Never mind that I'd slipped. Never mind that the chair was old and weak to begin with. Never mind that it might have collapsed under the weight of my Sudoku book. The fact of the matter was that I broke a chair. With my butt.
The family reunion with Rick was going to suck.
Chapter Six
I couldn't believe I was really doing this. I was really making plans to go to the reunion. And I had really allowed Chelsea to talk me into a sisterly shopping trip. As we walked into the mall, I studiously avoided catching my own eye in the mirrored shop windows. It doesn't really matter how well you dress a big chair-breaking butt, because it will still just be a well-dressed, chair-breaking butt.
I still hadn't told my sisters what had happened. I had, however, gotten rid of all the evidence. I'd thrown out the entire dining set, dismantling and dragging it to the apartment dumpster by myself. You know what I noticed? It's really hard to make sure you don't look fat while you're carrying an awkward tabletop, one that digs into the fat of the upper arm and creases the waistline in a nasty way, jabbing into all the soft places that shouldn't be soft.
Of course, after that I'd been pretty worn out physically, which didn't help at all in battling my tendencies to emotionally batter myself. I skipped dinner and went to bed without even showering. I just couldn't stand the idea of stripping down and having to look at myself. Not after breaking a chair with my bulky butt.
Other than working like always and shopping for a new dining set, I've spent the past week doing some real thinking about myself, about my body, about my personal image of myself. I'm sick of myself. I mean, I'm sick of the fat and the big clothes and the extra cost. I'm sick of having to shower twice as often just to make sure I don't develop fat-stink, that sickly sweet scent that can begin to develop in the crevices if a big girl like me isn't careful.
I haven't told my sisters that, either. Chelsea grins over at me as we walk, looping her slender little arm through mine as if I'm a regular woman, as if I'm as beautiful as she and Renee are. She might be shocked if she knew my recent line of thoughts, the sheer extremity of my self-flagellation. She'd probably worry, have a conference call with Renee to talk about me behind my back, and then they'd call Janet to straighten me out.
So, in an effort to hide how low I'm feeling, how gross and how unattractive, I smile back at my clueless sister, and gently hip bump her as we walk. She bumps back, laughing, and we breeze through the doors of my store, Chubby Central.
"Oh, what I wouldn't give for that!" Chelsea exclaims in an exaggerated whisper. She's reaching out for a black bra that has red lace trimming the cups and straps. The entire bra is patterned with little fruits; cherries, watermelons and strawberries dance across satin breast cups the size of buckets.
"I bet I couldn't even wear that on my butt!" She's in awe, her eyes going dreamy as she wishes yet again for bigger breasts. Snatching the bra and hanging it back with the others before she can actually try it on her butt, I grip her hand and attempt to drag her to the dress section, but she digs her heels in and stops me where we stand, among bras big enough to act as ski caps and panties that would fit a gorilla.
The really odd thing is that as I stand there hating myself for wearing these sizes, a girl much larger than I am is browsing next to us. She grins over at Chelsea and me without any sign of embarrassment or self-consciousness, and I smile back easily, not able to judge her as I judge myself. With glossy black hair and coffee colored eyes, she is stunning even in her roundness, and I actually think slimming down would destroy the unique beauty of her face.
She chooses a pair of sheer lace panties in electric blue, matching them with a lace bra in the same color. I watch her covertly, pretending to examine a shirt next to the underwear section as Chelsea squeals and exclaims over something she's found in the more naughty lingerie area. How is it that I can despise myself for my weight and my size, and yet I envy this larger woman who oozes sex appeal and confidence the way an athlete oozes sweat? Disgusted with myself, I weave through the aisles in search of my sister.
She's standing against the back wall of the store, and she looks up with a wicked sparkle in her eye as I approach. Fear envelops me as I catch the tilt of her head and the sheer scheming in her smile.
"Oh, dear God, what have you chosen?" I ask. The grin widens, and she shakes her head.
"I'm not telling," she says. But you go to the dressing room and strip, right now," she orders me, pointing her finger and struggling to pull her face into an appropriately stern expression. I must look terrified, because she fails to look stern and instead bursts into evil little cackles, still pointing toward the dressing rooms. "Go," she orders again. "First door is open. Strip. I'll meet you there."
Amused, I can't help but obey. I'm terrified of what she might throw over the door at me, but with full awareness that it's my name on the credit card, I go into the first stall, shut the door and lock it.
In a tiny room that is conveniently mirrored on three of the four sides, I can't get away from myself anymore. Pulling my shoulders back in an effort to fake some confidence, I look myself in the eyes. Basic brown hair, slightly beyond shoulder-length, slightly full brown eyebrows and muddy brown eyes. My face is round, but I'm blessed with glowing skin that is without flaw other than the fact that there's so much of it.
Reaching down, I untie the string of my wraparound tunic top, and I toss it onto the bench that is rather oddly placed in one of the mirrored corners of the dressing room. I kick my shoes off and unbutton the waist of basic slacks, slacks that I bought right here at Chubby Central two months ago.
A slight knock at the door alerts me to my sister's arrival, and I brace myself. "Ready?" she asks.
