“Then change the culture.”
“Change the culture? How? I’ve been working my butt off for this company, and I can’t get the CEO to even glance at my portfolio. And Pat Kilburn’s right here, visiting the local stores!”
“Thank you for reminding me. Did you know that I went to the store in the mall to buy something? As a gesture of support for you. Do you have any idea how embarrassing that was? You could have warned me, Susan!”
“Really? What exactly should I have said?”
“Oh, I don’t know, how about something like, ‘Hey, Rachel, heads up: Beyond Beauty only makes clothes for beauty queens like me. Elephant mayors like you better head on over to Big Al’s tent surplus!’ That would work, right?”
Therese interrupts, “Did you try their twelves? Probably they would have fit you.”
I wheel around to snarl at my sister, “I don’t wear a size twelve, Therese.”
“You might at Beyond Beauty.”
“What? Why?”
“They use vanity sizing.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means they scale down their sizing. Say you’re a size fourteen in another store. When you walk into Beyond Beauty poof! you’re suddenly a size twelve. It’s supposed to give them a psychological competitive edge. Make women feel great about themselves whenever they shop there.”
Vanity sizing. As absurd as invisible underwear. The entire industry is crazy. It’s the emperor’s new clothes. A rigged system, but nobody’s calling them on it.
“That’s awful,” I sputter. “That’s manipulative. That’s lying and putting it on a clothes tag.”
Therese raises one shoulder, lets it drop. “It’s no big deal.”
I’d almost regained my composure. Resumed my professional stance. But her indifference, coupled with a look of smug superiority, sets me off again.
“Give me a break,” I say to Therese. “Don’t act so above it all.”
“What? I’m not doing that.”
“Of course you are. You claim you’ve found the keys to the kingdom. You’ve figured it all out. You’ve finally got your precious freedom. Go ahead and stand up Rob Urso, because it’s all about you. How you feel about yourself. Well, guess what? Men have feelings, too. You’ve changed since high school. Excellent. I’ll bet he has, too.”
Susan frowns. “Wait a minute. She stood up Rob Urso?”
Therese shakes her head. “We never had an official date—”
“Oh, yes you did,” Esme interrupts. “I was right there. We all were. He invited you to go to the tree lighting ceremony and grab a drink afterwards. You said that sounded great.”
“She blew him off,” I tattle.
“Why?”
Therese glares at me. “Not that this is anybody else’s business, but I changed my mind.”
“She’s afraid if she gains back all the weight she lost, he won’t want to be with her anymore.”
“Wait a minute. That’s not exactly—”
“And what does that say about Mike, by the way? Or Nelson? Or Audrey’s boyfriend Griff? Are they just impossibly screwed up? The way Rob would be if he still wanted to be with you, even if you put on a few pounds? Why is it so radical to believe a good-looking, successful guy might be attracted to a larger woman? Why is that combination so abhorrent to you? It’s not meat balls and maple syrup. It’s not strappy sandals and toe fungus.”
“Toe fungus?” repeats Audrey. She steps into our midst, looking puzzled. “What’s going on?”
I look at Audrey. Look away. I take a deep, calming breath. Let it out slowly. Here’s what my incredibly chic, talented assistant chose to wear to the town of Eaton’s holiday party. Felt reindeer antlers on her head and a t-shirt that spells out the following message in glittering rhinestones: Too Fat To Fly.
I snap, “Cute outfit, Audrey.”
“Thanks. I like it, too.” She takes in the tension radiating off me, my friends, and my sister. Her brows come together in a puzzled frown. “What’s up? Did I miss something?”
“Did it occur to you that this event might not be the time or place to make a political statement with your clothing?”
She thinks about that. Looks down at the plate she’s holding (which is practically spilling over with Naughty goodies). She lifts a buffalo chicken wing, drags it through a puddle of blue cheese dressing and takes a bite. Chews slowly and swallows.
“Everything a fat woman wears is a political statement.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. Could you just give me a break?”
“Give you a break? Give you a break?”
