Bigger (The Nicky Beets series) (4 page)

Two years into our relationship, I graduated from college with a liberal
arts degree and size fourteen pants. My, oh, my, the weight had snuck on slowly
but surely. It wasn’t exactly a disaster, but certainly a bit alarming. I
assured myself and Chuck – who’d never said one word about my weight
– that with college finished and done with, I’d have the opportunity to
eat right and exercise, and would be back in my size eights in no time.

I’m not sure who I was trying to fool. I’d jumped out of the frying pan
and into the proverbial boring desk job.

I was equal parts disinterested and anxious when it came to choosing a
career. I’d fallen back on a liberal arts degree out of sheer desperation. My
wide range of interests but low level of discernible talent in any given area
meant I’d take whatever job I could get my hands on until something better came
along – or so I told myself. That meant I spent each day slogging through
a job I was very close to hating, while growing more troubled about the
likelihood of ever finding a job I could both tolerate and excel at.

Meanwhile, Chuck had already graduated and started working for a small
local newspaper. I knew he was a talented reporter with the opportunity to move
out of town to work for better publications, but that he’d decided to stay in
Berkeley to be with me. He worked the odd and demanding hours of a rookie
newspaperman and often came home late at night with red, sleep-deprived eyes
and looking a bit pale. He was eating on-the-go a lot and his midsection had
puffed out a bit. His own softer body reassured me – I wasn’t the only
person in our relationship who’d probably had a few too many beers or
hamburgers.

Chuck and I never discussed the possibility of him finding a better job
somewhere else, which would almost certainly mean moving out of the state.
Newspapers were in rapid decline, and massive layoffs were leaving huge numbers
of well-qualified reporters jobless. Those who were not completely
disillusioned by this development had to follow the money. The rest, like
Chuck, were toughing it out in unstable markets where their jobs were on the
line every day. A third of the writing staff at his newspaper had already been
slashed, and the threat of more cuts was imminent.

It’s not that I wasn’t willing to move with Chuck if he found a job
elsewhere; I loved him dearly and knew he felt the same – but we seemed
to have an unspoken agreement not to discuss this issue. Me moving away with
him would have meant something pretty serious, and he’d never even hinted at
being ready for that serious of a commitment. You don’t ask your girlfriend to
move across the country with you unless you feel quite strongly that she is the
one you will probably end up spending the rest of your life with. The years
kept ticking by, and all signs seemed to point to an eventual marriage. Even
so, I didn’t want to leave the comfort of the Bay area– the thought of
even trying frightened the bejeezus out of me.

So, we never talked about it. I remained completely directionless, and
quietly stayed in my position as a legal secretary in San Francisco. It had
been exciting, at first; working in a high-rise in the bustling city, but the
glamour soon wore off as the mundaneness of the job wore on me and the feeling
of not living up to my potential haunted me day in and day out.

Chuck and I had moved in together shortly after I graduated. We rented a
small townhouse in Berkeley, which was close enough to both of our jobs to be
convenient. Also convenient – for Chuck anyway – was the fact that
the house had a built-in neat freak. Chuck left stuff strewn around the house
on a daily basis; water glasses on the coffee table, dirty socks on the living
room floor, dirty boxer shorts on the bathroom floor. At first, I succumbed to
my compulsion to put everything in its right place, which led to untold hours
spent folding laundry and putting it away; loading and unloading the
dishwasher; and generally straightening up the mess my new male roommate seemed
to constantly leave in his wake. For his part, Chuck was blissfully unaware
that I was bending over backward to keep our home tidy and pristine. Meanwhile,
I was slowly losing my mind in my effort to be the unobtrusive girlfriend while
still maintaining an admittedly strictly clean home. Eventually, I threw a huge
tantrum about the issue, shocking Chuck and relieving months of my own pent-up
frustration.

Once I was past my blowup, I calmly explained to Chuck my inordinately
high standards of home cleanliness. Since then, he’d tried – he really
had – to be better about picking up after himself and adhering to my
stringent home rules. (No wine in carpeted rooms, no outside shoes inside, and
the glass shower door must – at all costs – be squeegeed after each
and every shower. I mean, have you seen what hard water stains can do to a
glass shower door?)

