by Lynda Curnyn
Finally she smiled, her trademark warmth returning and giving me a small shred of courage once more. “Well, the first thing you would need to do is talk to Pat, of course,” she said, her use of the editor-in-chief’s nickname a privilege allotted to management, apparently, as I had never heard anyone else refer to Patricia in this manner.
“And would you recommend pulling together clips for Patricia?” I said, hoping my question would show her how aware I was of the next steps in the promotion process.
“Good idea,” she replied. “You also might want to update your résumé, to give Pat some sense of your whole career.”
Gulp. I wondered how my stint at Good Grub and string of temp jobs was going to hold up against Rebecca’s experience as a trade editor and God-only-knew what other accomplishments. “Hmm. Yes. That is a good idea,” I agreed.
Caroline’s brow furrowed once more as she studied me. After a few painful moments she said finally, “As you go through your clips and update your résumé, Emma, take the time to take stock. It’s a good opportunity for you to see the work you’ve done, analyze your strengths and think about future directions.” Leaning back in her chair, she continued, “After all, it’s not every day we think about what we want to be doing over the next few years.”
Wasn’t that the truth? In fact, if I had thought about my future, I might have realized a few things: like the fact that there was no way in hell I would ever be able to compete against Rebecca, who seemed to be growing in accomplishments by the minute. I might have even figured out, for that matter, that I would be manless at thirty-one years old rather than married to Derrick, seeing as he had scheduled his departure from our relationship from day one. But I said none of this to Caroline as I stood up, murmured a few words of thanks and headed off, I was sure, to my next and imminent disaster.
Four
“To binge, or not to binge, that is the question.”
—Weight Watchers escapee
Confession: I am not as thin as I think I am.
On my way home from work, after managing to convince myself that I had an absolute right to an all-out binge, I stopped at the bodega on my corner.
“Hello!” called out Smiling Man behind the counter, so christened by Alyssa and me, due to the fact that despite his likely status as a minimum-wage worker being exploited by his own bodega-franchise-owning family, he was relentlessly cheerful, no matter what hour of the night you came in—and he worked all night.
“Hello!” I called back cheerily, masking my feelings of despair and heading straight for the Hostess rack in the back. As I contemplated the Ho-Hos and Suzy Q’s—even turned over the Twinkies package to shamelessly check the fat content with some vague hope that a nonchocolate selection might save me from utter overindulgence—I realized that for the first time in two years, I was about to head to that counter up front (with an armload of snack cakes) alone. No Derrick by my side to pawn off three-quarters of the booty by making some offhand joke about how he should have limited himself to one or two selections. Picking up a Suzy Q—the largest little cake on the rack by far, and containing the most chocolate per square inch—I actually considered buying one cake here and then hitting another bodega or two until I had enough fat-filled treats to obliterate any glimmer of unhappiness I might be feeling about my prospects at Bridal Best and in life in general.
But then an old, familiar anger gripped me. What the hell did I care what Smiling Man thought about my fat intake? I told myself, furiously grabbing a coffee cake to add to my Suzy Q before moving on to the next rack for a bag of sour cream and onion potato chips. I realized now that was exactly my problem: I cared a little too much about what others thought. Forget Caroline and her enigmatic expressions. (What the hell did interesting mean anyway?) And who did she think she was, with her Earth Mother approach to life and that perfectly constructed bubble she lived in out in the burbs, to judge me just because I wanted something better for myself, I thought, grabbing up a Yoo-hoo from the dairy section before I headed for the front and, with a look of false bravado, plunked everything on the counter.
“Is that it?” Smiling Man asked, his grin seeming somehow wider as he gazed on my selections.
“Yes, that’s it,” I said, standing strong as I counted out the obscene amount of money the register showed after he had rung up my purchases.
“Goodbye! Have a good night!” he called out in a singsong response to my muttered thanks.