“Look, the body-positivity movement—”
“Stop it!”
I blink, startled by the vehemence in her tone. “Stop what?”
“You keep talking about the body-positivity movement like that’s the solution to everything.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Here’s the problem. It’s aimed at people who look like me. I’ve got to accept myself. Embrace myself. Fine. Okay. But what about the shit we constantly get from other people? What about the teenage punk who moos when I walk by, or the woman who slides waaay over on the park bench to make room for me, or the waiter who scowls if I order a burger instead of a salad, or the kids who teased me about my fat girl smell? What does the body-positivity movement do to change their minds? I’ll tell you what it does: nothing, that’s what.
“Listen to me, cause I’m gonna tell you the truth here. Unless you’re wearing a red suit and driving a sleigh with eight friggin’ tiny reindeer, nobody wants to see a belly jiggle. Nobody. Especially not this time of year.”
“Audrey—”
“And you know what else? You know what really sucks?”
“What?”
“You.”
“Me? Why me?”
“Because you ruined Christmas, that’s why. Christmas is about cookies, and fudge, and eggnog, and never going to see the Rockettes in New York City, because my ass is too big to fit in a subway seat. And that’s fine. I’ll accept that. Because Christmas is the one time of year when everybody cheats on their diet. We’re all too busy to work out. We get together at parties, eat and drink, buy gifts for the people we love. But not me. I don’t need a gift. You know what my real gift is? The gift to fat people everywhere? We get Christmas off. We don’t have to officially start hating ourselves until the new year. The entire month of December we’re all screw ups, not just the fatties. That’s the real Christmas gift.”
I’m too stunned to reply. Finally I manage to ask, “If you felt that way, why did you sign up for the challenge?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
No. It’s really not.
Audrey says, “For you. For this town. Because until that website came along and ruined everything, this was a pretty fantastic place to live. Look at me. I’m a seriously overweight, heavily tattooed Korean-American woman. I don’t fit in any box. But around here, in this tiny town that nobody ever knew existed until this stupid, idiotic, ridiculous, horrible challenge, I get nothing but love. Love from my community, love from my friends, love and acceptance from my coworkers. In fact, I used to get love and homemade brownies from my boss. Until we panicked and started to play up to the media, we were doing it right around here.”
I say, “Oh.”
She pauses. “I believed in you, Rachel. You kept telling me the challenge would be good for this town. So I went along with it. But I keep waiting for you to actually do something.”
I look at Audrey. She’s right.
Here’s why I know I’ve screwed up badly. Horribly, in fact. Why Brett Alper has every right to want to replace me as mayor. Because during this entire challenge, I have shown all the leadership skills of a ping-pong ball tossed around on a stormy sea.
I thought that weight wasn’t political. Of course it is. Anything that makes a particular group of people feel disenfranchised is political. At the same time, it’s deeply personal and nobody’s business but their
own.
I am a size sixteen woman. I entered my adult life a size twelve, shifted to a fourteen after the birth of my son, crept to a size sixteen in the ensuing years and basically stayed there. I’m not thrilled about it, but I figure that’s my genetic inheritance. (Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down.) Unlike my sister, I’ve never worried about it too much.
It is what it is.
So when I stood in the checkout line at the grocery store, I was blissfully content not to notice that while the vast majority of men’s magazines touted things like Smart Strategic Investment Advice and Where Billionaires Vacation, women’s magazines bombarded the reader with How to Hide the Pre-Period Bloat! and 20 You Won’t Taste the Difference Low-Cal Recipes! and Sexy Sit-Ups You Can Do With Your Man! And don’t even get me started on the photoshopped cover models. The breasts and tiny waists and thigh gaps that don’t exist in nature.
Television is no better. News anchors are uniformly attractive and slender. Movie stars, too. With very few exceptions, so are the folks who star in our favorite sitcoms and dramas. Same with the catalogues we get in the mail. I think of the Beyond Beauty mock-ups Susan showed us. It didn’t occur to me that an upscale manufacturer of women’s clothing, specifically a brand that caters to educated, mature, financially independent, upwardly mobile women—exactly the demographic in which I see myself—would exclude me simply because I wear a size sixteen rather than a size twelve.