In any case, Chuck tolerated my neat-freakedness, and I tolerated the
precise opposite from then on out. After that, we basked in the newness of
living together, buying furniture and hanging photos on the walls. We embarked
on a culinary enterprise in which we spent many evenings composing recipes that
were nothing if not high calorie, high carb, high fat, high sugar, or all of
the above.

It was during this time of food-indulgence that I started my blog,
Nicky Eats
. Once I’d been talked into it
by Chuck, I reasoned it was a worthwhile hobby for a person like me. I enjoyed
long trips to the grocery store, slowly perusing the aisles for things I’d
never tried. I enjoyed concocting new combinations of flavors, and, I daresay,
I was good at it. Sometimes I fell back on tried-and-true recipes that
everyone’s mom has been making the same way for decades, but most often I’d
take a traditional recipe and try to improve upon it.

Like baked macaroni and cheese with roasted red peppers and Italian bread
crumbs. Bacon added to any recipe was an automatic improvement. Cilantro added
as a topper on a spicy soup had a magical effect I was addicted to for one
entire rain-soaked winter.

A year after I started working at the law firm, Chuck and I were still
happily living together and my weight had crept just over the two-hundred pound
mark on the scale. I’d stepped on it in morbid curiosity and, horrified,
promised myself it wouldn’t go any higher. But I didn’t do anything differently
to ensure such a thing wouldn’t happen, and Chuck seemed not to notice at all.

Romantically, Chuck and I still interested each other, but our encounters
under the sheets were becoming less and less frequent. We never spoke of it,
and on the few occasions I let myself think about it, I blamed myself and my
increasingly chubby body. It wasn’t just that I didn’t look the way I used to;
I didn’t want to be touched or looked at, looking the way I did. When we did
have sex, I went to great lengths to ensure the bedroom was as dimly lit as
possible – ideally, pitch dark. If I caught a glimpse of my own nude
body, my zeal for the act would fade. Chuck protested all of my switching-off
of lights, initially, but gave up after several well-lit evenings ended in
tears on my end and frustration on his.

Our love life continued in this fashion for three more years after I
first tipped the scale at two hundred pounds.

Chuck had never suggested I lose weight, even though I’d baited and
switched the poor man. He probably thought he was hooking up with a hot college
student and instead he’d ended up with an obese legal secretary who couldn’t be
bothered to wear makeup most days and refused to wear high heels.

Now and then I’d complain about my weight and Chuck would good-naturedly
volunteer to take walks with me or suggest we cut out ice cream in the
evenings. These attempts lasted a few days before fizzling out.

Chuck himself had gained weight in the six years we’d been together, but
nowhere near the damage I’d done to myself.

He was pudgy but not overly-so. It’s one of the most irritating
double-standards in American society, but the fact remains that men are allowed
to be overweight and still be considered good-looking. They certainly don’t
suffer the same judgments cast on overweight women. Still, I admit that unlike
Chuck, I definitely was overly overweight. Standing side by side, we were
mismatched. He was a handsome, harried reporter with five-o-clock shadow and a
beer gut. On the other hand, nothing about my appearance could be construed as
sexy. I was obese, weighing in around two-hundred-seventy pounds, give or take
a few. My pants were size twenty-fours. I worried sometimes that Chuck was
going to eventually realize he was way out of my league.

That said, I knew Chuck wasn’t the type to stray. He’d been cheated on by
a past girlfriend and as a result had the utmost contempt for people who didn’t
have the guts to simply end their relationships before jumping into bed with
the next piece of ass. If he wanted out, he’d just say so – I was quite
confident of that fact. Which was a relief, because I’d seen the twiggy girls
he worked with, and a lesser woman would have been struck with fear at the
thought of her handsome boyfriend spending most of each day with women such as
these. I suspected that one woman in particular, the obits and lifestyle editor
Candace, was just biding her time until the day she could sink her claws into
him.

Candace seemed to have had a crush on Chuck since the first time I met
her. I was already plugging my way into the two-hundred-pound range when she
and I were first introduced. She’d given me an appraising once-over, and I knew
at that moment I was being judged by a skinny girl. She appeared to believe I
was not a threat. Perhaps she believed Chuck kept me around because he felt
sorry for me, but she certainly acted as though my relationship with him was
temporary, at best.