Marching down the street to my building, I tried desperately not to let any thoughts creep in about how Derrick and I used to wander this way, arms linked, gazing at all the beautiful brownstones and dreamily picking out ones we’d like to live in. Of course, he was only caught up in the moment, while I—
“Hello, neighbor,” Beatrice said, holding open the door to the only dilapidated building on this magnificent block—ours.
“Hi, Beatrice, how are you?” I said by rote, then cringed for the response.
“Well, I’d be a lot better if I hadn’t let myself eat pastrami for lunch. I’ve been tasting it ever since! Oh, the indigestion that stuff gives me, and I don’t know why. In truth, I—”
“Mail come today?” I asked, not wanting any more information on the particularities of pastrami the second time around as I made my way into the foyer.
“Of course it came,” she said, following me to my box and standing a little too close for comfort as I pulled out a wad of junk mail and bills.
Eyeing a clothing catalog in my hand, she asked, “Did you ever find anything you liked in that catalog I gave you?”
In truth, I had glanced through the catalog before dumping it in the trash, probably out of some vague curiosity about the shopping worlds of lonely old women. Not that I planned on being one or anything, God help me. “No, no, I couldn’t find anything.” Closing my mailbox, I poised to say my hasty goodbyes and make a quick exit, when Beatrice’s next words stopped me.
“I’m surprised. I mean, it’s perfect for women like us. I usually—”
“What does that mean exactly—women like us?” I demanded, cutting her off. I knew I should just leave it alone, but I couldn’t help myself. I had to know.
Her eyes widened behind her thick glasses. Probably because I was glaring at her. “Well, I just meant size 14 and up. You know. Large women. Don’t you find it’s hard to find clothes that fit right and are comfortable? I know I…”
The sack of snacks sagged in my hand. Beatrice’s voice faded away as a larger version of myself swam before my mind’s eye. Much larger. One I somehow managed to miss every morning as I stood before the mirror.
Then my defenses got the better of me. “Well, that’s very sweet of you, Bea, to think of me, but I’ll have you know that I am a size 10.” And with that I marched up the stairs, leaving Beatrice staring up, I was sure, at my suddenly oversize rear end.
Once safe inside my apartment, though, my mind exploded with thoughts of all the skirts I had slid to the back of the closet in recent months because the zipper closed up a little too snugly for my liking. And all the waistless cardigans and tunics that had taken the forefront in my attempt to disguise my somewhat bulging midsection. Then I remembered the new trousers I had bought two months ago, and I dropped my bag of illicit treats on the counter and rushed for the closet, searching frantically. Pulling out the hanger where the pants hung, I quickly glanced at the tag in the waistband. Size 12.
I was finished.
Hanging the pants back, I took off my blazer and went to stand in profile before the mirror, noticing—for the first time, apparently—how my stomach billowed out just enough to make my pants look sloppy, my physique unappealing.
I slumped in a chair, eyeballing the Hostess cakes that peeked out of the bag on the counter as if they were the demon seed. How had I let this happen to me?
To make matters worse, I began cataloging every time that I had made a comment to the effect that I had gained weight, and realized, with sudden horror, that no one had denied my declaration once
in the past few months. Not my mother. Not Alyssa nor Jade. Not even Rebecca, who despite all her newfound faults, always came through with a “you look great,” no matter what state I was in. And, worst of all, not even Derrick.
In the early months of the relationship, while we were still basking in the glow of our first lovemaking and first shared words of deeper affection, I had made some joke about how I had acquired an extra roll of flab due to all the comforts of loving him. Of course, our food and sex fests never had any effect on Derrick, who somehow managed to retain his lanky frame through it all. Seeing my sudden insecurity, Derrick pulled me into his arms and told me he would love me no matter how I looked.
Now my mind skittered forward to six weeks ago, when I was trying to cram myself into a miniskirt to attend a film festival in which Derrick’s friend had a short film. I had asked the fatal question: “Does this make me look fat?” only to have Derrick look up from the magazine he’d been reading and say, “Well, do you have anything else to wear?”