"I guess I have to be, don't I?" I joke back, making sure my voice is light and that my unease doesn't translate. I love and hate shopping with Chelsea; I love it because she encourages me and lifts me up emotionally, because she really is a great shopper with a good eye for dressing my rounder body. But I hate it because she's really brave with my body, always pushing me to be less self-conscious and to wear things that show off my curves instead of trying to hide.
She says I have a body to be proud of, and she really believes that, so I try not to tell her too often, how ashamed I am. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and then catch the edge of something red that she's thrown over the top of the door.
It's a dress, because she knows that I prefer them. Also because she knows my preferences, Chelsea has chosen a wrap style. This is a bit different than most of the things she brings to me; it's much more daring. Most wrap style clothing has a natural "v" neck, and you can sort of wrap as tightly or loosely as you like, arranging the depth of the "v" to your own preference. This dress is a bit lacking in breast coverage, though, and has only a few options for "v" depth; there's "a little racy," and then there's "hello, my name is tramp."
Obviously, I choose to go with a "v" that is as decidedly non-racy as I can force it to be, almost automatically consoling myself with the fact that I could just refuse to purchase it. The rest of the dress isn't too terrible; swirling just below my knees, it has an uneven hem that is flirty and sweet at the same time. My flabby upper arms are covered by three-quarter sleeves that rest comfortably in the crease of my elbow, but my shoulders and the outer parts of the upper arms are exposed by slits that trail down the length of the sleeves.
The dress is comfortable enough for everyday wear, and other than the wild feeling of wearing red, I feel like it isn't too bad. Still, at some point, I know I'm going to have to get brave and look at it.
Raising my eyes, I look into the mirror. I don't know how I manage this, but I somehow manage to see two different versions of me simultaneously. There is an evil cheerleader inside my mind, and she's taunting me, telling me that I look like a big fat high school kid playing pretend for prom. She laughs, telling me my "date" will never show up, that's there's no point in standing here in this dress pretending I can be pretty.
On t
he other end of my fragile confidence is my sense of hope, and she's telling me that the red of the dress warms the brown of my hair, making my dark tresses look shiny and bringing out hints of red in my hair. The same warming effect has settled in my eyes, and they sparkle warmly now. Somehow, they no longer appear dark and lifeless like puddles of mud in a round moon face. Now, they shimmer above the red of the dress, glowing bronze and gold as I feel pretty.
Mentally, I shut the cheerleader up, and I know that even with the deeper-than-I-like "v" neckline, Chelsea has done it again. Maybe I'm outside of my comfort zone, and maybe there's a little cleavage showing, where usually I allow none. Maybe it skims over my too-large waist and gives the illusion of an hourglass, though I suppose I'm a larger hourglass than most. Maybe, I'll buy that fruity bra to wear under it, something scandalous and sexy and confident, just for me. Either way, I'm buying the dress.
Chapter Seven
Sitting in the breakroom, I'm enjoying my typical lunch, a raw spinach salad topped with cherry tomatoes, shredded cheese, chicken, cucumbers and a variety of other vegetables. As usual, I’m spending my break chatting on the phone with Janet; today, she's going on about the reunion.
"I really am so glad you're able to come," she says, as I fork a cherry tomato and pop it into my mouth. She stops then, waiting for me to say something, so I stuff the little tomato down into my cheek before answering.
"Me too, and I really had a great time shopping with Chelsea. Is there anything you're going to need me to bring?" I chew my tomato, listening to Janet list all the things she is planning to cook or order. It seems like she has it covered; in fact, I'm pretty sure the only thing she needs me to bring to the gathering is a liposuction specialist for later, to keep the pineapple upside-down cake from giving me a top-heavy upside-down body.
Okay, so you're coming at nine, right?" she asks, and I can tell she's making lists again by the distracted tone of her voice. Janet is a little OCD, and she manages her entire life by the word of a little notebook full of lists.
She keeps grocery lists, to do lists, monthly chore lists for her house maintenance, car maintenance, and personal maintenance. Her one flaw is her vanity; the personal maintenance is a list of appointments for her hair styling sessions, laser hair removal, and other stuff I don't care to ask about.
"Yep, I'll be there, nine sharp," I say. "Look, Janet, my break will be up soon, so I need to go."
She is distracted enough with her listing that I can actually hear the scrape of her pen in her notebook, and she barely mutters agreement before hanging up. I laugh to myself, because I can just imagine her sitting there, lost in her own little world. I can only imagine the length of the party-plans list.
Spearing a piece of grilled chicken from my salad, I swipe it through the little cup of ranch dressing I've got on the side of my plate. Two really snarky girls that work on the other side of the call center are in the breakroom too, at the next table, so I want to eat quickly and get out of here. Their backs are turned to me, but their chatter is probably much louder than it ought to be, considering the subject of their conversation.
"I don't know, I don't think I could stand it. I mean, ew," Kayla says, flipping her vibrant red hair over her shoulder as she gazes into the mirror of her compact. I can't see her face, but I can imagine her batting her blue eyes at herself, slicking her lips with that shimmer stuff she wears all the time. That girl takes "confident" to the extreme, and her little friend sitting there next to her is just as bad.
