“Nice event last night, Mayor.”
I turn to find Ratnor has sidled up beside me.
“Thanks,” I say. “I liked it, too.”
A solid victory. A victory that will only make my campaign look stronger. Alper can take that and—
Ratnor says, “Not sure about this one, though.”
“Hmm?”
“Not sure about this one, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“That hill’s looking a little slick for sledding, wouldn’t you say?”
I direct my attention to the hill in question. The town sledding hill. The steepest slope for miles around. This is where generations of Eaton’s kids congregate after every snowfall, where families come to enjoy a little wintertime fun. It’s looking beautiful today. Extra sparkly.
Maybe too sparkly.
My stomach clenches as I realize why.
Yesterday’s sleet laid a fine coating of ice on top of the snow. Ice that’s going to make those sleds crazy fast and virtually unstoppable. But by the time that fact has registered, it’s too late for me to object or offer a word of warning.
Jym shouts “Go!” and sends the first group of contestants careening down the hill. And as he selected adults who are participating in the challenge to open the event, meaning these are among the heaviest folks in attendance, the results go predictably awry in record time.
Total disaster.
And once again, we’ve got cameras there to capture it all.
EIGHTEEN
Quick—name the captain of the Titanic. The pilot of the Hindenburg. The producer behind the most recent multi-million dollar box office bomb. I bet you can’t. Because even though human error was behind those events, we tend to examine the calamity itself, rather than the people who had a hand in causing it.
Except in my case.
I must be the exception to the rule because my name and face are plastered all over the news. Mayor Rachel Presley this. Mayor Rachel Presley that. I can’t get away from it. Audrey and I spent all of Monday soothing ruffled feathers, both in person and on the phone. We called Dan Walker and held an emergency council session—making tonight’s public council session the second I have chaired in twenty-four hours. I have met with every reporter in this town and begged, pleaded, and cajoled them to shut this story down. They tell me they have no say in what’s ultimately shown on air. All they do is send in the footage. It’s up to whoever’s in the control booth to edit and splice.
I am exhausted. Professionally and personally, emotionally and physically. All I want to do is crawl into bed and not come out again until after this stupid challenge is over.
Tuesday morning Matthew shouts, “Hey, Mom!”
“Yeah?”
I poke my head around the corner and glance into the living room. My son is stretched out on the sofa in his stocking feet. His gaze is fixed on his laptop, which is balanced on his thighs. Hook and Mr. Smee, useless lumps of fur that they are, are sprawled on the floor next to him. They’ve been fed, taken outside to do their business and romp a bit, and they’ve had their bellies scratched. Now they’re warm and lazy, snoring softly, not a care in the world. I’ve never envied a dog so much in my life.
Matthew says, “C’mere. I think you oughta see this.”
Absolutely not. I’ve seen enough, thank you very much.
Here’s what happened. I’ll start with the sledding hill. A few contestants bailed off their sleds when they realized they couldn’t control the speed. Others hung on for dear life and crashed into the icy creek that traverses the bottom of the hill. (Under normal conditions, sledders stop well before they reach that boundary.) They emerged dazed but not hurt, thank goodness. Some people called it a day right there. Others good-naturedly pronounced it a wild ride and hiked back up the hill for more. After that, a few enterprising souls used rakes and shovels to break up the ice coating. That accomplished, the sledding continued without issue.
Same with the ice skating. Eaton has an outdoor rink. No Rockefeller Center, but it’s lovely. The only problem being the sleet, which made everything slightly slicker than usual. Hence a few falls. But the participants adjusted and carried on, skating to the Christmas carols we broadcast over the speakers set up for the event. The snowman building contest wasn’t any different. A few mishaps here and there, but overall a fun family afternoon.
But here’s what made the news cycle. Fatties on sleds tumbling down hills and crashing into icy creeks. Chubby skaters falling on the ice. Someone bending over to retrieve a scarf, his broad backside accidentally knocking over a snowman.
