Once There Was a Fat Girl

by Cynthia Baxter

  “Martha! You’ve got to stop thinking like that! Come on, let’s walk. It’s only ten blocks.” They walked by the hospital gift shop, and Martha noticed, once again, the extensive display of candy bars. “Hey, Marty, it’s terrific that you lost six pounds already. How do you like the diet?” Judy tied a scarf over her bushy wheat-colored hair.

  “I’ve already gotten used to it. It’s become a way of life. I know what I’m allowed to eat during the day, and that’s all I eat. When I’ve finished everything, I say, That’s it for today,’ and I just forget about food. Well, I don’t forget about it, but I don’t allow myself to crave it. I just made up my mind about it, that this is it.”

  “I know what you mean. Do you know I’ve been on the diet for five weeks, and I haven’t cheated once? Except on my birthday.” She laughed, and Martha noticed that she was remarkably pretty when she smiled. “But I felt so bad about ruining it, and I was so afraid I’d go back to my old way of eating, that I went right back on it. I’ve lost sixteen pounds already.”

  “Wow! That’s amazing!”

  “Yeah, but I still have twenty-five to go. At least.” Judy sighed as they passed a bakery. “Sometimes I think I’ll never get there.”

  “How come you decided to join?” Martha asked.

  “Promise you won’t laugh.”

  That had never even occurred to Martha.

  “I work as a statistician for one of the airlines. When I started there three years ago, I was only about ten or fifteen pounds overweight. As the years went on, I kept putting on more and more weight. I attributed it to my desk job, but there was more to it. I was unhappy, living in New York. I moved here from Ohio, and I just couldn’t get used to it. I was lonely. I lived alone, and on the way home from work every day, as I was coming home from the subway, I would know that my empty apartment was waiting for me. So I would stop at a bakery or a supermarket and just go crazy! I would buy, say, a cake, and eat the whole thing with a half-gallon of milk. That kind of thing. The food here is amazing. All these bakeries and pizza places and gourmet shops. Have you ever tried the quiche here?” She nodded toward a restaurant as they crossed Second Avenue.

  “Anyway, I got into the pattern of eating away my loneliness. About a year after I started working, this woman, Sarah, started working in my department. Now Sarah was really huge, like two hundred fifty pounds. As long as Sarah was around for comparison, I never felt fat.

  “One day, Sarah disappeared. It turned out she had gotten pregnant, and she took a year off from work. When she came back a year later, she weighed a hundred ten pounds! Her doctor had put her on a special diet because she was pregnant, and she kept dieting after the baby was born. Suddenly, she looked like a model! I couldn’t believe it.

  “This all happened about two months ago. That’s when I decided it was time to do something. God, I didn’t even recognize her the day she came back to work. I thought she was someone new.” Judy laughed ruefully. “All of a sudden I was the fattest again.

  “So, I panicked, and I joined. And now I’m really glad!”

  Martha, afraid of saying the wrong thing, simply said, “Gee.”

  “It’s funny,” Judy mused. “The people at work have already started treating me differently. Everyone’s pretty conscious of appearances there, though. There’s supposed to be something glamorous about working for an airline, and a lot of people are really involved in looking the part. How about you, Marty? Where do you work?”

  “At a food company. Amalgamated Foods.”

  “Oh, yes. They made those macaroni and cheese dinners that come in a box, right? Just add water and gain two pounds?”

  Martha laughed. “That’s right. In fact, that’s the division I work in. Dried Potatoes and Noodles.”

  “Just tell me one thing: is Grandma Goodcook a real person?”

  Martha thought of Mrs. Gerard’s complaint as she shook her head. “No. There’s a model who always plays her, of course, but she was just made up. She’s a symbol of wholesomeness and tradition. Like Uncle Ben.”

  “I always wondered if those people were based on someone real. Anyway, how do you like working there? What exactly do you do?”

  Martha frowned. “I answer complaint letters from consumers. I like the job, or at least I thought I did until the possibility of a better one came up. Now, I’m not so sure about it. It gets boring, reading about other people’s problems, you know?”

