Fat Chance (10 page)

It's another strategy I learned from Dr. Caswell, something he didn't bring up until I talked about music at one of my appointments. He said I need to create something like a soundtrack, something that makes me feel good, powerful. Sexy.

For a while, I forget my worries; the playlist takes me through the drive. Christina Aguilera's power as a woman flows from my speakers in a tangible way, surrounding me, and soon I'm singing along with her. She empowers me with "Soar;" she encourages me with "Beautiful."

Soon, the more playful notes of India.Arie bounce around the car, and the lyrics of "Video” flow over me like liquid self-confidence. I relate so well to the music, and it comes alive inside me as I'm driving. Other songs come and go, as real and effective the first ones; by the time I take my exit from the interstate and head into the small town where Janet lives, I'm feeling pretty good. I'm feeling strong, and I'm feeling beautiful. Fat or thin, short or tall, I am a woman, and the sheer complexity of my woman-ness makes me a beautiful creation.

Pulling up in front of the house, though, I'm glad it's only a one-day event. I know I can make it through one day, especially since I haven't been here in years and I honestly can go several more years before Janet obligates me to come again. Pleasant or not, Rick is not an everyday part of my life, and I need to stop thinking as if he is.

Like Dr. Caswell said, it's time for me to take back my power. It's time for me to be the one who decides whether I'm lovely or not, or worthy, or attractive.

It's time for me to stop standing in the driveway and go inside.

"Hey."

I spin around, thankful that I didn't wear a slender heeled boot today, instead going for a wide chunky heel that offers better balance. There's Rick, crossing the yard to come over, and I sigh. It's like he was lying in wait.

Win before you start. Confidence,
I remind myself. I'm not feeling it, but if there's one thing I know how to do, it's pretend I'm a super-confident, super-strong woman who doesn't care what anyone thinks. So in that moment, I check my personal honesty at the door, and I sink into my role as a woman who has an ultimate, unshakeable belief in my own power to be amazing.

"Hey," I say, forcing myself to step forward and look into his grey eyes. His face is all angles and chiseled lines; he'd be very handsome if there wasn't such ugliness behind the facade.

"Coming home to hang with the skinny folk today, huh?"

The little girl inside of me shrivels back from the emotional blow, but I remain true to my chosen role for the day. "Yep," I say, cocking my head to side and looking him over as if I couldn't care less what he thinks. "You know us chubby girls, we like variety in our lives. And I haven't met a fat girl yet who could resist Janet's pineapple upside-down cake."

He laughs, but his eyes are confused; I've never come back at him like that before, and I can tell he isn't sure what to do about me changing the dynamic between us.

"Oh, you take her recipes to chubby club, do you?" he asks.

"Well, you know what? I've tried, but I make the cake in the morning and we have our fatty meetings in the evening," I lie. "And I've never had a pineapple upside-down last that long. Can't you tell?" I do a little spin, and my dress kisses the back of my knees. I see his eyes fall as he takes me in, big but bold in my red dress. His gaze lingers at the 'v' of my dress, which nauseates me, and then he meets my gaze again.

"I'm not surprised," he says, and I celebrate a silent victory. He doesn't know what to do with my new attitude; for the moment, he will leave me alone, recovering his calm coldness. As he turns his back on me and walks up the porch steps to Janet's front door, I smile to myself, adjusting my purse on my shoulder and running my fingers through my hair.

"Be quick up those stairs. I'm coming up behind you and they might collapse," I laugh, cruelly making fun of myself because I love the power it gives me over him. I no longer believe those things, but I love the shift of power, as I claim myself. In addressing my body before he can, I have taken a step out of the corner he pushed me into as a girl; I have approached him as a woman who knows herself and does not require the feedback of a bully from the past.

He doesn't look back, only walks through the door, and I am surprised to finding him standing there when I cross the porch. He opens the door for me, and as I meet his eyes, he says simply, "Touché."

I walk past him swiftly, knowing that I leave a pretty cloud of French vanilla perfume in my wake. I stalk through the living room and into the kitchen, where I can already hear Janet and the girls talking and giggling.

"Hey, guys!" They hadn't heard Rick and I come in; they whip around and Janet started squealing.

"You really came!" She props her mixer on the edge of the bowl, and comes running over to hug me, unaware that Renee is stepping in behind her to throw more cinnamon into the cake mix. She's been finding little ways to do this since we were young, and no one knows if Janet has figured it out or not. Seeing this old family tradition, I laugh, and once again I am taken in; I am home.

Rick enters the kitchen behind me, and in front of the family, he is charming and sweet, just as grown up and mature as they all told me he would be. Because of this, brunch goes smoothly, and we all spend the afternoon playing cards or board games together.

For most of the day, I am able to make sure that Rick and I are not left alone. I help Janet in the kitchen, and I hold off on bathroom trips until I know that Rick is occupied. He does finally catch me at the end of the day, though, when we are the first losers of the card game and get trapped into washing the dinner dishes together.

"Here we are," he says, washing a plate and handing it over to me to rinse and dry.

"Mmhmm," I say, drying the plate, wishing I could slap him with it, for all the times when I was young that he made me feel horrible about myself.

"Washing up all the dishes," he continues, passing me a glass.