Apparently there’s an insatiable appetite for that stuff. Feeding into the stereotype that overweight people are jolly buffoons, kings and queens of physical comedy. Slipping, sliding—Oops! There they go!—up in the air, falling down hard. Giggle, giggle. No one actually hurt, just a little bruised and embarrassed, so it’s perfectly okay to laugh at their expense.
And you know what wasn’t shown on national media? Which clips never made it on the air? What did nobody see online? Friday night’s tree lighting ceremony. The carolers who sang outside my father’s church, or the blues band that entertained a festive crowd. The adorable snowmen that were assembled without incident. The happy sledders and the skillful skaters (regardless of size) who had a great time. None of that made the cut.
None of it.
I say, “Put your shoes on. We’re leaving in two minutes.”
“No, mom. Seriously. You need to see this.”
The stark urgency in his voice tells me just the opposite is true. I definitely do not want to see whatever he’s about to show me. But there’s no escaping it. If I don’t look now, whatever he’s watching will likely be thrust in my face the minute I walk through my office door. Better to see it here so I can prepare. That decided, I steel my nerves and sneak a peek at his laptop screen.
Myra Kushner (Our Myra!) is on a nationally syndicated morning talk show. She’s one of three talking heads that fill the screen. The shot tightens on the woman to the right. The line beneath her photo identifies her as Toni Nowak, Body Positivity Activist, Blogger, and Influencer.
Ms. Nowak says, “I find it repugnant that Mayor Presley is encouraging the media to mock the citizens of her community in this manner.”
What?!
Nowak continues, “By actively perpetuating these stereotypes, she is inviting continued discrimination against larger bodies. Research has shown that overweight and obese people battle deeply ingrained stigma when it comes to employment, health care, and education. They are seen as lazy, unmotivated, and sloppy. According to one study, weight discrimination is as prevalent as racial discrimination, and every bit as damaging to the individual’s welfare. That’s why the body-positivity movement is so critical in raising awareness.”
The shot tightens to the speaker on the left side of the screen. He’s identified as Kirk Wahler, M.D. A physician, lifestyle coach, and fitness expert.
Wahler says, “I’m all for body-positivity. The problem is that it’s been taken over by a community that wants to justify obesity. People who believe the desire to lose weight is always wrong because it means you’re not accepting your body as it is. People who believe that any public discussion of personal health or body size constitutes fat shaming. But here’s the truth: it’s okay—no, it’s actually good—to want to lose weight if you need to.”
Nowak: “And who decides if you need to lose weight? You? That’s what you don’t understand about body-positivity, Doctor. Plus-size human beings are finally learning to accept the diversity in our bodies. We, not you, are redefining beauty. We, not you, give ourselves permission to be confident, bold, and proud of who we are, despite not meeting society’s current standards of what’s considered attractive. It’s a movement of empowerment and courage, and we don’t need permission from you to continue.”
Wahler: “And who pays for that?”
Nowak: “Excuse me?”
Wahler: “Loo
k at the skyrocketing health costs this country is facing. Obesity has reached epidemic proportions and it’s linked to real health concerns. High blood pressure, high cholesterol, Type 2 diabetes, heart disease and stroke, along with a higher risk of certain types of cancer—”
Nowak: “Shame on you, Doctor. Now you’re trying to use fear tactics to bully people into losing weight.”
Wahler: “And you’re avoiding my question. We all pay higher premiums to support your choice to eat whatever you want. It’s not just treatment costs, either. Hospitals need larger wheel chairs, bigger beds, more staffing, and numerous other upgrades to support an increasingly large clientele. Not to mention public costs of altering movie theater seats, airline seats—”
Nowak emits a shocked laugh. “Are you telling me now that I’m too fat to fly?”
Wahler: “Health campaigns are not designed to coddle, but to raise awareness about risky behaviors. Smoking is an addiction that many struggle to control, but we don’t celebrate it with social media campaigns about smoking pride. About your right to puff away. Instead we recognize the impacts of tobacco on one’s overall health and life expectancy. What makes obesity different?”
