by M. E. Carter
It’s day two of following my doctor’s instructions and the food already sucks.
To make matters worse, the overwhelming scent of Axe body spray floods my sinuses before I even hear the man of my nightmares approach.
Don’t get me wrong—I like the smell of Axe when used in small doses. But Nolan Schmidt doesn’t use it in small doses. I’m almost positive he buys it by the keg and bathes in it. Which might not be so bad if he didn’t irritate me daily with his passive-aggressive comments. I’ve never figured out if he knows he’s doing it or if he genuinely thinks he’s being helpful.
Leaning over me to grab a disposable cup off the shelf, he makes sure to see what I’m looking at. “Rabbit food for lunch today, Rian?”
I close my eyes and take a quick deep breath, trying not to choke, merely so I don’t turn around and stab him with my spork. It’s the only one I have with me and I’d hate to throw it away due to blood contamination. After a moment, I feel centered enough to paste a fake smile on my face and say, “Yep. It’s never too late to get healthy. Not even at my age. Am I right?” Not the funniest self-depreciating joke I’ve ever come up with, but maybe it’ll throw him off my scent. If he even smells anything besides himself. Come to think of it…
I discreetly bring the bowl to my nose and take a quick whiff. Nothing. Even the smell of my salad dressing is masked by his massive quantities of cologne. I just hope it still tastes like a vinaigrette and not “Musk of Man” by the time I eat it. You never know how much those scent molecules are going to infiltrate my taste buds. Kind of like when someone farts at the dinner table and you just know you’re eating someone’s poop particles. Or something very scientific theory like that.
This is why I work in sales at a cable company and not in a lab somewhere. Pretty sure coming up with my own theories on how science works would be frowned upon.
“I applaud your desire to get healthy.” And so it begins. I know by the condescending tone in his voice, I’m about to be in for a real treat also known as a patronizing rant. Actually, that’s sarcasm. I’m not looking forward to whatever he’s about to say at all. “But there’s more to losing weight than eating salad.”
“I said I’m getting healthy. Who says I’m trying to lose weight?”
We all know I am. How else can I justify being morbidly obese and eating vegetables? Because I like the taste? Pffft. Even I won’t pretend to enjoy the healthiness that’s about to invade my body. But if I can put Nolan on the spot and make him as uncomfortable as he’s trying to make me, it’s at least worth presenting the question.
Unfortunately, by the way he looks me up and down, it didn’t work.
“Rian, your health is at risk.” I narrow my eyes at him, now just plainly pissed off at his wild assumptions and nerve. Sure, his presumptions are correct, but that doesn’t mean he has a right to call me out on it. “But you’ve got to understand that just eating a salad now and again isn’t going to help. It takes years of correctly balanced meals and exercise to get your body on track after so many years of damage.”
His words don’t just stun me, his gall does as well. Yes, I’m overweight. I see it every day when I look in the mirror. It’s a fact of life. But it’s no different than me having brown hair or him having a receding hairline, but you don’t see me handing him a pamphlet for that fancy bottle that sprays hair on your head, although I need to make a mental note to do just that. My body is what it is and having extra pounds doesn’t mean I’m any less important than Jill in accounting, who has probably never had to diet in her life, and it certainly doesn’t give him or anyone else the right to talk about it.
Just as I open my mouth to speak, a woman’s voice pipes up from across the room.
“Hey, Nolan, are you going to the Connecting with your Customers conference next week?”
Francesca. My co-worker. She sits in the cubicle behind mine and is probably the chattiest person I know. With her petite features and even more petite frame, she complains about getting carded on a regular basis. I’m sure when she’s my age she’ll feel differently on that topic. Don’t get me wrong, everyone wants to be taken seriously. But I’m pushing forty and I have yet for that to happen. I wouldn’t mind a few teeny-bopper jokes if the trade-off was porcelain skin like hers.
