I’m sweating like a whore in church, but I hug that ball like I love it. It starts to slip so I grip it hard, pressing down with my boobs to keep it in place. My toes are really starting to hurt. Lilly glances at me, and I can see now that she understands what a horrible idea this was. “Help,” I whisper. “You’ve got to help me.” She shushes me, so I look straight ahead again only to see that Ass Thong has acquired a massive wedgie. I start to tilt forward. I’m about to pile drive my head into the floor, so I arch my back—and when I do, the ball slips again. I tighten my embrace, but that only sends that ball flying from my arms like it was fired from a cannon. My balance ball is airborne while Ass Thong is going back into the Downward Dog. Just before my face hits the floor, it occurs to me that the woman in front of me will never get that neon green fabric out of her asshole. I look up to see that she’s fallen into the lady in front of her. Balance balls start flying around all over the place. People are rolling and falling, and all I can do is lay there and watch the chaos unfold. Poor Lilly has an awful look on her face and I know she’ll never want to be seen in public with me again. When the dust settles, we find ourselves surrounded by hostile yogis and I’m sure things are about to go down like the rumble in West Side Story. I regret that I didn’t bring along a pocket knife with which to defend myself. Lilly and I slowly stand up.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Ass Thong. I am so embarrassed and feel terrible for humiliating Lilly. “I’ve never done this before, and I shouldn’t be here.”
“You’re right,” Ass Thong says. “You shouldn’t be here if you don’t know what you’re doing.”
“This is not a beginner’s class,” says the first woman Ass Thong knocked down. She’s wearing hot pink hot pants over black leggings.
“No, it’s not, but it is an open class,” Olivia says, stepping into the circle. “Everyone is welcome here.”
“Well, maybe we should start a private class, then,” Hot Pants says.
“Maybe you should,” Lilly says. While I’m relieved to have her stand up for me, I still feel horrible for causing such a commotion.
“Why don’t you bring her back tomorrow so she’ll have some other hefty women to keep her company?” Ass Thong says. I look at Lilly, and she looks at me, and the room is silent except for soft music tinkling from hidden speakers.
“Why don’t you kiss my ass?” Lilly says. That makes me so happy that I want to cry. Now more than ever, I’m so thankful for her. Maybe she will be seen in public with me again!
“Okay, that’s enough!” Olivia says, waving her arms. “This class is over. I will not tolerate this kind of dissension.” She looks at Ass Thong and Hot Pants. “Accidents happen, and you two don’t ever need to forget the first week y’all were in here.” Ass Thong and Hot Pants back down fast. Olivia looks at Lilly. “I’ll have to ask you not to come back if you use language like that again. And you,” she looks at me and I wish I could just evaporate on the spot. “With all due respect, you might want to visit our beginners class on Friday.” She turns to leave, and everyone starts getting their things to hustle out the door. Ass Thong doesn’t move. Hot Pants stands dutifully by her side.
“I suppose I should apologize,” I say. The foot traffic going out the door slows as a few nosy ladies pretend not to be eavesdropping.
“Yes, I suppose you should,” Ass Thong says with a smirk. Hot Pants smiles, showing off her tiny little shark teeth.
I take a step closer to Ass Thong, lower my voice, and say, “Well, from the bottom of my heart, let me say that I am truly sorry that you look like fucking Borat in that porn star leotard.” I look at Hot Pants. “And you, little sister, ain’t doin’ much better in whatever you call that. I’m no yoga fashionista or anything, but Jeez Lou-eeze, y’all look ridiculous. Good day, now.” Lilly snatches up our mats and we get out of there.
“C’mon,” she says. “Let’s grab our bags and use the locker room upstairs.” When we get up there, we change into swimsuits and get in the hot tub. I apologize to Lilly for embarrassing her.
“Oh, I don’t go to that class anyway, so who cares?” But I can tell that she cares. We make small talk for ten minutes and then she has leave to get ready for school. I still can’t believe she gets up this early. Maybe people can change. On the way home, I pay attention to my thoughts like Rosemary told me to and one keeps coming back over and over: Maybe I can to change, too.