"Me either," Claire answers, her neat white teeth taking the end off of a candy bar. "I mean, really, I couldn't believe it either. How can she stand to shop for herself? I bet it takes a magic girdle to make anything fit. It's gross; I think I'd rather be dead than to be fat."
My fork freezes in mid-air, and a little piece of shredded cheddar slips away from the spinach I've just picked up. Are they talking about me? Maybe they aren't. Who knows? Maybe they are. Suddenly, I'm nauseated, and I can feel rage coming up fast inside of me.
Who do they think they are? What makes them better than I am? Is it the size of their waists, that theirs are so much smaller than mine? Or is it the fact that I've never seen either of them eat anything more than a variety of chocolates while I eat as healthy as I can afford to, and yet I am the fat one?
It's on the tip of my tongue to stand up and say something, but I don't know what to say, I'm so shocked and embarrassed. All I know is, I've lost my appetite, and I am really wondering if I'm going to be sick. Sometimes anger does that to me. Throwing the rest of my lunch in the garbage, I race for the ladies room.
I step into the room, wrinkling my nose at that typical public bathroom smell. It's not as bad as it's been before, but there's just a faint undertone of urine and other nastiness, laced with lavender and something else that only makes the smell worse.
I'm feeling low now; I feel fat and gross and unattractive. I just keep hearing Claire in my head, this horrible girl that has Jackson so enamored. My Jackson, the guy I've liked for forever, sweet kind Jackson. And Claire is the kind of girl he likes, nasty and vulgar as she is. I'm pretty sure the pedestal he used to be on just crumbled out from under him, under the weight of his girlfriend's big ego.
"I'd rather be dead than be fat," she'd said.
Walking into a stall, I wonder if I have the power to starve myself thin, to just stop eating altogether until I am whatever size society requires. What size is it, I wonder, that takes me from being seen as a lazy slob who can't stop eating, and turns me into just a regular normal woman like all the others?
I can't starve myself thin. I know I can't, it's too unhealthy, and even though I know it would work eventually, I also know that I'd be killing myself slowly, denying my body even the basic nutrients. I'd be destroying my digestive system, my bones, and my organs.
"I'd rather be dead than be fat."
What about bulimia? If I eat and then throw up, I can still lose weight, and it would happen pretty quickly, too. I can eat anything I want, just like other women. I can eat candy for lunch, like Claire and her stupid friend, Kayla.
My health class knowledge from high school rises up in my memory. Is it really worth ruining my esophagus and my teeth just to be thin? Could I live with a lifetime of sore stomach muscles, exhausted from the binge and purge cycle? Could I do it?
I can't. I don't want to. I'd rather be fat than live with that kind of sickness.
"I'd rather be dead than be fat."
Would I? Would I rather be dead than be fat? I'm a healthy woman. Large as I am, my body is actually rather fit and I am pretty strong. I'm not likely to die of natural causes anytime soon. Still ...
Standing there in a stall in the bathroom, I feel a tear slip down my cheek as the old urge rises up. Growing up as a foster kid bullied about my status and my weight, I'd always battled feelings of worthlessness and depression. I'd always battled the idea of suicide.
Once, I'd stolen a page from Janet's proverbial notebook, and I'd listed all the possible routes of suicide that I could think of. I'd listed the pros and cons of each method.
When I was fifteen, in the foster home before I was placed with Janet and her husband Jim, I'd chosen an over-the-counter painkiller and taken three quarters of a bottle with a glass of vodka from my foster father's desk drawer. He came home early that day and found me, so here I am. Still alive. Still fat. Still miserable.
I'd try again, but now I'm not alone anymore. I don't have a ton of friends because I don't go out; my insecurity doesn't allow that. But I have a family now, and aside from Rick, they love me. I'm standing there staring at that floating toilet that always terrifies me, and I'm thinking again of suicide. I can't believe myself.
"I'd rather be dead than be fat."
I don't know that I'd rather be dead. What I do know is that something has to give. I can't walk that path again; it would tear Janet apart to think that she's failed me somehow, even though she hasn't. It would kill my sisters, for them to reali
ze that as close as we are, there are just some times when I can't turn to them.
I can't do that to them; I can't put them through another death in the family just because I'm fat and humiliated and full of self-hatred. I can't take myself out of their equation, not after they have fought so hard to include me over the years.
Besides, my giant ass will need a giant coffin, something close to the size of Rhode Island. And I can't afford that.
"Oh my God," I mutter to myself, drying my eyes and cleaning myself up to return to work. "I need therapy."
Chapter Eight
I really do need therapy. Over the past week, my thoughts of suicide have become more frequent. I can't help it; it's the combination of my own self-disgust and my realization that I disgust others. It was bad enough before, when I was being so cruel to myself on a daily, hourly, basis. But now? It has spread to other people, people in my workplace, no less.
I know that I'm a good person in general, and I know that I don't look that terrible. I suppose I'm even sort of pretty, you know, for a fat girl. But I just can't live like this anymore.
Fat Chance Page 4