Turning his attention away from me, Nolan smiles wide at Francesca. Now that he has an audience, he’s turning on the charm. I might just go blind from this amount of wattage.
“I am, and I’m looking forward to it. Are you going?”
Francesca makes a face like she smells something bad, although I doubt it’s from the cologne. “Heck, no. Why would anyone subject themselves to that?”
Nolan sputters like he’s shocked she would say such a thing. Frankly, I’m a little confused myself. Just last week she was disappointed that it had filled up before she could sign up. “It’s always good to improve your skills. You can never be too good at the job, Fran.”
“Francesca,” she corrects and licks the ketchup from her giant-sized cheeseburger off her thumb. What I wouldn’t give to be sharing that burger with her… “I just don’t see what the point is. It takes years of conferences and webinars to combat bad habits we all settle into. Especially as technology and policies change. If change can’t come immediately, why bother even trying?”
Nolan continues looking confused, but I’m trying not to laugh. I picked up on that sugary-sweet voice the second she started talking and he has no idea she just threw his words back in his face. I suppose that’s one of the benefits of being self-absorbed. You never know when the joke is really on you.
“I heartily disagree with you, Fran.”
“Francesca.”
“Self-improvement is vital to maintaining a healthy workplace. Every little bit helps.”
Francesca says nothing, but her eyebrows raise just slightly like she is waiting, probably for his lightbulb moment to come. I, myself, am waiting with bated breath in anticipation, abnormally excited by this exchange. But I also work in a cubicle. This is literally the most drama I’ll ever see outside of a Real Housewives marathon.
When it becomes clear the analogy is completely lost in translation, Francesca gives a quick nod and, “I suppose you’re right,” before going back to her juicy burger that smells so good.
Nolan goes back to babbling about clean eating while I leave him to fill his coffee cup. Fortunately, the powers that be refuse to spring for the sixteen ounce size so it doesn’t take him long to finish up and leave.
Lowering myself in the chair across from Francesca’s, I give her an incredulous look.
Glancing back and forth for a few seconds, she finally caves. “What?”
“What was that?”
“What was what?”
Propping my elbows on the table, I quirk a single eyebrow her direction. She knows I’m not going to let this go. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s holding the line until I get the answer I want. It’s how I ended up in the Top Twenty-Five Sales Employees last year. Not because I’m great at selling cable packages to the folks of the Greater Chicago area. I’m just stubborn.
Finally, she rolls her eyes and caves. “Fine. I hate that guy.”
My jaw drops. “You don’t hate anyone.”
“Truth be told, I hate a lot of people. I just keep it to myself. But that guy,” she points out the door, “that guy is the worst of the worst, and I was tired of hearing him talk.”
I can’t help when a laugh pops right out of my mouth. “This is a side of you I’ve never seen before.”
She shrugs and takes a big bite, talking around it as she chews. “I don’t believe in recruiting others to hate certain people along with you. I can silently stew in my own hatred. Well, unless I’m drinking. If we ever go to a bar, remember not to ask me about our co-workers.”
Finally feeling as if the air has cleared enough for my food to be in the safe zone once again, I peel the lid off my salad and spear some lettuce with my fork. “You’re maki
ng me a little nervous, Francesca. How do I know you don’t hate me?”
“Because you’re not an asshole.”
“Well, that’s comforting to know.”
She drops her burger on her plate, grabbing a tiny packet of ketchup and peeling it open. Sitting next to her was a mistake. I’ve never wanted to burn a plate of vegetables before, but right now, they look so terrible next to her lunch, all I can think about it setting them on fire and putting us all out of our misery.
“I just hate when people are holier than thou, ya know? It makes me feel all ragey inside.”
I try hard not to giggle at the image of this tiny woman raging. Would her punches hurt or feel like a kitten playing with a ball of yarn? My money is on the kitten.
“People assuming they can remark on other people’s bodies is a huge pet peeve of mine, in case you didn’t notice,” she continues. “And it’s about to get worse so I’m bracing myself, I guess.”
