The Thousand Pound Christmas

by Victoria Burgess

  “We’re taking a cruise next March,” John’s telling me. “Celebrating our twentieth anniversary. We’d both like to lose a little weight before we go. We tried before, never got anywhere.” He pauses, flashes a sheepish grin. “Or if we did lose weight, it came right back. Usually gained back more than we lost. We figure this Granger guy might show us how to do it the right way.”

  I wish Audrey was standing beside me to hear that. I’m glad I heard it. Because it forces my thinking back to what this is all about. We’re a community of warm-hearted, hard-working people who want to get healthy and feel good about ourselves. Maybe generate a little money for the local school while we’re at it.

  That’s not such a bad thing.

  Something about us must resonate with viewers across the country. Maybe they’re tired of singing the yo-yo diet blues, too. Maybe they’re looking to us for a little inspiration. A little professional guidance. Or maybe they’re hoping to witness a fitness trainwreck in real time. Get a few chuckles at our expense.

  Doesn’t matter anymore. As today’s spectacle demonstrated, Therese was right. Eaton is abuzz at being noticed. Nothing special about this little heartland town until the label America’s Chubbiest was slapped on us. Instead of hiding from the glare of the spotlight, we’re determined to show people who we really are and what a great community we’ve built here.

  As mayor, I intend to help make that happen. Win or lose, the town is officially in.

  And if Audrey has problems with my decision, Audrey can just get over herself.

  NINE

  There are women with lithe bodies and toned muscles. Women with long, flexible limbs. Women whose thick hair can be arranged in artful knots that withstand the rigors of strenuous aerobic exercise. Women who flush prettily and emit a delicate glow of perspiration. In other words, women who manage to look attractive while working out.

  I am not one of them.

  I am a grunter and a sweater. And I’m not talking the pull-over type.

  I make a mental note to add a towel to my gym bag, because I have completely stretched out the new t-shirt I’m wearing by using it to smear the sweat from my forehead before it drips into my eyes and blinds me. And that’s just part of my problem.

  The other part of the problem has to do with rhythm. My breasts and butt seem to move independently of what’s happening elsewhere in my body. My feet are keeping tempo. My head is nodding in time with the music. My lips are mouthing the words. But my breasts and butt jiggle and sway, requiring half a second to catch up to the rest of the action.

  Size sixteen curves. That’s what I’m dealing with here.

  The movie Some Like It Hot pops into my brain. It stars Marilyn Monroe, Tony Curtis, and Jack Lemmon. A classic. Therese and I watched it with our parents when we were growing up. Matthew and I watched it together, too. There’s one particular scene where Lemmon and Curtis—who happen to be in drag at the time—watch Marilyn walk away. Their expressions are pure masculine rapture.

  Lemmon utters, “Look at that! Look how she moves! That’s just like Jell-O on springs.”

  Now those same bouncy curves have to be exercised into submission.

  Not that I’m comparing myself to Marilyn. Not by a longshot. Nor do I want to go back to the days when it was considered cute for men to ogle women. Just a stray thought about how the standards of beauty change.

  It’s Saturday afternoon and I, along with sixty other participants in the SlymFyt Challenge, have gathered in the high school gymnasium for one of Jym’s scheduled aerobic events. To be honest, I’m a little worried about the low turnout.

  It’s Day Eight of the challenge. We’ve been in this thing for over a week. And while we started out strong, our numbers are steadily shrinking. Hopefully that doesn’t mean people are already losing interest, or feel they’ve done their part just by signing up and attending a class or two. Losing that thousand pounds is going to take some work. A fact made evident by all the groans and heavy breathing around me.

  At least Jym tries to make it fun. He’s onstage with Kami Burke, a fitness instructor he hired to lead the classes. Sweating along with the rest of us, his tracksuit going swish, swish, swish. As for Kami, she’s adorable. Petite and peppy, red hair and lots of freckles. Not an ounce of fat anywhere on her.

