by Alice Wasser
“Never mind,” I said.
Luckily, Sam didn’t press the matter further. Instead, he rolled over and draped his arm around me. “Anyway, none of those other women matter,” he said. “You’re the only one that matters.”
A question had been swirling around my head for a while now and I just had to ask. “Sam,” I said. “Do you think I’m better than those other girls?”
He frowned. “Better?”
“I mean,” I stammered. “What do you like better about me than about them?”
He stared at me for a minute with his nice blue eyes. Finally, he said, “I love you more. A lot more.”
My mouth suddenly felt dry. “You do?”
“Yeah.” He flashed me a dopey grin. “It’s not even close, Millie. I’ve never felt this way before in my entire life.”
His answer filled me with a warm, comforted feeling. I sighed and closed my eyes as he hugged me, and even though it was eleven in the morning, I drifted off to sleep.
April 26:
I had the most mortifying experience today at work.
I was settling down in my cubicle with my morning cup of coffee when I noticed a threatening creak coming from my chair. I shifted in my chair, trying to redistribute my weight, but that just resulted in an even larger creak. I was about to get up to do some investigative work when all of a sudden the seat just gave way beneath me and I was on my butt on the floor.
Naturally, I screamed. I really wish that I hadn’t, because within a minute, several of my coworkers were surrounding me, witnessing the spectacle of the obese girl who was so fat that she broke her chair. One of the guys was actually chuckling a bit as he helped me up. I couldn’t blame him.
Only Donna was sympathetic. “All the chairs here are really old,” she told me. “I swear, mine is going to break any day now.”
(That’s a distinct possibility. Donna isn’t exactly skinny.)
I called Hector, the maintenance guy. Hector barely speaks English, which, as far as I was concerned, was a really good thing right now, because even if he judged me for breaking my chair, at least I wouldn’t understand what he was saying.
When Hector arrived, I was standing in my cubicle, eating a donut and feeling sorry for myself for being this horrible cliché of an obese girl who actually broke a chair by sitting in it. I’m on this new diet where I’m only allowed to drink coffee in the morning and I can’t eat anything, but desperate times called for donuts. Anyway, it’s not like I could get any work done with my chair broken.
“Thanks for coming, Hector,” I said to him.
“Is no problem,” Hector said. “What you need?”
I pointed at the chair, which was lying mangled on the floor. I felt it was pretty self-explanatory.
Hector’s eyes widened. “What happened to chair?”
I felt the heat creeping into my cheeks. “I sat on it and it broke.”
Hector looked me up and down. “Maybe you need chair that more… bigger?”
(Yes, that was exactly what I needed. A chair for fat women. Sign me up for one of those.)
“A regular chair will be fine,” I told him.
Hector wandered away, mumbling under his breath, “Esta mujer es muy gorda.”
I confess that after four years of high school Spanish and two years of college Spanish, my skills en Español are downright pathetic, but I still know enough to recognize when a guy is calling me fat.
April 29:
Sam and I go to the movies a lot. We are both sort of movie buffs, and also Sam finds it fun to grope me in the dark. At least 25% of the time, we don’t end up seeing much of the movie, if you know what I mean.
Today we were in line at the theater, waiting to buy tickets to see the newest superhero film. I have mixed feelings about superhero films. They have the potential to be incredibly good, like the X-Men movies. But for the most part, they are incredibly bad, like… well, all the other superhero movies.
“This one got good reviews,” Sam said. “I’m optimistic.”
“If this one is bad,” I said, “we need to stop seeing superhero movies. Like, permanently.”
Sam’s eyes widened. “A complete ban on superhero movies? Are you mad, woman?”
“Don’t you get it?” I said. “If we keep going to these terrible movies, we’re contributing to the problem. We need to speak with our dollars, Sam. It’s the only way to exert change.”
“I agree with you in theory,” Sam said thoughtfully. “But that didn’t work with 3-D movies.”