  “I can imagine,” Judy clucked sympathetically. “What was this other job?”

  “A Public Relations Assistant. It involved meeting consumers and discussing their complaints and their ideas, representing the company at different conventions—things like that.”

  “That sounds like fun. What happened?”

  Martha sighed. “The job went to someone else. She’s new to the company, and she has less experience than I do, and no college at all, and the personality of a hummingbird.”

  “Then why did she get the job?” Judy looked surprised.

  “Well, there are two theories. One is that Aimee is having an affair with the director of our department. I don’t think I believe that theory. The other one is that she’s pretty, and skinny, and dresses like a magazine ad, and the company wants someone attractive to represent them.”

  “But you’re attractive! You have a pretty face, and...”

  “Let me rephrase that,” Martha said, a bit impatiently. “The company wants someone thin to represent them. It just wouldn’t do to have someone fat trying to sell noodles to weight-conscious America.”

  “Well, if I were you, I’d be furious. You certainly sound much more qualified for that job.”

  Martha shrugged her shoulders. “Big Business is not exactly known for its sense of fair play.” She sucked in her stomach as she and Judy walked by a darkened singles bar with highly reflective windows. She glanced sideways to check her image, suddenly self-conscious. “The one saving grace of AmFoods is the people who work there. As a matter of fact, one of the women I work with, Shirley Abernathy, was responsible for getting me to join Thin, Incorporated in the first place.”

  “Really? Was she ever a member?”

  Martha couldn’t help chuckling. “Hardly. To Shirley, the word ‘fat’ is something that you ask the butcher to remove from your steaks. She’s model-thin, but she has a heart the size of Fatty Arbuckle. There’s only one problem,” she added. “Shirley sometimes gets carried away when it comes to helping people.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, take her latest venture. Shirl’s decided to train for this three-mile race in Central Park that’s coming up in a few weeks. The Big Three, it’s called. All of a sudden, she’s the Adidas Queen.”

  “So what’s wrong with that? A lot of people are into running these days.”

  “Here’s the punchline: she’s insisting on dragging me along with her.”

  “Oh. I see what you mean.”

  Martha sighed. “I know she means well, and I appreciate her wanting to ‘expand my horizons,’ or whatever it is she’s trying to accomplish. So I’ve decided to be a good sport about it. I guess it won’t hurt to try.”

  “Believe me, Marty, I really admire your attitude. I’m very impressed.”

  “Yeah,” Martha said ruefully. “So am I.”

  “So, what did you study in college?” Judy asked after a short pause.

  “I was only there for three semesters. I was planning to major in math.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “It sounds kind of silly now, but I wasn’t really sure what I was there for. I mean, I liked math, but I didn’t know what I wanted to do when I got out of school. I figured I’d end up working in some office, and it just didn’t seem worth it to go through two and a half more years of exams and papers. Besides,” she added, somewhat hesitantly, “I was dating a guy who was about to graduate, and I thought we’d be getting married after he finished school.”

  “Are you two still together?” Judy asked.
<
br />   “Oh, yes. And we’re still planning to get married,” Martha added hastily.

  Just then, a good-looking man in a three-piece suit walked by, paused, and ducked into a florist’s shop.

  Judy sighed. “I’d love to meet a guy like that. I wish I’d started this diet years ago. God, I’m twenty-six years old! I should be a grandmother by now! Hey, you and I should go to a bar one night and try to meet some guys.”

  “But what about Eddie?” Martha protested.

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot. Well, we’re not allowed to drink anyway. The antisocial diet. We’d have to pick up guys at a salad bar!”

  That seemed hilariously funny, and they laughed all the way to Bloomingdale’s.

  Their first stop at Bloomingdale’s was the make-up counter. Judy needed Clinique astringent and moisturizer. Martha leaned on the counter, marveling at the vast number of crisp little green boxes.

  “May I help you?” asked a young woman in a white lab coat, with skin like porcelain. “We have a lovely aqua eye shadow that would really bring out the color of your eyes. It’s hypoallergenic.”

  “I don’t think so. I’m just waiting for my friend.”