My stomach takes this moment to let out a loud, embarrassing growl. I guess there will be no food burning today. Instead, I sigh and take my first bite of my first salad on my first official day of eating healthy. Yesterday didn’t count. I didn’t want to go to the gym and then overdo it on vegetables. That just sounded like a disaster waiting to happen. Someone should remind that trainer Abel that baby steps are a good thing before he gets me on that treadmill again.
“What do you mean it’s going to get worse?”
Francesca lets out a giant sigh before dipping a fry in ketchup and popping it in her mouth. “Remember the company physicals we’re required to take to keep our insurance premiums down?”
I nod in response as I chew, making a mental note to mix this salad dressing again. It makes the leaves palatable, even with the small Axe aftertaste to it. “How could I forget? I’m eating the results of mine right now.”
“My blood work came back. My cholesterol is so high, HR is threatening to increase my rates because I’m a health risk. Can you believe that?”
I shake my head no, but really, I can believe it. I was threatened with the same thing until all my blood work came back normal. I thought they were going to lay me off, but apparently, they found a new victim in my bite sized co-worker. “Can they even do that? Legally?”
Francesca gives me an incredulous look. “It’s the Sandekes. You think they care?”
“They will if someone blows the whistle.”
“And who would do that? I don’t know anyone that wants to sleep with the fishes.”
She’s got a point. The Sandeke family aren’t known for taking criticism well. It’s best to stay out of their way sometimes and just do as you’re told.
“I understand that heart disease, diabetes, and strokes run in my family,” she continues as if the legalities are of no consequence. Although now I’m watching her more closely, half afraid she’s going to drop dead in front of me because of her jacked-up genetics. “But I’m just at risk at this point. Not even high risk. But do they care? No. So unless I want my monthly rates to go up, I don’t have a choice but to get my cholesterol down.”
“That sucks.”
“I know. I hate rabbit food.”
“Seems like they’d be more afraid of you losing too much weight.”
She pauses briefly, mouth open and French fry halfway to its final destination. I can’t tell for sure, but I think she just gave me the evil eye. Slowly taking her bite, she chews briefly before clearing her throat. “That’s what I’ll hear from everyone for the next six to eight weeks before my next test comes in. Oh, Francesca, you’re so skinny. You need to eat something. Oh, Francesca, why are you trying to lose weight? Oh, Francesca, men don’t like a woman who is just skin and bones.” She rolls her eyes dramatically and I have the suspicion this isn’t the first time her doctor has put her on some sort of regimen. “Yes, thank you, Mother. I know all these things.” Mother? Ouch. “But men also don’t like women who are dead. Well, I mean there was that one guy on the news, but I wouldn’t even bone him if I was six feet under.”
Her comment makes me laugh. She’s not wrong. That guy’s lazy eye combined with his disheveled appearance made him look super crazy. That and the fact that he was having sex with dead people.
“You’re not the only one.” I stab a piece of lettuce with my fork and then sneer at it. Like threatening it will make it turn into a French fry. “Ever since my sister got engaged, all I hear about is how if I would just lose a hundred pounds, I could find a date. Who says I even want to date? If putting in that much effort to attract someone is what it takes, I’m not sure I have it in me to try to keep them.”
“Preach, sister. I’d rather be single.”
Not that I don’t want to date. I do. But it feels like it’s necessary to fit into some sort of mold for a man to even look at me. And why not? It’s like everyone is trained to believe skinny is best. I can’t tell you how many commercials are on for weight loss supplements and programs during primetime TV watching. I tried counting one night during my favorite emergency room/fire department/detective shows. I lost count when I had to take a potty break. And none of those shows have a fat actress in a leading role. Sure, she makes a great sidekick, but there is never any love interest for her.
Even social media has filters to thin out your face before posting a selfie. I have yet to find one that makes your face fuller, unless it’s distorting you in other ways as well.