At parties hosted by Chuck’s newspaper buddies, Candace acted as though I
didn’t exist. She hung on his every word and found any reason she could to
touch his shoulder or hug him. She laughed hysterically, as though Chuck said
the wittiest things she’d ever heard. Candace and Chuck’s co-workers always
looked embarrassed on her behalf and made increased efforts to engage me in
conversation and make sure I was well-supplied with drink and food. They were
likely trying to distract me from the spectacle of Candace throwing herself at
Chuck, but they needn’t have worried; that’s how much faith I had in my
boyfriend.

At times I teased Chuck about Candace’s puppy-dog crush on him, and he
always looked properly embarrassed and brushed it off. Still, it had to be an
ego boost for him; she was an undeniable beauty – tall and lean, with a
thick sweep of silky, dark hair, and exotic hazel cat-eyes.

This was not a girl who’d ever had a weight issue in her life.

THREE

“Hello?” she answered breathlessly, as usual. As though she’d been in the
middle of something very important and didn’t relish the distraction of a phone
call.

“Hey Mom,” I said.

“Nicole! I was wondering when I’d hear from you. You know I’ve been laid
up with this ankle. I thought you were going to come by to visit.”

My mother is a true artist of the guilt trip. She isn’t helpless, and I’m
sure she’s got my stepdad, Jim, waiting on her hand-and-foot while she groans
in pain from her ankle surgery two weeks prior. I had visited her twice after
her surgery, but I was apparently not going to get any credit for that.

“I’ve been really busy with work, Mom,” I answered, which was not really
true, but she didn’t need to know that.

I heard her sigh deeply. It must be a trial to have such an ungrateful
daughter.

“Well, what’s going on? Are you coming by?” she asked.

“No, I need to talk to you. Something … sort of awful happened.”

“What is it? Are you all right? Are you pregnant? Is it Charles?” Mom had
snapped to attention.

“No, everyone is OK, it’s just that we were watching the news last night
and there was this story about obesity and …” I was choked up and crying again.
“I was on TV. I was
on the news
.
There was video of me walking down the street, looking … grotesque. And of
course I was eating hot dogs.”

There was a long pause on my mother’s end while I wiped tears from my
cheeks with a tissue.

“I’m sure you didn’t look grotesque,” she reassured.

“You had to see it,” I wailed. “It was terrible. I’m so humiliated and
disgusted with myself.”

“Well, Nicole …” my mom seemed to hesitate.

“Yeah?” I sniffled.

“Well, I hate to say it, but this should be a wake-up call for you,” she
said.

I let a few heartbeats pass as her words sank in.

“
Mom
…”

“I’m sorry, honey, but it’s true,” she interrupted. “I’ve been trying to
help you lose all that weight you’ve put on since you and Charles started
dating and now you’ve reached a point where there’s simply no denying it. It’s
time to do something about it.”

I could not believe my mother was going to claim “I told you so” in this
instance. She must think of her lingering, judgmental gazes at my thighs and
unwelcome suggestions – “maybe you shouldn’t have any more cake” –
as helping me.

“Unbelievable,” I replied. “You have never tried to help me lose weight.”

“I have, too!”

“Um, no,” I insisted. “Unless endless criticism is considered helpful
these days?”

“Nicole, I’m not perfect. I only do what I think is best for you.”

“Well, newsflash Mom,” I snipped. “It doesn’t help. Neither does keeping
all that shitty food at your house. You say one thing and do another.”

I decided to dig the knife in. “You probably love it that I’m fat so you
can feel better about yourself.”

Mom gasped. “Of course I don’t! And I don’t appreciate you taking that
tone with me.”

“Well, I’m not seven years old anymore, Mom. And
I
don’t appreciate you telling me my failings in life are because
I’ve refused to listen to you. What I needed from you was moral support, but
you can’t even manage that.”

“That’s what I’m doing!” she shrieked. “I’m trying to help you see this
is like a flashing neon sign in your life, telling you it is time to get moving
and lose the weight.”

I’d had enough.

“This was obviously a mistake,” I answered, then stabbed at the “end” button
on my phone with one plump index finger.

The repercussions of hanging up on Lenore Beets would be great, but this
situation certainly warranted it.

Good old Lenore – can’t live with her, and she won’t let you live
without her.