  “Here, let me try it on you.” Martha found herself leaning over the counter obediently. “Just smudge a little bit, not too much, on the edge of the lid, into the corner—there. Wait, wait, don’t look in the mirror yet, let me smudge a little bronze on your upper lid, here, just below the brow.” She stopped and looked at Martha. “What a difference! Just look!” She thrust the mirror at Martha.

  “It does look okay, I guess.”

  “It looks wonderful. There’s so much you can do with your eyes. It makes you look polished. Here, let me try just a little blush, just smudge it here. I think the peach is perfect for your skin tone. There!”

  Martha looked in the mirror. She felt as if she was wearing someone else’s face.

  “It makes your face look so much thinner!”

  The woman had made a sale.

  “You’ll need a mascara, too. Brown, I think. Oh—do you have a boyfriend? He’ll go wild over this fragrance that just came out...”

  Judy came over with her astringent and moisturizer packed in the ubiquitous green Bloomingdale’s bag.

  “What’d you get?” she asked as the smiling Clinique woman handed Martha her own green bag.

  “Oh, just some make-up and stuff.”

  “You look terrific. Did she just put it on for you?”

  Martha nodded.

  “It’s funny. You know, I didn’t start wearing makeup either, until about three weeks ago.” Judy laughed. “They’re getting to us, kid! Well, what do you want to look at now? Clothes?”

  “I’m broke! But we can look. That’s free.”

  They rode up the escalator to the Junior Department.

  “I really don’t fit into most of these clothes,” Judy apologized. “But since I can’t afford them anyway, there’s no harm in looking. Besides, I can always dream.”

  There had been a time in Martha’s life when shopping for clothes had been second in painful experiences only to root-canal work and the SAT’s. The horror of an afternoon at Macy’s with her mother was one that could easily be likened to Chinese water torture.

  In the beginning, back in the plump days, Martha’s wardrobe came from the Little Girls Department. The fact that the other girls her age were shopping for size 8, while she was forcing chubby arms through the sleeves of size 12’s or even size 14’s, was not important. At least she was able to show up at school dressed in the same identical styles as her friends.

  As the years wore on, however, the dresses got snugger and Martha grew concerned. Her mother would frown, tsk-tsking in that condemning way that mothers have perfected, and Martha would wish that she was either very, very thin or an orphan who was forced to go shopping all alone.

  Mrs. Nowicki eventually came to her daughter’s aid, suggesting that a seam be let out here, a button moved there. Martha learned to snip the stitches of the arm bands of puffed sleeves in the privacy of her own room. She modified her taste in fashion to fuller cuts and darker colors, and began to consider elastic the most valuable invention of the twentieth century.

  One fateful day, tearful Martha and chagrined Mrs. Nowicki discovered that the elastics in the Girls Department had been stretched as far as they would go.

  It was time to move into the Chubbies.

  The Chubbies Department was a hateful place. Martha dreaded going there. First of all, there was a huge sign over the department, with the cruel word, “Chubbies,” printed on it in huge letters. As far as Martha was concerned, the sign said, “Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.”

  Second, the clothes were labeled in what are euphemistically referred to as “half sizes.” They ran 10 1/2, 12 1/2, and so on. To her mother, they were just numbers.

  To Martha, they were condemning proof that she was different.

  Third, the Chubbies Departments in all the stores tended to be situated behind, next to, or within the Girls Departments. Martha feared the stigma of being spotted within the confines of Chubbieland by one of her friends almost as much as she disliked the discomfort of clothes that cut off her circulation at the waist, arms, and neck.

  The fact that the half-sized clothes were much more flattering than the size 14’s she had recently abandoned did little to console Martha. She had been typed, by the fashion world, as a Chubbie. And that made it official.

  When she got older, there was a new problem to contend with. Suddenly, there were breasts. In the sixth grade, all the other girls were as flat as the boys. Except for Martha. The rolls of fat around her middle included a roll under her arms, and it gave the illusion of breasts. So Martha had slouched a lot that year, despite well-meant remarks from teachers, and she had changed clothes in the stall of the girls’ room before gym while the other girls romped around the locker room in their undershirts.