Nowak: “A body is not a stick of nicotine. Body positivity means recognizing we are all worthy of love, of existing, of raising ourselves up. It’s about throwing away society’s negative judgments that force us to accept less than we deserve. It’s about honoring ourselves and living life fully today, in this very moment, regardless of what you or anybody else thinks.”
Wahler: “Is fat the new normal?”
The producer allows that question to hang in the air, then the camera returns to Myra Kushner.
Myra says, “Well, one thing I’ll say about Mayor Presley. She’s certainly brave to volunteer her town to spotlight this oh so important conversation. Back to you, Bruce.”
Oh, my god. Did she just say, volunteer? Has Myra gone completely insane? She lives in Eaton. She knows me. She knows the people who live here. Does she actually think I would volunteer for this? Subject our friends, families, and neighbors to this? Sure. That makes sense. Just like Egypt volunteered back in the day. Thanks, Pharaoh. Sorry about the locusts that wiped out your crops, the boils, and the livestock pestilence and turning water into blood, but look on the bright side. It made for such an interesting conversation.
“Whoa.” Matthew releases a deep breath and shuts down his laptop. “Bet you didn’t see that one coming, did you, Mom?”
No. No, I certainly did not.
I drop off Matthew, then head toward town hall. My cell phone rings. I glance at the caller ID, then hit the speaker button so I can talk while I drive.
“Hey, Ed. You missed him. Just dropped him off at school.”
“That’s all right. I’m actually calling to talk to you.”
I’m about to say, Sure, what’s up? but I don’t get that far. There’s something in his voice. We were married for eight years. I know this man. I know his voice. And right now he’s using his official cop voice. We have a problem here, ma’am, and we need to talk voice.
This is alarming on two counts. The first is that if Matthew is in some kind of trouble, why does Ed know about if before I do? Is it because he’s screwed up on the level that police were involved? And if that’s not the case, why does Ed know what’s going on before I do?
“Is Matthew okay?”
“This isn’t about him.” I barely have time to catch my breath before he continues, “Well, not entirely. It’s about you.”
“Wait. What? Me?”
“I hear you have a new boyfriend.”
“That being broadcast through official police channels?”
“Nope. Just Matthew.”
“He’s not a boyfriend. We went on one date.” And we have another one scheduled this Friday, if I live that long. “Why? What did Matthew say? He’s not okay with it?”
“He says the guy seems okay. His kids though…”
“What about them?”
“Says they’re real dicks. Typical jocks. Apparently one of them made a move on a girl Matthew’s been crushing on.”
Damn. The party last weekend. I knew Matthew wasn’t invited. I didn’t know one of Mike’s boys was coming on to Hannah.
“Listen, I wouldn’t take it too seriously,” Ed says. “I just wanted to give you a heads up.”
Hannah Goebley. Of the hundreds of kids in school, why does it have to be one of Mike’s boys who suddenly decides he wants to date her? Who Matthew has to compete with for Hannah’s attention. Although, given the way my luck’s run lately, who else would it be?
Ed senses me silently stewing on the other end of the line. Of course I’m stewing. Here’s how much Matthew likes this particular girl: he’s willing to wear an elf suit in public in order to hang out with her. If that’s not the pinnacle of high school adoration, I don’t know what is.
“Rachel, It’s not your job to fix this for him. He’s sixteen. Sooner or later he’s gonna learn that every girl he likes won’t like him back, and vice versa.”
That’s Ed’s parenting style. He likes to say he graduated from the school of hard knocks. He had a rough upbringing but swears that was a good thing. Made him more self-reliant. He can’t stand helicopter parents. Coming from a position of someone who works in law enforcement and has seen a few things, he swears that parents who are too involved in a child’s life, who rush in to fix every problem and mistake, do as much damage as parents who aren’t involved at all.