I’m her only child. She kicked my dad out so long ago I don’t remember
him being around at all. The story goes he loved the reefer more than he loved
Lenore, and that doesn’t fly. I think my dad and marijuana are still good
friends, actually. He’d made his great escape up to Durham, a tiny agricultural
town with only a few thousand people. It’s a conveniently quick car trip to
Chico. I haven’t seen him in years and that’s just fine. Every now and then he
sends me a touristy tchotchke; one particularly special year he sent a Chico
State University magnet for Christmas. Mostly he doesn’t bother.

I think if Lenore hadn’t given him the boot, he’d likely have left on his
own. She’s driven more than one man to the brink of rage. My dad met my mom
when they were both still in high school, and from what I can tell they’re both
still stuck there mentally. Lenore never grew out of her self-centered,
bubble-gum snapping high-school cheerleader phase, and he’s still trapped in a
let’s-get-high-and-screw phase.

After my father left when I was two years old, it was just me and Lenore.
As I grew up, she had a number of boyfriends who all seemed nice enough to me.
Most had money and took us on trips – or took her on trips while I was
looked after by my grandparents.

Sooner or later, they all realized what they’d gotten themselves into
– a relationship with a high-maintenance gold digger. Sure, Mom has her
good qualities. She’s adventurous and likes to have a really good time. She
loves men and sex, which she unfortunately described to me in way too much
detail, too many times for me to erase from memory. She makes a mean batch of
cinnamon rolls.

But what all these guys came to eventually realize was that Lenore was
demanding of their attention, and she could be a real harpy when she wasn’t
getting what she wanted.

Lenore demanded her suitors deliver constant reassurance of her beauty
and wit. If they did not carry an air of appreciation just for being in her
presence, they were definitely doing something wrong. On top of that, she
needed to be wined, dined, and plied with gifts, or she simply was not happy.
If Lenore was not being treated as she saw fit, Lenore became very upset, and
when Lenore was upset, it was a problem for everyone. Me, her beaus, the
neighbors, and anyone else within shouting distance. Her boyfriends often stormed
out in exasperation, slamming the door behind them.

I was a chunky kid, and Mom had always been slender and beautiful. She
worked hard on her body, attending aerobics classes and standing in front of
the full-length mirror in her bedroom, examining herself. Seemingly to torture
me, she would grab a pinch of her inner thigh and bemoan the five pounds she
needed to lose. Meanwhile, I was made fun of at school every day for my weight,
and I consoled myself with the cookies and snacks Mom kept in abundant supply
in the kitchen cupboards. It was a vicious cycle that continued for years.

From the time I became aware of my weight problem, I wondered at the
difference between Mom and me. She’d eat a cookie, and I’d eat seven. In high
school I began to wonder why there was always junk food in the house, if Mom
didn’t think I should be eating it. In hindsight, I think she was possibly
sabotaging me and loving me at the same time. Providing me with the foods I
loved and wonderful gifts seemed to be the primary way she showed love.

She was a contradiction even then – always giving me my favorite
foods and then telling me I shouldn’t eat so much. When she paid attention to
me, that is. Mostly, the focus of all attention in our home was on her. Her
need to be noticed and adored didn’t end with her boyfriends, but extended to
me. Many evenings I sat on her bed while she tried on new outfits or
experimented with new hairstyles and makeup. My job was to tell her that
whatever she put on or did with herself was beautiful. No one could be more
beautiful.

When I was fourteen and a freshman in high school, she met Jim, engaged
in an intense cyclonic romance, and married him three months later. Jim Beets
was the CEO of a high-tech company that was on its way up in the Bay area. He
was loaded with cash – just Mom’s type – and seemed strangely
equipped to deal with her quirks. He resonated an uncanny calm, and sometimes
– although rarely – he even called her out on her spoiled-brat
behavior.

Jim was the father I’d never had. He showed me exactly the sort of love
and affection I’d always imagined good fathers – fathers who stuck around
– showed their daughters. About a year after the marriage, I asked Jim to
legally adopt me, and I took his last name, too. Things were as good as they
were ever going to get for our little family.

Still, just because she’d married someone awesome didn’t mean Mom had
undergone a personality transplant. She could still be a trial to deal with,
and because Jim was often preoccupied with work and traveling on business, I
was frequently left to handle her neuroses. I knew that as soon as I could get
out of the house and live on my own, I would.

My acceptance to San Francisco State University was perfect. It was close
enough to my parents’ home in Los Gatos to visit on weekends, if I wanted to,
and far enough that commuting didn’t make much sense. I would have to stay in
the dorms.