When I get back to the house, I take a long hot shower and then head straight for my bed. When I get up at lunchtime, I’m so stiff I can barely move. Buster Loo, always on high-alert for monsters and such, has a barking fit as I zombie-walk down the hallway.
“I can’t help it, Buster Loo,” I moan. “Mama hurt herself today.” I wobble into the kitchen and scratch around in the cabinet until I find some ibuprofen. I wonder if I should try to stretch, but I’m afraid if I get down I might never ever be able to get back up. I could get some meditating done then, couldn’t I? I pick up my laptop and hobble over to the sofa. Talking to Rosemary made me feel better, but I think I need someone a little more mainstream. I search online until I find a therapist in Tupelo who appears to be affiliated with the hospital system. Best of all, Dr. Sidney Carl’s fees are based on sliding scale according to a person’s income. I pick up my cell phone. There’s one credit card in my wallet that isn’t maxed out yet.
“Initial consultation is a hundred and twenty-five dollars,” the girl who answers the phone tells me. She sounds like an automated answering system. Certainly no Aurelia.
“Is that based on a sliding scale?” I ask, because I’m an idiot and don’t know these things.
“No, ma’am, the consultation is a flat fee and your rate will not be determined until you speak to Dr. Carl.”
“Okay, then,” I say. Turns out Dr. Carl has an appointment for tomorrow. Lucky me.
“There’s been several cancelations due to the weather,” she says. For some reason, I think she’s lying. I decide not to tell Chloe and Lilly about this appointment. I turn on the television and flip it to the Weather Channel.
“Storm’s coming, Buster Loo,” I say, and we snuggle up and doze off.
5
When I leave the house Wednesday morning, the sky is an ominous shade of gray. Instinctively, I generate a grocery list in my mind which begins with a jug of milk and a loaf of bread. The weather people were rabid to the max this morning, so I’m sure most grocery store shelves are empty by now. I could probably still score a gallon of blue Hawaiian Punch, some sugar free wafers, and maybe a can or two of sardines. On a whim, I call to make sure Dr. Carl’s office is open today. “We’re here for now,” the girl tells me. “But if it starts snowing, we’ll be leaving at lunch.”
“Well, my appointment is at nine thirty, so that won’t affect me, right?” I don’t want to drive all the way to Tupelo for nothing.
“I guess not, ma’am. Unless it starts snowing earlier.”
“Oh. Okay. Thank you.”
“Thank you and have a nice day.” She’s not smart, but at least she’s polite. I wonder if she has a tip jar. If so, I might toss her a few cents.
Thirty minutes later, I pull into the parking lot of what their Web site said was a medical center. Apparently someone had big plans for this property that didn’t pan out because a lone structure sits between two vacant lots, both of which are wildly overgrown. I can’t help but notice how well the three-story building blends in with the sky. I have to guess where the parking spaces are because the lines are worn off the pavement. There are four other cars in the parking lot. I step over the cracks in the sidewalk, pull open the standard-issue glass office door, and step into a lobby that has wall-to-wall industrial tile.
“Sign in, please,” the girl behind the glass says without looking up from her late-model computer. There is no tip jar. Nor is there a single soul in the waiting room. I pick up the pen and scribble my name on the very top line. She snatches the clipboard, highlights my name, and shoves another clipboard out
the window. “Fill this out,” she says.
It takes me fifteen minutes to fill out the six-page questionnaire which asks the same basic questions a dozen different ways. When I finish, I take the clipboard to the window where I stand for several minutes while my pal behind the glass speed types on her crusty little keyboard. There is a television in the corner of the waiting room, and the volume is turned up to where the sound cannot be ignored. CNN also appears excited about this big weather system moving across the south. They start showing random pictures of blizzard-type conditions from different parts of the county, as if they don’t have everyone from Arkansas to Georgia worked up enough already. Finally, the non-jolly receptionist stops typing. She reaches for the clipboard, but I hold on to it. She looks up at me, clearly annoyed, and we make eye contact for the first time since I stepped into the office. She pulls the clipboard from of my hand. “Photo ID and insurance card,” she barks. I see she’s wearing a name tag. Her name is Meg.