Don’t get me started on 3-D movies. I could write a novel about why I hate 3-D movies. For starters, your eyes automatically will convert a 2-D image on the screen into a 3-D representation in your brain. So by wearing 3-D glasses, you are basically paying for your brain to be lazy. Plus the glasses always give me a headache.
(Sam totally agrees with me on this one. Also, he wears glasses already, so having to put glasses on top of his glasses is extra annoying.)
I was so engrossed in my conversation with Sam that I didn’t notice that a man was trying to get past me. He may have said “excuse me,” but I didn’t hear him. However, I did hear him when he said, “Lady, will you move your fat ass, please?”
Having somebody point out my fat ass while I was with my fiancé did put a crimp in my evening. But on the other hand, it did get me to move. So I guess it was effective.
I looked over at Sam, who seemed nothing short of furious. He shook his head. “I can’t believe he spoke to you that way.”
“It’s not a big deal,” I said quickly.
(It was a little bit of a big deal. Especially after my fat ass broke the chair at work the other day and I was still feeling kind of bad about it.)
Anyway, I could tell that Sam wasn’t going to let it go. He got out of the line and wheeled over to the guy, who was trying to hand over his tickets to the ticket-taker. I followed him somewhat reluctantly. Part of me wanted to beg him to let it go, and part of me wanted to see what would happen next.
“Hey!” Sam snapped at the man.
The man looked up in surprise, followed quickly by confusion.
“You were just very rude to my girlfriend.” Sam nodded in my direction. “I want you to apologize to her.”
For a moment, the guy looked furious. I thought there was actually a reasonable chance that he might hit Sam. But then he realized that everyone was looking at him, and he suddenly seemed incredibly embarrassed.
“I apologize,” the guy mumbled.
Sam looked at me, and I mumbled back, “That’s all right.”
I was actually shaking when we got back in line. (The people behind us were nice enough to save our place.) I looked at Sam with a newfound respect. “I can’t believe you did that,” I said.
He grinned proudly at me. “Am I your superhero or what?”
I hugged my arms to my chest. “What if he punched you?”
“Punched me?” Sam snorted. “You really think he was going to punch a guy in a wheelchair in front of a roomful of people? He would’ve gotten his ass kicked for sure.”
“But what if he did?”
Sam shrugged. “Then I would’ve gotten mad boyfriend points for taking a punch for you. Totally worth it.”
I smiled at him and slid into his lap. We were really the center of attention right now, but I didn’t care. “You already got mad boyfriend points.”
Sam hugged me closer to his body. “You know what? This superhero movie is going to suck anyway. We both know it. Wanna get out of here?”
I really did.
April 30:
On an average day 14% of men (and only 8% of women) fall asleep or nod off somewhere other than their bed. So that makes me think that I’m not the only person who has a boyfriend who still sleeps like a teenager.
On weekends, Sam often sleeps till noon. I haven’t been able to do that since I was in college. I wake up at seven in the morning, whether I want to or not. He’s gotten even worse lately because his leg
spasms have been aggravated by his sore, so he had to start taking a medication for it, which makes him sleepy, which is the last thing he needs.
Although, actually, to be fair, he doesn’t sleep in one straight shot. On weekends, he sets an alarm for himself at about six in the morning and gets up to go to the bathroom. I don’t really talk to him about his bathroom habits and honestly, I don’t really want to know and I’d feel weird asking. I mean, normal couples don’t talk about stuff like that, so I don’t feel like I need to know what he does in there just because he’s a quadriplegic. He once told me vaguely that he can’t hold it for the entire night.
(I have a feeling when we’re married, if he gets sick or anything, I might end up needing to know more about this stuff, but right now I think it’s better if I don’t know.)
The sleep thing doesn’t bother me all that much, although last weekend I wanted to go to the movies one day, but Sam ended up sleeping the entire afternoon. At first I was a little bit pissed off, but then I ended up curling up in bed next to him and falling asleep too.