  When Martha hit the ripe old age of twelve and the mature world of junior high school loomed ahead, she insisted that it was time to enter the state of Womanhood. It was time to start wearing a bra.

  Instead of solving a problem, however, the institution of foundations created a new one. Her mother was responsible for this new source of embarrassment. Instead of treating the ordeal of shopping for a bra with the earnestness and respect it deserved, Mrs. Nowicki tended to act as if shopping for a bra was the same as shopping for socks or grapefruits.

  “Here’s one in your size!” she would exclaim, ripping a Teenform box from the display. “Let’s see what it looks like!”

  Mrs. Nowicki would pull the bra out of the box with a flourish, treating the white garment with the pink embroidered flower placed smack in the middle as if it were a streamer. Martha, of course, was mortified at this irreverent act of flinging about such an intimate item. She feared that her mother was living out her pom-pom girl fantasies at her daughter’s expense.

  Martha cringed through the entire scene. Bras were cause for discretion, not flamboyance. The same question that plagued her so often would immediately come to mind: what if someone I know sees me?

  Fortunately, back in modern-day Bloomingdale’s, no one seemed the least bit interested in what anyone else was doing. Judy rummaged through a rack of T-shirts.

  ‘These are cute, with a skirt. God, eighteen dollars?”

  Martha was stroking a navy blue one. “They’re so soft. They’re really pretty.”

  “Here, Marty. This one would look great on you.” Judy tossed over a pale green shirt. “And this light blue is pretty. Hey, you wear a lot of dark colors, don’t you? Ah, yes, the old Fat Syndrome. Believe me, it doesn’t hide it. It just depresses people.” Judy glanced at her watch. “Well, we might as well go. They’re closing soon.”

  “Hey, Martha, I just had an idea,” Judy said as they crossed Third Avenue. “If you want, I could talk to the Personnel people at the airline where I work. You said you were unhappy with your job, right? World Air is always looking
for good people.”

  “Oh, Judy! Would you? That’d be great!”

  “No sweat, kid. Just stick with me and you’ll go far. Seriously, though, I have a friend in Personnel. I’ll give her a call tomorrow.”

  They parted at Martha’s bus stop.

  “That was fun, Marty. I’m gonna go home now and have a nice big orange. Don’t eat anything I wouldn’t eat!”

  As Martha rode the bus home, she was still mildly euphoric from her six-pound loss. She was also a little excited over the prospect of aqua eyelids and a pale green chest.

  * * * *

  Later that night, Martha’s mother called from Long Island.

  “Martha! It’s Mom. How are you?” she began in her usual tone of forced gaiety.

  “Fine, Ma,” Martha answered evenly. “Hey, guess what! I lost six pounds!”

  “That’s wonderful. Eddie must be so pleased. How is he?”

  Martha grimaced and her voice became strained. “He’s all right. I haven’t heard from him in a few days.”

  “Oh dear. There’s nothing wrong, I hope,” Mrs. Nowicki said solicitously.

  “No, Ma. I’ve just been busy.” Martha wound the telephone cord around her wrist. “I’ve been out a lot.”

  “That’s nice. You know, your sister called. She and the baby are coming out this spring. Maybe by then you’ll be announcing your engagement.”

  “I don’t know. Probably not that soon.” This conversation was making Martha extremely anxious, and she tugged at the wire nervously.

  “He’s a wonderful boy, Martha. You know your father and I think the world of him.”

  “I know. How is Daddy?” She hurriedly changed the subject.

  “He’s just fine. You know Daddy!” She laughed lightly, then asked, “How’s your job at, oh, what is that place called? I can never remember the name. American Foods?”

  “Amalgamated Foods. It’s fine, Ma.”

  “That’s good. So when are you coming to visit?” Mrs. Nowicki asked brightly.

  “I don’t know. I guess when Susan comes with Georgie.” Martha felt her stomach tightening.

  “You never come to visit us,” Mrs. Nowicki complained. “You’re always so busy in New York. God knows it can’t be your job that’s keeping you so busy.”