“He’ll figure it out,” Ed says. “I just wanted to warn you in case he’s a little rough around the edges these next couple of days.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
I’m mulling this whole situation over as I pull into the parking lot for the town offices. I roll down my window to swipe my parking card.
Ed asks, “What’s that noise?”
I’m so distracted that at first I don’t know what he’s talking about. Then I glance up and spy a rowdy crowd milling around outside the entrance. They’re shouting, pacing, holding up signs.
“I don’t believe it, but we’ve got protestors here.”
“Right.” He gives a low chuckle. “In Eaton.”
“No, Ed. I’m serious. We’ve got maybe twenty people here. They’re holding up signs, chanting, yelling at each other.” And the cameras, of course, are eating it all up. All the media crews are present and accounted for.
“You’re kidding.”
Nope. Wish I was.
“It’s not violent, is it?”
“No. Not violent. Just really… surprising.”
And loud. Loud and obnoxious.
I pull into a space and kill the engine. Take a minute to peer at the signs. On one side we have: My Body, My Beautiful. Fat and Freakin’ Fabulous! Dear Haters, I couldn’t help but notice that Awesome ends with me, and Ugly starts with you. Beauty Is Not Size Specific!
On the other side we have these gems: Diet Cures More Than Doctors! Gettin’ Slym with Jym! Don’t Make Me Pay For Your Health Care! And finally: Wanna lose 200lbs? Ditch Mayor Presley! (As to that particular sign—seriously? Is it me or is that a tad mean-spirited? I’m nowhere near 200lbs. Not that that’s the point, but still. I can only assume the guy holding it is an Alper plant.)
Ed says, “What the hell can anyone possibly be protesting in Eaton? You’re small-town U.S.A.”
Obviously he didn’t watch the news this morning. “Listen, nevermind, it’s this whole diet thing. When I agreed to Jym’s stupid challenge, I poked a hornet’s nest.”
“Huh. Well, call me if you need me. Sometimes all it takes is a flash of blue lights and folks will calm right down.”
I thank him and hang up, though I suspect we’re going to need more than a flash of blue lights to fix this mess.
Audrey pulls into the space next to mine. We get out of our cars and stand together in appalled silence. The only way into the building is straight through the mob. Unless we totally chicken out and
head for the loading/refuse doors in the back. Hardly a dignified move for the mayor and her assistant.
Audrey says, “Well. Isn’t this fun?”
Tim Dodge, the building’s lone security officer, stands near the doorway trying to keep order. We make eye contact. It’s now or never.
I glance at Audrey. “You ready?”
“Always.”
Heads held high, we march forward, our strides brisk and purposeful.
It’s uncomfortable to be in the center of so much yelling. So much raw emotion. But at least people keep their hands to themselves. No pushing or shoving. So there’s some civility. But that fragile bubble is burst when a man in the crowd shouts at Audrey, “How much do you weigh?!”
Audrey comes to a dead stop. Wheels around, balls her fists on her hips, and peers into the crowd. “Excuse me?”
“How much do you weigh?”
“How much do I weigh?”
“Yeah. How much?”
“Wait a minute. Let me get this straight. Is it your job to stand outside a carnival booth and guess the weight of passersby? Am I standing on top of you right now? Are you trying to load me into a rocket? If the answer to those questions is no, then what I weigh really isn’t any of your damned business, is it?”
Her response draws hoots of approval from the body-positivity side, boos from the other. We move inside and go straight to work. Suffer through yet another spectacularly crappy day. A carbon copy of yesterday, only worse.
All day long the shouts of the protesters drift up to my window, a persistent, angry buzz. I know I shouldn’t let them get under my skin, but they do.
Particularly the body-positivity activists. They’re getting to me on a level I didn’t expect. Of course I believe all people should love the body they’re in. Of course I do. No one should be made to believe they have less value because of their shape, size, or physical ability. A no-brainer.
The Thousand Pound Christmas Page 14