I should have seen the signs back then. Now I wondered if this was one of the things that had doomed my relationship with Derrick in the end. Maybe he had planned on taking me to L.A., only to discover the woman he once loved had turned into a candidate for the Big Beauties catalog. Maybe I had become…completely undesirable.
My gaze fell on the phone. I wanted so desperately to talk to him all of sudden. I needed confirmation—but of what? That he had left me because he didn’t want me anymore? That the reason he hadn’t called yet, despite the fact that he was probably more than “settled in” by now, was that he was already dating some wand-slim blonde who didn’t even need to rely on the whimsy of her hairdresser to maintain her golden status? I could see them now, marching off to the premiere of Derrick’s movie, she leaning on his arm in some strappy little number that only the malnourished could pull off with any sort of aplomb. I hated her. I hated him even more.
I called Alyssa. “Why didn’t you tell me I got fat?”
“What?”
“The woman downstairs—you know, Beatrice?—just accused me of being a member of the size 14 and over set.”
“Oh, and now you’re suddenly taking to heart the opinions of a woman who has a metal plate where part of her brain once was?”
“Do you think Derrick left me because he suddenly realized if he stuck with me, he’d wind up married to one of those double-chinned, muumuu-wearing housewives who have a penchant for finding any excuse to keep the old cake-hole full?”
“Em, Derrick left you because he got a job on the West Coast.”
“He could have taken me with him.”
“You didn’t want to move to L.A.”
“That is so not the point, Lys. He didn’t even ask!”
I heard Alyssa sigh. “Look, if you want, you can come to my gym with me. I have loads of guest passes I’ve never even used.”
“Oh my God. You just admitted it. You think I’m fat, too, don’t you?”
“Emma—”
“You can tell me. I can take it—”
“Emma! Will you listen to me for a minute? I think you look fine the way you are. The problem is, you don’t think you look fine the way you are, and that’s no good. I only suggested the gym because a good workout always makes me feel better about myself. Plus, it’s good for stress. And clearly you’ve got a lot of that going on.”
“Can you blame me? I went in to Caroline today to tell her that I wanted to apply for the senior features editor position, and you know what she mumbles while I’m sitting there all suited up and ready to receive her blessing?”
“What?”
“Interesting. Two years ago she is practically pushing me into the contributing ed position. Now I want to move up again, and she calls this interesting. What the fuck does that mean?”
“That is weird.”
“See what I mean?”
“Well are you still going to go to the editor-in-chief?”
“I guess I have to, now that I’ve set the ball in motion. Caroline told me I should update my résumé, so Patricia could see all my previous publishing experience—you know, the experience I don’t have?”
“I’ll help you with the résumé, Emma. There are ways of making yourself look like a strong candidate even if you don’t have lots of experience. But let’s take one thing at a time. Come to the gym with me tomorrow. You’ll feel better after a good workout.”
“All right, all right,” I said, calming down finally. Alyssa had that kind of soothing effect on me. We hung up a short while later, after I learned that Lulu was having trouble with her new medication and that Alyssa might have to take her in to the irresistible Dr. Jason Carruthers again. At least I had tomorrow at the gym to try to talk her out of any designs she still had on the doc himself. Feeling safe and satisfied for the moment, I allowed myself half a Suzy Q—I mean, I was going to work out tomorrow, surely I was allowed something to take the edge off a particularly taxing day? Then I went to bed, keeping the phone close in case Derrick came home from an off night with his new blonde beauty and wanted to talk to the one woman he had just discovered he truly loved.
Confession: I have a deep-seated fear of fitness clubs.