“I don’t have insurance.”
“We don’t take checks, credit cards, or debit cards.” Meg looks at me, eyes hard, lips pursed. She has better things to do.
“I have cash,” I lie. This pleases Meg.
“You will go to that window and pay after your session with Dr. Carl.” She points behind her. “Driver’s license please.”
“I don’t have one.”
“DUI repeat offender?” she asks, and she’s typing again.
“What? No.” Meg looks up at me. She doesn’t have time for this, I can tell.
“Then I need to see your driver’s license or another form of valid ID.”
“I lost my wallet,” I say, and then I get dramatic. “And I’m trying to get all of that back together just like I’m trying to get my life back together. You won’t believe what happened. I’ve had the worst luck lately.” Meg takes the bait. She doesn’t want to hear it.
“Okay,” she says and starts typing again. “Have a seat and wait for your name to be called.”
I return to where I was just sitting, next to a slice of tinted glass that I suppose could pass for a window. The tint makes the sky even darker, but I imagine that even on the sunniest day the view from inside this place would be drab.
Thirty minutes later and fifteen minutes past my appointment time, I’m summoned by Meg. I follow her down a pasty hallway. She throws open the fifth door we come to and tells me to have a seat. The doctor will be with me shortly. By shortly, she means another twenty minutes. My thirty minute consultation is going to last all morning. I’m about to doze off when the doctor finally makes his grand entrance.
“I’m Dr. Carl,” he says with an air of unmistakable authority. “Have a seat.”
“I’m, uh, already sitting down.” He ignores me. Maybe he expected me to stand up and greet him. Or bow down. I’m not sure. Dr. Carl picks up my paperwork and slowly peruses my six page questionnaire. The only sound is the humming of the florescent lights. There is nothing personal in this office. No family photos. No diplomas. No little golfing statues. No corny handshaking pictures. Only a black name plate with “Dr. Sidney Carl” engraved in all caps. And a clock.
“What brings you in today, Ms. Jones?” he asks, still looking at my questionnaire. Dr. Carl is wearing a short-sleeved button-up shirt with a tie. The shirt is white. The tie is navy. His pleated pants are black. I glance down at his shoes. Brown, of course. He clears his throat and looks at me.
“I, uh, I’ve been feeling kind of depressed.”
“Why?” he asks, like my life should be all daisies. He has a tall forehead, and there’s something unnatural about his hairline.
“I don’t know. Lots of things.”
“Like what?” For some reason, I look at his lips. He has very thick lips. His moustache is thin and wiry, like he hasn’t shaved since he was fourteen. He glances at his watch and then at me.
“You know what,” I say. “I should go.” I can’t talk to this guy.
“But we have twenty-five more minutes,” Dr. Carl says. “Before you leave, let’s at least talk about why you feel depressed.”
“I really don’t want to.”
“Do you feel depressed because you’re overweight?”
“No,” I say. “That’s not it at all.”
“But your weight has everything to do with how you feel and it’s hard to feel good when you’re so unhealthy.” I stare at him. “It’s no secret that heavy women have a difficult time in today’s society.” Oh. My. God. Did he really just say that?
“Do they?” I say. Fat girls certainly have less to choose from in the clothing department, but I don’t believe that’s the issue this wormy little bastard has in mind.
“You have to know they do,” Dr. Carl says while giving me a look of genuine sympathy. “You can’t be obese and be happy,” he says quietly. “You just can’t. Not in today’s culture.”
“So because I’m fat then I’m eternally damned to be mad? Or sad or unhappy? Is that what you’re saying?” My question flusters Dr. Carl. I think he prefers to do most of the talking.
“Of course you’re not eternally damned to be mad and fat.” He clears his throat. “I mean obese—”
“I prefer fat,” I tell him.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I’d rather be called fat than obese. ‘Obese’ is such a terrible word.”