I blithely accepted all of it. It is what it is.
Until I hear about Esme’s daughters. And Susan’s struggle to find work that doesn’t objectify women. And Therese’s fear of being unable to control her weight. And Matthew’s insecurities. And Audrey. Audrey, who is smart, and loyal, and beautiful, and hugely competent, to hear that she’s had to put up with that kind of harassment—there’s no other word for it—because of something as absurd as a number on a scale? That breaks my heart. That makes me furious. And that finally, finally galvanizes me to use my position as mayor actually do something.
It’s about time.
TWENTY-THREE
“You sure this is a good idea?” Therese asks.
“Absolutely,” I say.
I’m at Crossroads Mall with Therese, Audrey, Susan, and Esme. It’s the region’s only shopping mall and it’s December 22nd. The last Saturday before Christmas. Don’t get me started about the crowds, the parking lot madness, or the last-minute gift-guying panic. We aren’t here to buy gifts. We’re here for an entirely different reason. And damned if the righteousness of our mission doesn’t show in our faces, because people are Getting Out Of Our Way.
We barrel into Beyond Beauty, scattering shoppers in our wake. My manager friend is behind the counter. She of the nasty attitude and the razor-sharp cheekbones. Her eyes widen slightly as she takes us in.
“Yes? May I help you ladies?”
I step forward. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Kilburn.”
She looks at me. A glimmer of recognition flashes across her face. Her lips curl upward in that supercilious smirk I remember so well. Then her gaze flicks to a saleswoman standing behind her, her back to us as she touches up a display.
“I’m sorry, but you must be mistaken. There is no Mr. Kilburn here.”
“Oh really? Well that’s odd, because when I called your corporate headquarters yesterday, they told me that Pat Kilburn, CEO of Beyond Beauty, would be here today.”
Susan tugs at my arm. “Rachel—”
“No, I got this.” I am not letting this woman intimidate me again. Not this time. “Are you telling me that Mr. Kilburn’s secretary doesn’t know his own boss’s schedule?”
The manager draws herself up. “I didn’t say that at all. I simply said there is no Mr. Kilburn here.”
Susan says, more urgently this time, “Rachel—”
“Fine,” I say, not breaking eye contact with the manager. “In that case, we’ll wait until he gets here.”
“I’m afraid that will be a rather long—”
“I’ll handle this, Serena.”
The saleswoman who’d been adjusting the display turns around. She’s in her early sixties, silver hair cut into a sleek bob, lean and elegant.
She says, “I’m Patricia Kilburn. How can I help you?”
Damn. Isn’t that’s a horrible way to begin. I’d love to take a shot at the store manager for playing her cute little ‘There’s no Mr. Kilburn’ stunt (yes I know Susan tried to warn me). But the vibe I’m getting from Kilburn is nothing but curt professionalism. It’s the last Saturday before Christmas and she’s got a retail business to run. So I don’t waste time stumbling over myself making apologies. I get straight to the point.
“I’m Rachel Presley. Mayor of Eaton, a nearby community.”
A pause, followed by a subtle flash of surprise. A glimmer of interest registers. “Mayor Presley. Yes. I’ve seen you on the news.”
“That’s too bad. I doubt what you saw was flattering.”
“It wasn’t.”
Okay, so we’re going to skip the warm fuzzies. Fine by me.
“Yeah, well, the media hasn’t shown me in the best light recently. It hasn’t exactly been kind to my town, either.”
“I suspect you realize how foolish it was of you to accept that challenge.”
“Not foolish,” I reply. “Just ignorant. Get two hundred people to lose five pounds each? I thought it would be a walk in the park. Turned into a stroll through a minefield. A hike over an active, rumbling volcano.”
She glances at a clock that’s mounted on a wall near the dressing rooms. Motions for a customer to bring her purchases to another register. “I’m sure that’s all very interesting. But as you can see, I’m busy. What does any of that have to do with Beyond Beauty?”