MAY
May 1:
Every day, in the middle of the afternoon, I start to get really hungry. My blood sugar must drop or something like that. In any case, it takes superhuman restraint not to stuff my face when that happens.
My compromise is that I get a Diet Snapple from the vending machine in the hallway by the elevators. Technically it has no calories, but I’m aware that diet drinks are supposed to be incredibly unhealthy. One reason for that is because getting an influx of sweetness makes your body expect calories, and when you don’t get those calories, it makes you stuff your face later. Also, the body automatically releases insulin in response to that influx of sweetness, which in turn stores fat.
I can’t do anything about the insulin part, but I figure if I’m aware of the fact that the Diet Snapple might make me hungrier later, I can control that impulse. Although I guess it defeats the purpose of drinking it in the first place to satisfy my appetite.
But really, what the hell am I supposed to drink? Water? That’s not very satisfying. Water tastes like nothing.
Anyway, today I made my three o’clock run to the vending machine and picked out a peach Diet Snapple. It came out ice-cold, with drops of condensation running down the glass bottle. My mouth started to water just looking at it.
Except then I couldn’t get the damn cap off the bottle.
I can’t be the only person who has difficulty with caps. (Other than Sam, who has difficulty with caps for obvious reasons.) Why do they make them so hard to remove? I know it has something to do with maintaining freshness, and I agree that’s important, but really, it’s a huge burden. There are some caps that are just impossible to get off. And I’m a healthy woman in her thirties. What do elderly women with rheumatoid arthritis do?
I banged the bottle against the wall, and tried with all my strength to get the lid off, but it would not budge. My palm had turned bright red and was burning slightly.
Finally, I sighed and took out my phone. I located Jake’s number and texted him: “SOS!”
He replied almost instantly: “Another printer cartridge?”
I wrote back: “A stubborn bottle of Snapple.”
He replied: “Be right there.”
And he really was right there, believe it or not. Faster than a speeding bullet, he appeared before me, looking ruggedly handsome in his suit and tie, grinning crookedly at me.
“Give it here,” he said.
I handed over the bottle of Diet Snapple. He took it from me and opened it so easily, my mouth fell open.
“You must’ve loosened it up for me,” he said kindly.
“I’m sure,” I muttered.
I took a long swig of Diet Snapple. It tasted even better now that I had been forced to wait for it.
“Aren’t you going to offer me some?” Jake asked.
“Oh.” I looked down at the bottle, wondering about the etiquette regarding cooties. Finally, I handed it over.
Fortunately, Jake did not seem to be at all concerned about cooties. He took a long sip from the bottle, then handed it back to me. And then I took a sip of my own.
Usually I bring the Snapple back to my desk, but today I ended up sharing it in the hallway with Jake while we chatted. Which was sort of nice. It’s good to have some friends at work besides just Donna.
May 2:
I guess if there was one thing I’d change about Sam, sometimes I wish he were less of a flirt. Not that he ever hits on other women, because he definitely does not, but he often flirts. I don’t think he can help it… it’s just his personality. If he hadn’t flirted with me on the phone on the computer helpline, we might not be together now. Of course, that definitely doesn’t make me feel any better about it.
When we go out to dinner, he always flirts with the waitresses, which bothers me proportionally to how attractive the waitress is. Even if the waitress is 60 years old, Sam will flirt with her. Like I said, that’s just what he does. But obviously, it doesn’t bother me if the waitress is someone’s grandma. If she’s some 20-year-old hottie with a short skirt, it bothers me more.
He’s too outgoing and too likable. I recognize that those aren’t specifically bad qualities, but sometimes they are. It makes me feel comparatively introverted and unlikable. And sometimes when I want to just have a private dinner with my fiancé, it’s annoying that he insists on charming the waitress. And the waitress always eats it up. I’ve never seen him be unsuccessful in flirting with a waitress.