  Kami opens every class extolling the virtues of a low-fat diet, posting a link for recipes, and encouraging us on our fitness journey. Our fitness journey. I can’t help but marvel at how fun that sounds. How romantic. A journey! Who doesn’t want to go on a journey? And weight isn’t even an issue—we’re just getting fit. Fantastic. What an exciting new adventure.

  Back when Therese and I were teenagers, we participated in weight-loss regimes. Regime. It had such a militaristic sound to it. Stalin’s regime. Castro’s regime. There were even ‘strict regimes.’ Pain, hunger, and sacrifice were involved. The ol’ you don’t get something for nothing model.

  Not anymore.

  “All right, folks,” Kami shouts as we finish our closing stretches, “you all were wonderful today! Great effort! If you’re sore later, remember to stretch! And don’t worry if you can’t make it through every exercise. Tailor your workout to your level of fitness. The important thing is that you keep coming back! I’ll see you here same time tomorrow!”

  She bounces offstage with a perky wave.

  The program might be packaged differently, but it feels the same. Her goodbye is met with muffled groans as the class members collapse onto their various mats.

  “Oh, good lord,” Esme pants. “I cannot believe you talked me into signing up for this.”

  “I thought I was in shape,” Susan gasps, “but that girl’s a killer. She looks sweet, she sounds sweet, but she’s a killer.”

  “Oh, boo-hoo. Bunch of whiners. What’d you expect?”

  This, predictably, comes from my sister Therese. She’s already lost the weight she wanted to lose so she’s in maintenance mode. Trim and fit, barely breathing hard. She delights in seizing the moral and physical high ground to lord over us what complete physical wrecks we are.

  From her position flat-out on her mat, Susan says, “You’re obnoxious Therese.”

  “And you three are impossible. What did you think, losing weight was easy? Of course it’s not easy. But the sooner you get those I can’t do this, it’s too hard thoughts out of your head, the better off you’ll be.”

  Ugh. That’s all. Just ugh. That’s all I’m capable of thinking at the moment. I don’t want a pep talk. I don’t want weight loss philosophy. I just want to get off this mat. Preferably with as much dignity as I can muster. Which turns out to be very little. I roll over onto my belly and bring up my knees and elbows so that I’m on all fours. Step one in leveraging myself upright.

  That’s when I catch a glimpse of the camera filming me from behind. Surely that shot—my hinder hoisted in the air—isn’t going to make the nightly news. It damned well better not.

  I snap at the guy, “Knock it off. You got your footage of the class. That’s enough.”

  “Just trying to add a little color to the story.”

  “Put that footage on air and you just punched your ticket out of town.”

  The guy shrugs and walks away.

  Susan shakes her head as we watch him go. “Geez, these people.”

  “Most of ‘em are all right,” I say, and it’s true. All week long I’ve been getting to know the reporters and they’re not bad.

  I call it the five percent rule. In any situation, whether you’re at a bar, a ballgame, or a third-grade classroom, ninety-five percent of people get along and follow the rules. It’s that five percent who slide off the rails and make trouble for everyone else. That’s why we have leash laws. This jerk aside, I’ve been delighted to discover how friendly and respectful the media crews have been.

  As we pack up our gear Esme says, “You all got that Facebook post I sent you, right?”

  I saw it this morning. A guy posted a vacation photo of
himself and his wife on the beach. They’re both in their swimsuits, smiling, arms around each other. All fine and well. It’s the caption the guy put beneath the photo that drove Esme nuts. In it, he boasts what a great guy he is because he’s awesome enough to push against cultural norms and adore his plus-sized wife despite her rounded belly, dimpled thighs, and heavy breasts. He essentially fat shames his wife and uses her to get praise for himself. Sickeningly enough, it worked. The guy’s post is flooded with messages about what a wonderful husband he is.

  Esme says, “I told Nelson, ‘You ever try to pull that shit on me and we are done.’ I won’t stand for it.”

  “Horrible,” Susan agrees with a shudder.

  “I think women should be toned. Not too thin, not too heavy. Just nice and toned.”

  This delightful gem comes from Ratnor, who’s sidled up uninvited to join our conversation. The remark is delivered without the slightest twinge of embarrassment or self-reflection, which is typical for him.