The next evening, I practically had to drag myself, kicking and screaming, to the gym. My day had gone no better than the previous one. While I was struggling to create some compelling argument why I should be promoted by going through my collection of clips to find my most distinguished selection of blurbs befitting a so-called wedding expert, Marcy Keller dropped by my cubicle to gleefully inform me that Rebecca had somehow landed next month’s cover story on “World’s Best Wedding Venues.” To top it off, Derrick still hadn’t called, despite the fact that I had gotten myself to sleep the night before by convincing myself that he would most definitely call while I was at the office, rather than risk getting my machine at home, where I might be screening. But no amount of mental telepathy had managed to make my phone ring all day long—except when my mother called to remind me that the weekend after next was Memorial Day, and I, being the dateless single daughter with nothing better to do, was naturally expected to attend the barbecue she had planned for Sunday. “Maybe we could even shop for my dress on Monday,” she enthused, with barely contained excitement. With so much to look forward to, how could a girl not get depressed?
Now, as I stood outside the gym waiting for Alyssa, constructing elaborate excuses why I needed to head home immediately to my darkened apartment and half-eaten Suzy Q, I began to crumble under the weight of everything.
“Hey,” Alyssa said as she approached, dressed in a dark gray suit, a bright blue gym bag slung over one shoulder.
“Hey, spiffy girl,” I said, trying for lightness. “What—did you go to court today?” Office attire at Alyssa’s earthy-crunchy law firm was usually more casual, unless they had to argue a case in court.
“I did.” She leaned in for a hug, then looked in my eyes. “How are you?”
“Miserable. And I don’t even think the Stairmaster can save me now.”
“What’s going on?”
“Do you realize Derrick has been gone almost three weeks and has yet to call?”
She studied me for a moment. “Was he supposed to call?”
“Wouldn’t you call the woman you once pledged your undying love to if you had just moved across the country from her?”
“It was a big move, Em. Maybe he’s still settling in,” Alyssa replied, though her expression said she was not convinced by her own words.
“Settled in? He could be married by now.”
“Somehow I doubt it.”
“Well, I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s not that far from Vegas. And you know how men are after they get out of a long relationship. Sometimes they’re feeling so bereft, they’re suddenly willing to shackle themselves to any willing female just to get through it.” As the horror of this fact sank in, I suddenly envisioned Derrick lying on some cot in a dingy apartment, desperately dialing m
y phone number out of sheer loneliness, prepared to demand that I move to L.A. and marry him. At the sound of my answering machine clicking, he becomes frustrated, disillusioned. He heads to his local watering hole to drown his sorrows, and within hours he’s off to Vegas for a quickie wedding with some leggy stranger who smiled at him too long.
“I’ve got to go home.”
“What?” Alyssa said, holding the gym door open for me with a look of disbelief on her face.
“I just have this strange feeling he’s going to call tonight and that my not being there could have huge ramifications. Maybe he’s decided to come home for Memorial Day. I mean, there’s still time for me to get out of my mother’s Memorial Day shindig, which, by the way, will not only be featuring my married younger brother, Shaun, but the latest blushing bride in the family—my mother. Besides, I don’t really need this gym thing anyway. Derrick always liked me with a little meat on my bones.”
“Forget it, Emma. You’re not getting out of this one,” Alyssa said, grabbing my arm and pulling me after her into the gym’s entrance. “C’mon.”
Beaten, I followed her reluctantly, though the thought of Derrick standing before an Elvis Impersonator and gazing into the eyes of some equally besotted stranger still ate at me.
Down in the locker room, I found myself surrounded by women in various modes of undress that seemed directly proportional to how toned and slender their bodies were.
Now, I had been to the gym before precisely twice in my life: once when I had been persuaded by a zealot from my college days—one of those girls who were born with enough elasticity to do a split with little effort and lots of smugness. And once with Derrick, when a friend of his got us free passes to the Y, and we spent the whole time in the shallow end of the facility’s pool, seeing who could squirt water better from between their teeth. On both occasions I was slightly aghast at how the locker room, with its bevy of scantily clad women doing everything from blow-drying to hamstring stretches, seemed designed to make you feel self-conscious if you happened to have, God forbid, a little cellulite here or there. Where were my fellow flabby girls hiding? I wondered, turning toward the wall and reluctantly beginning to unbutton my blouse. More than likely they were home with their Hostess cakes, and feeling quite happy with themselves.
