your phone.”

  Wesley looks at me like I suggested he cut off his manhood. “I can’t just turn off my phone. I’m a businessman, got client and suppliers calling at all hours.” He turns his attention back to the phone. I sit there, politely waiting for him to finish. I pick up a piece of pita bread and nibble on it. It’s tasteless. Rather like Wesley.

  After two more texts, the food arrives. I don’t worry about finding something to say because Wesley does all the talking. About his ex-girlfriend. With his mouth open. Which is not a pretty sight, especially when the meal is moussaka.

  The longer the evening drags on, the lower my heart sinks. Wesley’s arrogance online was merely a hint of his acute case of narcissism. When he isn’t talking about himself, he talks about his ex-girlfriend - or texts her. I lose count after the eleventh time he texts her back.

  “Do you want dessert?” he asks hurriedly. I get the impression he wants me to say no.

  “No, thank you,” I say.

  “Good, we can get back to my place sooner.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He tilts his head like he thinks I’m a loon for not catching his meaning. “We’ll head back to my place, pop open a bottle of wine, and take it from there. And you can spend the night. I’m not the kind of guy who just kicks a girl out after he gets what he wants,” he adds generously.

  My jaw drops. “And just what is it you want?”

  He makes an annoyed sound. “What I want? It’s what I expect. I mean, come on, I buy you dinner even though you blatantly misled me into thinking you were someone else. I think I deserve something in return. And besides, you’re so fat you obviously haven’t had any since you tipped the scales two hundred pounds ago. You’re aching for a bang. So what’s the problem?”

  His phone buzzes for the umpteenth time and he picks it up. I throw my napkin on the table and shove my chair back with a screech on the linoleum floor. “You are,” I hiss and stomp off.

  “Hey, wait a minute, where are you going?” he calls.

  I keep my eyes on the floor, avoiding the stares of the other patrons and hurry out the door. The crisp night air is refreshing and I take in a deep breath. I’ve never been so humiliated in all my life.

  I look both ways and spot a bus stop two blocks down and start walking in that direction. Bus service runs late in the downtown area so I know I can catch a ride. Sands is on voluntary stand-by in case I need out of the date but I am too embarrassed to call.

  “Isabella, wait.” I hear Wesley and quicken my pace, step in a crack in the sidewalk and break off the heel of my right shoe. I don’t bother to pick it up but continue hobbling as fast as I can.

  “’Isabella’. He won’t even call me by the name I go by. Wonder if he even remembers it,” I mutter. Briefly, hopefully, the thought occurs to me that maybe he is coming to apologise.

  He catches up, grabs my arm and yanks me to a stop. “Where do you think you’re going? How dare you walk out on me like that? I’ve never been so embarrassed.”

  “You’re embarrassed?” I echo. “You’re the one who makes an unreasonable demand and causes a scene and is now causing another.” I try to shake him off but his grip tightens. “You’re hurting me. Let go,” I say. A couple people walking by throw us concerned looks but make no move to help me.

  “You owe me, woman,” he growls.

  I react on instinct and wrench my arm from his grasp and then, using my full weight, shove him backward. I almost fall doing so, but it works. He falls back and lands hard on his butt on the sidewalk.

  “Ow!” he yells. “Assault, is it? Have fun explaining that to the cops.” He pulls out his phone and starts hitting keys.

  I turn and stagger toward the bus stop. I can see the bus coming from up ahead and hope I can make it in time.

  “Yeah that’s right, run,” Wesley yells. “I know your number and your screen name. I’ll make sure you never get a date again. You’re a liar. That’s right, a liar and a loser!”

  Several people are waiting at the bus stop and stare at me as I arrive, panting. The bus pulls up right then. I’m rescued, I think, and climb aboard. It is a relief to get away from Wesley and I just want to be by myself, but unfortunately the bus is already crowded and with the addition of this stop, it is almost full.

  I’m the last one in and look from side to side for somewhere I can sit. The benches which have only one occupant aren’t big enough to accommodate me. The riders seated there have shopping bags and backpacks which take up a lot of room, or they are also overweight.

  The bus driver clears his throat as a hint, so I bump from bench to bench and person to person down the aisle in search of a seat farther back. Finally, I find one to share with a little old lady who is all of 40kg. She smil
es and scoots over even closer to the wall to make room, but my butt still manages to plaster her to it. I hope her stop is soon, for her sake.

  The bumpy, crowded ride over city streets and the dim lighting is a relief compared to the agony at the restaurant. My face burns with shame as I recall Wesley’s words and actions. Texting his ex-girlfriend the whole time? That was rude. The more I think about him, the more I am disgusted. He really didn’t make an effort to learn more about me. He had a grand time talking about himself - he didn’t even need my contribution to the conversation. I know he was disappointed in the real me, but that didn’t dissuade him from wanting to see all of me.

  “Ugh,” I say aloud and Little Old Lady graciously pretends she doesn’t hear.

  Wesley’s accusations about sex hurt deeply. Sometimes I do ache. I long for intimacy, but with the right man in a meaningful relationship at the right time. There is no way I can ever hop in the sack with just any guy because I haven’t had sex in a long time. I’m not that kind of person.

  His accusations about lying are correct, though. I did lie and look where it got me: riding home on a bus from a disastrous date. Plus I can never eat at Yummy’s again without wanting to vomit in disgust in memory of him.

  Why can’t men see what a great person I am? Why can’t they see past the fat to the real me? I may be overweight and desperate enough to fudge the truth a little on my profile in order to meet men, but it’s not fair for them to think I’m fat and desperate. I exhale loudly and grind my teeth.

  Little Old Lady looks nervous and tries to hug the wall even more to get away from me.

  Who needs men anyway? They want one thing and they don’t really care about women as people with feelings and thoughts and ideas. Just look at how Sands is treated by the bums at the gym. I take a deep breath, pressing Little Old Lady farther into the wall, and exhale. I hate men. I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for Tiresa stealing Mika from me. And if Mika loved me unconditionally, he wouldn’t have minded my weight. Men are just horny idiots who only care about supermodel looks instead of the things which really count about a person. And if my friends really cared about me, Riyaan wouldn’t have suggested online dating and Sands would have made more of an effort to stop me from doing it or even going on this stupid date. Nobody cares for me except Dad. It’s me against the world and I am the loser.