  I sigh. “Thanks for that. Nice of you to share.”

  I probably should have mentioned Ratnor earlier. I don’t think there’s ever been a public council session he’s missed. Nor does he shy from voicing his opinion on every single matter before the council, no matter how mundane. He’s a professional citizen, perpetual busybody, and Eaton’s personal night watchman. He’s everywhere. Nothing happens in this town that he doesn’t know about.

  Don’t ask me if Ratnor has a first name. I have no idea. He’s like one of those celebrities: Madonna. Liberace. Spock. Ratnor. Except in his case it’s an unfortunate name because upon hearing it, you can’t help but look for similarities in Ratnor’s features to those of an actual rat. Like the beady eyes, slight overbite, and receding hairline.

  Ratnor looks at me. “You scheduled a date yet to have that downtown water main replaced? Water was backing up out of the sewer last big rain. Must be a blockage in it somewhere.”

  He’s right of course, but the answer is long and complicated and has to do with infrastructure budgets, crew availability, runoff diversion systems, and the estimated life of the water main itself. (Translation: the town doesn’t have the money to fix it now, so we’re keeping our fingers crossed that it’ll hold until we do.)

  “We’re looking into it,” I say.

  “Good. See that you do. I’ll follow up at the next council session.”

  No doubt. We watch him walk away.

  Therese says, “God, he hasn’t changed a bit, has he?”

  Nope. Ratnor’s been a feature in this town for as long as anyone can remember. He’s one of those ageless, ever-present people.

  My phone dings and I glance at the screen. A text photo from Matthew. He and I share a love for all things nonsensical. We have an ongoing competition to one-up each other to determine whose life deals more with the absurd. Matthew and high school, or me and politics.

  Matthew’s latest entry is in the form of a photo from a teen clothing shop: a pair of low-slung socks, meant to be worn under Converse and like sneakers. A close-up of the label reads Invisible Socks, which is fine. It’s the lawyerly caveat in parentheses beneath that kills us. (Invisible ONLY when wearing shoes.)

  Ha. I can’t get enough of that.

  Matthew texts: I wonder how long it’ll be before they follow up with invisible underwear. (Invisible ONLY when wearing pants.)

  I text him back a laughing emoji followed by the words: Get back to work.

  He’s at the Santa booth today, and I assume he’s on his break. Since he has The Rocket, I had to hitch a ride to the gym with my sister. Matthew was right, by the way. It is a pain to share one car. Obviously I’m not thinking black Wrangler 4x4, but maybe Ed and I can pitch in for something. Maybe this summer, if Matthew keeps up his grades and proves he’s responsible behind the wheel. I make a mental note to talk to Ed about it later.

  “You still good to drop me off downtown?” I ask Therese.

  “Sure.”

  I toss my coat over my workout clothes and we head out.

  TEN

  Traditional retailers don’t have time for autumn to last until the end of November. They just can’t do it. With the agitated impatience of fussy toddlers, retailers wait with breathless, bursting-at-the-seams anticipation for the last trick-or-treater to be tucked into bed so the Christmas decor can be flung wide throughout shopping centers, drug stores, and big-box retailers across the country. C’mon, people, hurry up! Time to jingle those bells and hang the holly. Christmas is coming and consumers need to Buy Now.

  Forget Thanksgiving. The beloved Rockwellian image of carving a turkey amidst a backdrop of autumnal glory is going down faster than buttered corn at a hog festival. I suspect that any day now the Pilgrims will be depicted wearing pointy shoes, jaunty caps, and loading toys into a sleigh.

  But that’s not the case here. Like most small towns, Eaton waits for Christmas to arrive in its own special way. We don’t hang the mistletoe until the last of the leftover turkey has been tucked away.

  And for the first time in recent memory—or at least since Esme opened Queen of Tarts—the downtown core is showing actual signs of life. There are people here. Granted, not a lot. I’m sure the average mall is packed compared to the modest showing Eaton’s Church Street is enjoying. And I’m sure that many of the residents who are milling about are only doing so in hopes of having a microphone stuck in his or her face (this is where the media tends to congregate when there’s not a scheduled Slym Jym event).

