Fat Chance (5 page)

Still, Chelsea really did love my curves; she loved my look. And she loved me. I knew she'd never steer me wrong.

"You know you're going to agree," Renee said in a singsong voice. "You always agree to go with her, and she always finds you some great new something. You know it's true." Forced to concede, I accepted Chelsea's offer, heading for my kitchen as we made plans to go reunion shopping later in the week.

I have a serious addiction to tea, so while I chatted with my sisters, I set my teapot to heat some water. Measuring scoops of fragrant tea leaves into a basket screen, I defended against Chelsea's determination to make me dress like some kind of sex-crazed curvy bombshell.

"I can't wear that kind of stuff!" I exclaimed. "I'm just not made for that kind of look, I can't do it. Besides," I added, before she could cut in a protest, "it's a family reunion. It's just us, and Janet. And Rick."
Stupid, lousy, crappy, jerk-faced Rick.

"Ok, I'll keep it simple," Chelsea promised.

"Well I already know what I'm wearing," Renee said smugly. "The same thing I wear every time mom makes me come home and there's food. I'm wearing yoga pants, and a giant, comfy, sloppy, dinner-bloated-belly-hiding t-shirt."

I finished making my tea while Chelsea lectured Renee on the horrors of simple, "lazy" clothing. Listening quietly, I tried to hide my envy. If I wore that same outfit, I'd likely look like a stuffed sausage on the lower half, and someone too undisciplined to care how I looked on the top half. I'd look like a slob. Not Renee; she wouldn't look like a slob in the outfit she'd described. She'd look fit and lovely and cute.

Hating my body, I wrapped my hands around the ceramic mug I liked to drink my tea from, and inhaled the fruity berry scent of the tea. Risking a small sip, I burned the tip of my tongue, exactly like I always do. Smirking to myself as the twins chattered on, I cleaned up the mess I'd made, grabbed my tea and headed for the dining room.

It was a small room, rather plain compared to the rest of my apartment. I had been slowly working my way through the apartment, decorating one room at a time; I hadn't done anything to the dining room yet. There was pretty much nothing in it, other than the same small, worn table that I'd bought when I'd moved in years ago. It was a closeout special, though there was nothing at all special about it, and I'd been wishing for an excuse to buy a new dining set for ages.

"Oh please," Renee was saying, as I set my tea down on the table and pulled my Sudoku book closer to my seat.

"What?" Chelsea asked, and I tuned in again, having lost track of what they were talking about.

I never did get back into the conversation. As I turned to get a pen out of my purse, I hit my tea with my elbow and the mug rolled over, spilling a river of pink liquid over the edge and onto my foot. Jerking back from the splash of still-hot tea, I lost my balance, slipping in the growing puddle of tea on the hard wood floor.

I probably should have leaned to fall over the table, or maybe I should have just bit the dust and let myself hit the floor. But when you're on the way down, logic sort of runs out on you. Mine did; I sat hard in the chair I'd just pulled out, and suddenly it gave way beneath me.

"What the heck?" Chelsea and Renee spoke together, dropping their conversation as they heard the crash and the inevitable stream of violent swearing.

"It's nothing, guys; I’m ok. I just made a freaking cup of tea, and I hit the stupid mug and knocked it everywhere." I struggled to keep my voice from catching, as an embarrassed lump built up in my throat and humiliation burned a hot trail into the pit of my stomach.

"I have to go; I need to clean all this up." I said goodbye to my sisters, and hung up as hot tears welled in my eyes and flooded over.

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.

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 the 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.