Tonight we were at dinner and our waitress was absolutely gorgeous. In looks, she reminded me of Sam’s last ex-girlfriend, who was also a waitress. Sam was joking around with her about the food while I sat there, feeling frumpy and jealous. “Now do I have your absolute guarantee that the chicken sandwich is delicious?” he asked her.
“Oh, absolutely,” she said.
“And what is your method of quality control?” he asked. “Do you sample each individual sandwich?”
She giggled and I rolled my eyes. I’m sure she had a lot of tables to serve, but Sam is so good at flirting that women just eat it up. They love him. Apparently he’s dated a lot of waitresses in the past, and I can see how it happened.
After the waitress (finally!) took our order and left the table, I felt really moody. I didn’t want to look at Sam and I kept tapping my spoon against the table like I was five years old. He noticed, of course.
“Okay, Millie,” he said. “What’s wrong?”
I thought about sulking a little more and making him draw it out of me, but that never works. Sam and I decided early on that we weren’t going to play games with each other, so whenever I try to pull something like that, he always shames me into acting like an adult.
“Why do you always flirt with waitresses?” I blurted out.
He blinked. “What?”
“You were flirting,” I said. “With that waitress. Don’t try to deny it.”
He frowned and looked over his shoulder at where our waitress was taking some other table’s order. “Oh. You call that flirting? I was just joking around. I don’t know. So what?”
Yeah, he said he was just joking around, but he never ever does it with male waiters.
“What if I flirted with random men? You wouldn’t like that.”
He shrugged. “You could if you wanted to.”
“It seriously wouldn’t bother you?”
“It seriously wouldn’t,” he said. He put his hand on mine and smiled. “It doesn’t mean anything. I know you love me.”
“That’s not the point,” I said, although I knew I wasn’t going to win this argument.
Sam glanced back at our waitress again. “What—you think she likes me? Come on. She’s just being friendly.”
“Maybe she likes you…”
He laughed and shook his head. “Yeah, right.”
I don’t know why he acts like he’s so undesirable. He’s dated tons of really attractive women. But then again,
I’m sure he’s had his share of rejection.
“Look, Millie,” he said. “There’s one thing you can know with absolute, complete certainty and that’s that I’m never going to cheat on you. Never.”
I looked him in the eyes and the thing is, I believed him. If flirting is one of Sam’s bad qualities (and I’m not even sure it is), then loyalty is one of his best. I don’t think Sam would ever consider messing around with another woman behind my back. I can’t even imagine it.
So, in summary, I guess I can deal with a little flirting. Actually, it’s not so bad. Once or twice, we’ve even gotten a free dessert out of it.
May 3:
Yesterday was Sam’s birthday. He turned 35. Happy birthday, honey.
I thought I could make a little party for him or something, but he told me he wanted to spend the day with me, just the two of us. I asked him what he wanted to do, and out of nowhere, he said he wanted to go to the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk.
“In the warm California sun?” I asked.
(That’s from the commercial. The Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk... in the warm California sun!)
Sam stuck out his tongue at me. “Come on, it’ll be fun. I’ll drive.”
Although the weather was nice enough to go to the beach, I wasn’t too excited about it. I didn’t like the idea of prancing around in a bathing suit. I do not have a bathing suit kind of body. And to be totally honest, neither does Sam. I didn’t know why he wanted to go to the beach. I couldn’t even imagine how he’d manage in the sand.
“I don’t want to go to the beach,” he said, reading my mind. “But we can go to the boardwalk. Have some fried Twinkies? Come on, Millie, it’s my birthday. Let me have a fried Twinkie.”
I couldn’t deny him a fried Twinkie.
(Actually, there was a professor in Kansas who claimed to have lost 45 pounds by eating nothing but Twinkies. If I were slightly more gullible, I would be very tempted to try this diet. At the very least, it’s got to be better than salad covered with ketchup.)