“Because you’re every bit as ignorant as I was. You just don’t know it yet.”
I’ve got her full attention now. I’ve also drawn the curiosity of other shoppers, some of whom were already in the store, some of whom followed us in from the mall. Once again I’m here making a scene, but this time I don’t mind.
“Your sizing stinks,” I say. “It’s petty, mean-spirited, and cliquey in the way of the most obnoxious sorority. Mean Girls on a label. And even if someone wants to buy this stuff, the majority of American women wear a size fourteen or greater. That means a full three-fifths of women in this country are excluded from shopping here.”
Patricia Kilburn looks as though she can’t decide whether she should be shocked, amused, or insulted. She settles on an expression that somehow conveys all three.
“Is that a fact?” she drawls.
I gesture from myself to Esme, Therese, Susan, and Audrey.
“Look at us,” I say. “Five intelligent, attractive, adult women, all of whom would buy and wear your clothing. But you only sell to two of us. I assume you’re in business to make money. Why are you giving up that hugely profitable market share?”
“Correction. I’d wear some of the clothing,” Audrey says, eyeing a few of the garments on display with clear disdain. “Not all of it.”
Audrey’s wearing a heavily embroidered navy blue silk kimono over a fuschia pink knit wrap dress. Gold lame heels and heavy ropes of faux pearls draped around her throat. Don’t ask me why or how the outfit works, it just does.
Kilburn, who clearly has an appreciation for style, eyes her speculatively. “And you are?”
“Audrey Cho. Mayor Presley’s assistant.”
“You’d wear some of my clothing?”
“I would. And you should be damned flattered by that.”
“Is that so?” Kilburn makes the mistake of looking amused. “Well, if you’d like to shop here, Ms. Cho, I suggest you—”
“Nope,” Audrey says, her eyes narrowing. “Don’t say it.”
“Say what?”
“What you were about to say. You know what I got for my birthday when I was thirteen? A membership to Weight Watchers. I’ve failed at more diets than most people even know exist. And don’
t give me tips or advice, because I’ve been there, done that. Dieting doesn’t work for me. So if you’re gonna tell me that I should lose weight to fit into this stuff, you can take that advice and shove it.”
Oops. Guess we should have had a little pep talk before coming inside. Audrey and I have both forgotten that we’re here to sway Kilburn to our side. I’m not exactly sure how to walk back that last remark. And apparently Audrey’s not done yet.
“It took me twenty years to accept myself just the way I am. Once I stopped worrying about meeting everybody’s else’s standards, here’s what I realized. I’m smart, hard-working, have zero tolerance for bullshit, and love to laugh. I’m a great cook and an awesome girlfriend. I’m excellent at my job. I have a cool apartment, fun friends, and take amazing vacations. I enjoy movies, books, music. I love to dance. And when I looked at that list, at the things that really matter to me, I realized that none of it has anything to do with the size of my ass. None of it. And if that wasn’t friggin’ liberating, I don’t know what is.”
Cheering breaks out from the crowd behind us, which has somehow grown even larger. Actual cheering.
Kilburn straightens. Looks momentarily uncomfortable. “I’m very happy for you. But what does any of that have to do with me?”
“Because you can’t imagine anyone my size wearing your clothing and looking good in it. The truth is, if I wore your clothing, I’d look damned fantastic.”
Susan steps forward. “Ms. Kilburn, I’m Susan Brandon-Willis. I’m one of your graphic designers. I took the liberty of taking your spring catalogue and making it more size inclusive. I think you’ll agree it’s pretty amazing.”
She passes Kilburn a slim portfolio. Kilburn hesitates, then opens it and begins flipping through the pages. As she does, her expression shifts from flat-out ‘Not interested’ to ‘Hmm. There may be something here.’
Then she catches herself and snaps the portfolio shut. “I appreciate your time, ladies. But I’m afraid that isn’t our business model.”
The Thousand Pound Christmas Page 18