My physical reaction to the conversation with my mother was instant. I
needed food, and a lot of it, as quickly as I could get it.

I recognized it for what it was – I’m not stupid. I know I eat to
cope with my emotions. Or maybe I eat so I don’t have to cope with my emotions.

Maybe I
am
stupid.

In any case, what was certain was that whether sweet, salty, smooth or
crunchy, I needed to eat something the USDA would never include in the Food
Pyramid. Empty calories, stat.

Sometimes us fat folk are mindless eaters and will eat whatever high-calorie
food is most readily available. These are the kinds of fat people I don’t
understand, even though they’re a lot more similar to me than I want to
believe. Just shoving in fast food that all tastes the same, without regard to
variety or quality makes no sense to me.

I’m the kind of fat girl you want to consult about your dining choices in
the Bay area, because I know a thing or two about the restaurant scene. I’m a
walking, talking restaurant guide. I read reviews in the newspaper and often
try new places. Although I often feel self-conscious about being
that fat girl
who dares to eat food in
an actual restaurant, my love for all things flavorful and delicious overpowers
my shame. Plus, I reason, I practically have business purposes for eating out
– all of my restaurant meals and reviews are featured on my blog.

Maple glazed bacon apple donuts. Yes. That was what it would be this
particular morning. Sweet, salty, comfortingly warm, squishy, and satisfyingly
crunchy. I already had my keys in my hand and was walking out the door. I would
pick up donuts on the way to work; enough for people in the office, so it would
look like an act of benevolence instead of gluttony. Classic fat-girl move.

I’d be doubling back in order to make a visit to Dynamo Donuts, which
would no doubt include a fun few minutes of circling the block for a parking
spot, and I would be late to work, but if I didn’t get the donuts nothing would
be right for the rest of the day.

This morning’s outfit included my only other pair of arguably
work-appropriate slacks. I’d picked them up for twenty-five dollars at one of
those crappy stores where the clothes are so poorly made they don’t usually
last beyond a few tumbles in the wash. A blend of polyester, rayon and spandex,
the fabric had begun to pill something fierce in the crotch area due to major
thigh-rubbing action. This was an embarrassing situation and certain to soon
result in the fabric wearing away completely to leave two gaping holes in the
crotch. Which meant I’d soon need to buy another pair of pants, and there was
nothing I hated more these days than buying pants.

The only good thing about the rayon monstrosities is that they fit
loosely and comfortably. I nestled myself cozily in the driver’s seat of my
car, twisting my pant legs into the correct positions since the fabric liked to
stick to the car upholstery. Time to get the show on the road.

Visions of fresh maple bacon apple donuts were dancing in my brain, but
freeway congestion was preventing my speedy acquisition of pastry. It seemed
that some wrathful traffic god was trying to prevent me not only from obtaining
donuts, but from being even remotely close to on time to work – which
wasn’t going to happen regardless of whether I made a stop on the way at this
point. Sitting at a dead stop on Interstate 80, I broke into an anxious sweat
and tapped my fingers frantically against the steering wheel.

An hour later, I’d managed to cross the Bay Bridge and buy a dozen
donuts, in addition to a separate bag of donuts for myself, well-hidden in my
immense purse. I couldn’t risk being left without my favorites, or without
enough of them; not in an emotional emergency like this one. And in truth, I
would normally get myself my own bag, anyway. Another fat-girl move.

When it came time to park near my office, I squeezed my car into the only
spot I could find – a wedge of concrete on the fourth floor of a dark,
rickety garage. Thankfully, the law firm reimbursed me for the three-hundred-dollar
monthly charge to park in downtown San Francisco.

I scooted down the stairwell as quickly as I could, donuts in tow. I held
my breath to avoid getting a whiff of bum urine – the city’s stairwell
staple.

There was a mass of suited people on the sidewalk, all of them speedily
striding with purpose, all of their faces limp of expression. Some spoke loudly
into wireless headsets, sounding very important with their discussions of
initial public offerings and venture capital. These were the types for whom I
arranged lunch meetings, setting up attractive displays of sandwiches with
colorful cellophane-topped toothpicks, making sure all of the bigwigs had
everything they might possibly want: napkins, Diet Cokes, cookies, breath
mints.