Fat Chance (18 page)

He runs his fingers through his hair, and he shakes his head, saying, "I can't turn down someone in need, and I can't stop those people in the middle of an emergency appointment to injure their trust, or to tell them that they owe me something because their insurance companies don't care about them. I make enough money that I can suck up an appointment here and there."

"Well, thank you," I say. "Honestly, I didn't even think of that when I called; I was just so hurt and --"

"I know," he says. "But that's okay with me. You know, the emergency appointments are where the breakthroughs occur. It's where a person is finally so vulnerable that they can't help being honest anymore about what's going on or how they feel."

"And have I had a breakthrough?" I turn to face him, thankful that I wore slacks to work today. Curling one leg in front of me, I sit sideways on the couch, waiting to see what he'll say.

"How do you feel, right now?" he asks, quietly.

"I feel stupid," I answer, and I mean it. He'd been resting his head on the back of the couch, eyes closed, his arms relaxed in his lap. At this, his eyes pop open and he turns his head to look at me.

"Why?" he asks.

"Because I sound like a child, running home from school with tears in her eyes and snot on her face, because the cheerleaders said something mean about chemistry club. Why do I care so much about what other people say to me?"

"That's the breakthrough," he answers, smiling.

"I don't understand." Pulling my favorite pillow into my lap, I lean back against the arm of the couch, folding my legs up in front of me. I can't help remembering that when I was little, my father called this position "Indian style."

"You are realizing now where the power lies. Like we talked about with Rick, the way you have given power over your self-esteem to him? You can see now, how you have spread that power around, too freely. Kind of taking your worth from what other people think of you, instead of from what you know about yourself."

"Oh my God, I have."

"Do you respect the opinions of the girls at work? Wish you could be friends with them? Sleepovers, or whatever women do?"

"No, I don't like them at all, they are shallow and selfish, too cocky and sometimes outright mean to people who have done nothing. They spread lies."

"Then why do you care what they think?"

"I'm not even sure," I whisper. "I mean, I knew I was giving my self-worth to Rick. I knew how wrong I was to let his opinions about me have such an effect on me. I'm not sure I even realized that I was doing that with the girls at work."

"Don't you remember that it was the girls you work with, who sent you to me?"

"It was. So, what do I do now?"

"If you've slacked off from the daily quotes, start them up again. Are you still taking the antidepressant?"

"I have definitely slacked off the quotes, but I'm still taking my meds. I thought about stopping them lately, but I haven't. What else can I do? I'm just so sick of feeling like this, and feeling so vulnerable all the time. It's like I have a target on my forehead or something."

"Just keep doing what you know is right," Mac answers, trying to check his watch without being obvious. "Use the strategies that we've worked on. Listen to the music, sink into yourself some. Find your own power, and form your own opinions of your worth."

"Okay," I say, nodding my head. "You have an appointment soon, right?"

He looks sheepish for a second, but I've been seeing him so long that we've almost developed a sort of friendship, so he tells the truth. "Kind of."

"Well, let me scoot out of here then, and I'll see you at my next regular, okay?" He smiles and I gather my purse to leave, walking to the door of his little sanctuary alone. Turning back, I can see the worker in him, the therapist who loves his patients. He's walked to his desk and is digging out a file, checking the batteries in his recorder.

"Dr.Caswell?" I ask, my hand frozen on the doorknob.

He looks up. "Yes?"

"Thank you," I say, turning to go.

It's amazing how much your perspective can change in a short time. Since my last appointment with Dr. Caswell, I haven't been having as much trouble with my personal view of myself. Not at work, anyway. I'm good at my job, and have finally been invited into the management program. Being thin is not a requirement for my job, so long as I can do the job well. Not to mention, how good it felt to be called up in front of the company at the meeting last week, and watching the shock settle on Claire's face.

That's right, sweetheart. You might be thin, but it doesn't make you better than me. Your man wants me for my new confidence, and I just got the job you've been gunning for.

Taking my certificate of promotion from the owner of the company, I step back to allow another woman room. We leave the stage, and as I pass Claire and her friend Kayla, I blow them a kiss and keep walking.

***

"Come on, you guys, I've told it four times!" I argue, holding my hands up in front of me. I can't stop laughing, though I'm embarrassed. When I told Renee about the confrontation with Claire and Kayla, I'd just been catching her up on how I was doing, but she said she was so proud she had to tell the girls.

It's four thirty in the afternoon, and I'm in the middle of a crowded table at Renee's favorite Italian place; the girls from the yoga class surround me, and we're waiting for our dinners to arrive. Most of the girls are already drinking something fruity and alcoholic, but my splurge for the evening is a basic cherry soda.

"Just one more time," Casey laughs, sipping her apple martini. "I can use this, next time I want to punch someone. You know, I'm such a physical person; I need to learn to use my words, like I tell my kids."

"Here, here," Alicia says, raising her own martini. "When you figure out how to make that work, let me know!"