  But none of that puts a damper on my mood, and here’s why. There’s an actual updraft here. Esme mentioned that Nelson’s been busy negotiating temporary leases for the empty storefronts, but she didn’t tell me things were moving so quickly. Spaces are being fit out for incoming tenants. I spot a few Coming Soon! banners draped across windows. Older, familiar shops have updated their merchandise or decked out their windows with festive holiday greenery. Christmas carols drift from unseen speakers.

  I’m thrilled. When the next interview from downtown is broadcast, we’re going to look good. It’s still very much a work in progress, but Church Street is shaping up to be something wonderful. Homey and quaint. Delightfully charming. Yay, Eaton.

  A cool December sun hangs low in the sky. The day is bleak and gray. But even the weather can’t dampen my mood. Therese has errands to run but I’ve got nowhere to be, so I stroll from store to store, popping in to say hello and ask how things are going.

  I end up at the town green, which is where the Santa booth is set up. It’s a weekend-only operation. Unlike the mall Santas, who work twelve-hour shifts seven days a week, and who probably have unions and pay grades and dental plans, we have Buzz Aiken. Buzz—whose fluffy white beard happens to be the genuine article—has been Eaton’s reigning Santa for over a decade.

  He’s a natural. I watch for a while, smiling at the little ones. Some he has to coax to climb onto his lap, others bound forward and wrap him in a bear hug, eagerly sharing their Christmas wish list. Matthew’s great, too. Right there behind the camera, snapping photos and passing them off to the other elves. High school girls, by the look of them. I study his body language to guess which one might be Hannah.

  There are a decorative fence and a small garden area separating me from the green. Enough screening that I can watch Matthew without him knowing I’m watching. After about ten minutes, I think I’ve got it figured out. Hannah Goebley’s medium height, blond hair in pigtails. She’s got a candy cane stuck in her elf hat. I can tell who she is by the way Matthew’s working overtime to impress her.

  They’ve got tiny breaks between clients while parents check out the digital images and confer on which photo package they want to purchase. During those moments I spy Matthew goofing around with the camera when she’s near, once even catching her by the waist and spinning her around on his stool. I cringe inwardly. He’s trying way too hard. I want to tell him, ‘Just back off a little bit and let her come to you.’ But of course, I can’t. Dating advice from mom.
Exactly what every teenage boy wants to hear.

  I don’t know how long I’m there when a voice from behind me asks, “You thinking of asking Santa for something?”

  I spin around to find Mike Capella standing a few away.

  “Oh! Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  God, I’m an idiot. I feel suddenly flustered, like I just bumped into the hot guy in high school. I pull myself together and nod toward the booth.

  “Just watching for a bit. I’d forgotten how cute the little ones are.”

  Mike moves forward and joins me, resting his elbows on the top of fence rail. We stand like that in companionable silence, our gazes directed toward the booth.

  After a few minutes, Mike says, “Doesn’t feel like that long ago since my boys were excited about Santa.” He pauses, shakes his head. “Last summer Dylan and I went on a college road trip. He’ll be heading off to school next fall.”

  “I know what you mean. Mine’s right there.” I tilt my chin toward the booth.

  Mike squints ahead. “Cute little guy. What is he, five, six?”

  “No,” I laugh. “Not the kid on Santa’s lap. Matthew’s working the camera. He’s sixteen.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Your sister mentioned we had kids the same age. I bet they know each other. Same school, small town and all.”

  “Yep.” I give him a sideways glance. “Funny we’ve never met before.”

  “Not really.” He shrugs. “My boys are here, but my work kept me in D.C.”

  Disappointment rushes through me. So he’s just here temporarily. I barely know this guy, but damn. I thought maybe there was a flicker of something, that maybe—

  “I think we’ve been spotted,” Mike says.

  I catch a glimpse of Matthew’s glowering face beneath his elf hat. Oops. So much for parental rule number one: Thou shall not loiter in the presence of a teenager and his friends. Especially if one of those friends happens to be a girl said teenager has a crush on.

  Mike grabs my elbow and whirls me around. “Should we make a run for it?”