Healthy or not, fat has a negative connotation to it. The more of it you have on your body, the more negative that association becomes, and the less people consider you for dating prospects. And when you carry it around for most of your life—well, eventually you absorb the negative comments as directly about you. Even when logically you know they’re not.
Aaaaaand now I’ve just gone on an internal tirade about the social implications of being a “big girl.” I really need some of that hamburger Francesca is eating. Caring this much about what others think of me can only mean my brain cells are dying from the lack of nutrition already.
“I just hate eating healthy,” she whines, bringing me back to the conversation at hand. “And as you can see,” she gestures to her plate,” I have almost zero self-control. So, when people start assuming I’m giving myself an eating disorder, they start shoving food in my face. It makes things a thousand times harder.”
I find it oddly comforting that I have an ally in this dieting business. She may resemble a tiny little elf that I want to put in my pocket, but she understands the struggle. Go figure. “I have the opposite problem. It doesn’t matter what I eat or how little. Someone is always going to comment that maybe I shouldn’t eat as much.”
Francesca clenches her fists and shakes her head. “I hate when people say that shit.” She’s not kidding when she says diets make her cranky. Even hearing about mine is making her agitated. “How is it the twenty-first century and people still haven’t realized that the word ‘pound’ is not synonymous with ‘illness’ and ‘skinny’ is not the same as ‘healthy’? My insides are practically shriveling up, and yours are probably pretty and pink and healthy. And you have boobs!” She bangs her fist on the table and I make a mental note not to turn my back on her for the next six to eight weeks.
“Here,” I say gently, handing her another fry. “I think you need this.”
“Thanks,” she responds quietly and sighs contently as she chews. “But you really do have nice boobs.”
She’s not wrong. “I know.”
Her lips quirk up in a slight smile. “This is going to be a long couple of months, isn’t it?”
“I don’t think I’ll be searching for you in any dark allies, no.” She chuckles in response. “And I might take your stapler for safe keeping just in case.”
“Only if you give it back when you smell Nolan coming.”
“Deal.”
We sit in silence—her enjoying her burger, me not enjoying my salad— and I consider her words. I don’t remember the last time someone complimented me on an
y part of my body, with the exception of my hair (Thank you, Pantene). Nor has anyone just assumed I’m healthy when the topic of my weight has come up. Not that it comes up often, but people who aren’t obese don’t realize how much it’s talked about in a general fashion. It can get really irritating.
“Hey, I have an idea.”
I glance up at Francesca. If it has anything to do with Nolan and that stapler, I might just go for it.
“I’m going to assume you brought that salad because it’s hard to cook for one without having a ton of leftovers that go bad. Am I right?”
I nod because she is right. “I spent an hour on Pinterest last night and while there were a few things that made two servings, anything that looked decent was family-sized. Not only would it go to waste before I could eat it, I get bored with my food.”
She nods in understanding. “Me, too. So, what do you think about the idea of trading off?”
Giving up on my lunch, I toss the Tupperware on the table and lean in. “Trading off, how?”
“Well, tonight make one of those family of four recipes. Eat your dinner, pack what’s left as lunch for tomorrow and bring me some, too. Then tomorrow night, I’ll make dinner and bring the leftovers for both of us the next day. That way we’re only cooking every other day. Plus, I usually like other people’s cooking better than my own.”
I quirk my eyebrow at her. “Are you that bad of a cook?”
“Nope. I’m damn good at it. For whatever reason, even a PB and J tastes better if someone else makes it. Probably because it’s made with love.” She can’t even say it with a straight face.
But she’s also got a point. Half the cooking. Double the food. And someone to motivate my eating habits on this journey. If I knew I wouldn’t have a gag reflex from the odor, I could kiss Nolan for tipping Francesca off to my plight.
“I’m convinced,” I finally say, swiping a fry off her plate. “Now you tell me what you want me to make—cauliflower pizza or cauliflower enchiladas?”
We both grimace at the thought. “Aren’t there any gluten-full options?”