A ripple of laughter goes around the table, and then Renee turns to me, raising her own glass, a lemon-scented Long Island iced tea. "Thanks for coming out with us after class, you guys, to help me celebrate my baby sister." The women around me lift their drinks and make random toasts of pride.

Through my weeks in the yoga class, they've all watched me grow, not only in physical ability, but also in personal strength. At one time or another, they've all pulled me aside to comment on my more positive outlook, and if I had to choose any group of women to celebrate my work promotion with, it'd be this group.

Our food arrives, and as we dig in, Rose looks over at me, gesturing with a forked ravioli. "I really admire the changes you've made, Cass," she says, "you just remind me so much of myself, but in a whole new way. And I know you let your body get to you, but let me tell you something I don't tell a lot of people. I didn't used to be this small."

I find this hard to believe, since Rose is the goddess who runs the yoga studio. She's a bit taller than I am, slim and firm, with round breasts and muscular legs. Her waist is narrow and her hips curve the way I wish mine did.

Rose's sister Candace reaches over and places a supportive hand on her arm. They exchange a look, and Rose goes on, "When I started yoga, I was really overweight," she begins.

"I had just lost my husband, and I was just terribly depressed. So I just started with one pose a day, and when it became a habit, I added another, and another. Eventually, I was doing routines, taking classes, and then I was teaching. Now that I have the studio, I don't know what I'd have done without it. And it's not some fitness guru crap, just that I found peace in something, you know? And after a while, weight was falling off, and other parts of my life changed too. Not until yoga gave me confidence, though."

"That's like me, with running," Stephanie says, perking up. She pushes her plate aside and leans a little closer to me. "I wasn't very small either, but when I started running, I lost a little weight. More importantly, I kind of found myself. I think we all have this thing in life, that we're built into, something that feeds our souls, you know?"

Candace laughs. "Yeah, you go on, with that running. I'll stick right to my stool in the painting studio."

Personally, I can't express how much peace I've found, right here at this table, surrounded by women who care about who I am. They aren't offended if my heels don't touch the floor yet in a downward dog, and they don't care what size my yoga pants are.

Still, if Stephanie is right, I'm still missing something. I don't have that thing she talked about, that thing that feeds me from within. Yoga helps me to ground myself, and therapy helps me to understand myself; being accepted into this group so openly helps me learn to accept myself. But I'm still lacking that thing that fills me with inner peace, the way Candace is filled with peace when she's alone with a canvas and a brush, the way Rose is filled with peace when she's worked her body to a new limit.

The way Drew is filled with peace when he's on the back of a horse, smiling back at me without the weight of grief in his eyes.

We chatter on through dinner, but in my mind, I'm keeping a running list of possible hobbies, things that I can try. I know I'm no artist, so that's out. I'm never going to be obsessive about yoga, like Rose, though I do like the emotional high of reaching a new milestone in my abilities. I'm not going to achieve my sense of inner peace from bouncing around on horseback, much as I enjoy it.

There is one thing, though, that sticks out to me, one little part of the conversation that feels like it fits. I've always wanted to run. I've always wanted to be one of those people who can get lost in their own little world, GPS strapped to their arms, music flowing into their hearts from the ear buds they wear. I've always been too afraid to try it, unable to move my focus away from the parts of my body that might still be moving, long after I've stopped running.

After dinner, I pull Stephanie aside, and we walk together to our cars. "Tell me about running," I say to her, readjusting my purse on my shoulder.

"Running? What do you want to know?"

"Well, like, if someone were interested in giving it a shot?" I ask. I feel incredibly self-aware; my hips are wobbly under my yoga pants and I can feel my breasts move as I walk. Her body behaves itself, taut and well trained.

"You want to try it?" she asks, stopping to look at me. I try, but I can't seem to meet her eyes.

"It's simple," she says, beginning to walk again. I fall into step with her, and she chatters on, giving me time to recover myself.

"You want to start out just walking. Work your way into a jog, and see what your body says to you. If it feels good, keep going a while, then walk some more. Before long, your body just tells you to run, and you give it shot. Now, Cass, I'm not a trainer, so maybe I'm doing it all wrong. All I know is that it feels good for me, it works for me. You know?"

"I think I'm gonna maybe try it," I say nervously. Stephanie gives me her number, telling me to call if I have any questions, or if I just want to talk. Smiling, I get into my car and watch to make sure she is fine in hers. We wave, and I drive off.

It is still early. I could try it.

Driving up to my apartment building, I find that I really do want to try jogging. There's that part of me that's afraid, though; I know that if I go upstairs, even to drop my phone and purse in the apartment, that little insecure part of me will stop me from coming back out.

Well alright, then.

I shove my phone into my purse, wishing I had pockets, and stuff my purse into the trunk of my car. Keeping my keys in my hand because I have nowhere else to put them, I set off down my street at a brisk walk.

Before long, I'm jogging lightly, and if I can force myself to ignore my wildly bouncing breasts, I'm actually having a good time. I'm thinking any old man could run faster than I am right now, and for once, I just don't care. My ponytail is bouncing with my breasts, and I feel free, with the light evening breeze in my face and cars rushing.