“I can’t call you fat.”
“Why not?”
He glances at his wrist watch. “Because it’s offensive.” Is this guy kidding me?
“Trust me, Dr. Carl. Being called ‘obese’ is far more offensive. Nobody wants to be an obese girl. Everybody wants to be a fat girl. Fat girls are cool.”
“I don’t think—” He stops, and it’s a good thing because I was about to pick up his stapler and do something crazy. He clears his throat again. “Ms. Jones, I can help you if you’ll let me.”
“Help me what?” What I need to do is help myself to the exit.
“I can help you get to the bottom of what’s causing you to overeat.”
“So I can cease to be fat and start to be happy?”
“You can be healthy,” he says.
“This isn’t about my weight!”
“I think it is,” he says.
“Well, you’re wrong.”
“Let’s be completely honest,” he says. “Men prefer women who are slim, and employers prefer employees who aren’t at risk for heart disease and diabetes. Don’t you watch the news? Haven’t you seen that obese employees are now having to pay extra for insurance converage?” This guy really does not know when to quit. “You’re judged based on your size. That’s how our society works. People don’t respect you when don’t respect yourself. Those are the facts. I’m not saying it’s right. I’m just saying that’s how it is in the real world.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I ask. “Because it sounds to me like you’re condoning bigotry.”
“That’s absurd!”
“You are aware that water fountains are no longer segregated and women can vote now, right?”
“Whoa, now, Ms. Jones,” he says. “Don’t shoot the messenger. You’re certainly not alone in this. According to the Center for Disease Control, over one third of Americans are overweight. There’s no need to be embarrassed or upset. This is a problem you can fix.”
“What needs fixing is open and unbridled discrimination against obese people.”
“But obese people choose to be obese, and it’s detrimental to their health!”
“People choose to do all kinds of shit that’s detrimental to their health,” I tell him and then start counting on my fingers. “Drive too fast, text and drive, drink and drive, text and drink and drive too fast, smoke too much, stay stressed out all the time, keep a damn sunburn year round, snort cocaine, eat fucking fried bologna.” I think about Patricia Desmond and give Dr. Carl the evil eye. “Run their mouth until someone finally punches them in the face and shuts them up. There’s literally hu
ndreds of things people choose to do every day that’s bad for them, but let’s single out the fat-asses and really show them who’s boss, you want to?”
“Well, law enforcement handles a lot of those problems.”
“That’s it!” I say. “Let’s start arresting all the fat people and throwing them in jail!”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous.”
“You started that party, pal,” I say. I glance at the clock on the wall. “I think your time is up.”
“Just so you know, we still have twenty minutes and I earnestly believe you have some serious problems.” He taps his fingers on the desk. “The truth, however difficult to hear, can set you free.”
I stare at this idiot and fantasize about setting his teeth free from his gums. “Here’s some truth for you, buddy: When someone goes off on a tangent bashing fatties, we in the fat community are tempted to retaliate and start pointing out things like butt plugs of hair on someone’s forehead.” I stare at his hairline. “But we don’t. Because we know that some people are just painfully ignorant and obviously insecure—” I keep staring at his hairline. “And we all know that intelligent, confident people have no reason to harp on their personal interpretation of shortcomings in others.”
“And here I was thinking obese people suffered from low self-esteem.”
“Times are a’changing, my man. Welcome to the new real world where fat people don’t have to hate themselves anymore.” Thank God for women like Melissa McCarthy and Adele so we can all start really believing that now. “That’ll be all, Dr. Carl,” I say. Then I get up and walk out the door.
When I get to the payment window, Meg is on guard.
“Excuse me,” she says. “You have to pay cash at this window!”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, and walk back to where she’s standing with her hands on her hips. She slides a bill out the little window while I dig around in my purse. “I have your payment right here,” I tell her. I pull out my wallet. “Oh, look at what I found!” I keep digging and come up with two butterscotch wrappers and the wax paper from a peanut butter cup.
Ace Jones: Mad Fat Adventures in Therapy Page 4