"Do you have a point?" I ask. I leave the glass in the sink, and bunch the little yellow dishtowel on Janet's pretty granite counter. Crossing my arms, I stand firm, though my inner child is still cowering.

"Just that it's like old times," he chuckles, as if we're old friends. "Cleaning up the mess after the family piggy has her slops."

"Yep. And just like old times, you're being an insufferable bastard." With that last statement, I leave the glass, and I leave the towel. I leave the kitchen entirely, and I tell Janet that Rick has offered sweetly to finish the kitchen so that I can get home before it's too late.

I kiss my mama Janet, and I hug my sisters, then I gather my purse and dig out my keys. Making the necessary promises to call when I get home, and swearing that I can't stay overnight because I have to work tomorrow, I peek through the kitchen door one last time. Rick is washing furiously, scrubbing a cookie sheet in what looks like a vicious rage.

"Thank you so much for doing all that, Ricky," I call sweetly, knowing how much he hates the nickname. "I just love that you thought of my safety so that I could get home early. Have a good week!"

Walking out of the house, I know that Rick will finish the kitchen alone, and I celebrate my little victory. It's only one day, but for the first time, I didn't cower away from Rick, I didn't let him tell me who I am, or what I'm worth.

For the first time, with Rick, anyway, I stood up for myself. I'm not thrilled that I had to do it in such an ugly way, and I'm not thrilled that I had to be cruel to myself in order to get the job done. It felt good though, even the nasty things that I said, because I got to watch his eyes grow wide with surprise, and I got to see a glimmer of respect in them.

Driving home, I can let the acting slide, and I can be myself again. I don't need to be tough now, and I don't need an I-don't-care facade. I can let a tear slide down my cheek, remembering all the times I've heard Rick call me "the family piggy."

I don't indulge myself for long, though. I hit play on my power list, and Christina Aguilera is with me again, the strength and power of her voice vibrating around me as I crank up the volume. Her words remind me that I am beautiful, that no one can hold me down, and that I don't need approval from anyone other than myself.

I've put it off for as long as I could, but today is the day. I'm wearing the ridiculous elastic pants that Chelsea made me buy, but I drew the line on a matching top. I don't care if it's not typical yoga clothing; I'm going to wear one of my comfy t-shirts. There is absolutely nothing that will convince me to wear one of those spandex shirt things. Jeez, I don't even dress like that in front of myself.

Pulling into the parking lot of the yoga studio, I look down at myself with a grimace. I've still been using the techniques that I've Iearned from Dr. Caswell, and I still feel that I'm growing in confidence and doing much better. The antidepressant helps, too; I don't think of suicide anymore, no matter how low I'm feeling. Other than to think about whether I've thought about it, and then comment that I haven't.

Still, right now, I'm feeling downright gross. I've pulled my dark hair into a messy bun to keep it out of my face, and I've chosen to wear a plain black t-shirt. It's not a huge, baggy thing, but it's certainly not figure hugging either; I'm wearing it for camouflage. Besides, it matches the plain black pants I was forced to buy, pants that hug my hips to remind me of how large they are. I have to admit, they are pretty comfortable though. If they had pockets, I might just live in them.

Another car pulls up beside me, and a slender goddess hops out. She's got blonde hair down to her slim hips, which she somehow manages to whip into a cute bun without a brush or mirror. She's like a little sexy marshmallow peep, with cheerful yellow pants that have a white line down each side, and a snug white tank top. Of course, she's wearing sparkling white sneakers; she's a picture of perfection.

Too bad I took so long being intimidated; as I sit there watching this girl who can probably wrap her own legs around her head, I debate pulling out of the lot and going home. I debate telling Renee that I'm sick, or that I forgot the class was today.

I debate too long, and Renee is suddenly there, leaning over and knocking on the passenger window of my car. It's too late, now I'm stuck.

Crap.

"Hey, Renee! I didn't even see you pull up!" I exclaim, pretending that I've been waiting for her, that I haven't been fighting my natural instinct to stand her up and go home.

"Uh huh," she says dryly. "I kind of noticed. Here, I brought you an extra yoga mat." She hands me a rolled up purple yoga mat, and now I'm more terrified than I was to begin with. Not only am I sure that I can't flex in the way that I will be asked to, but I'm pretty positive there's no way I can do it while trying not to roll off the yoga mat like a greased turkey that's out of control.

"Don't worry," Renee says, looping her arm through mine. She's gentle about it, but she's pulling me a little, urging me into the humiliation that I know is waiting for me.

It isn't that I'm unfit. My apartment is actually up four flights of stairs, and I take the stairs instead of the elevator on purpose, at least once a day. I park far from stores so that I have to walk farther, and I don't actually mind doing work out stuff. What I don't like, is working out in front of other, thinner people.

I take a deep breath and remind myself of today's quote, a rare nugget of wisdom from an unbelievable source. I have no idea how Paris Hilton made it into my quote book, but she did have a little strike of genius when she said, "No matter what a woman looks like, if she's confident, she's sexy."

Walking into the building and letting Renee tug me gently down the hall, I chant that quote to myself in my mind, trying to bring back the confident girl that I felt like at the family reunion.

I'm confident, I'm sexy. I'm confident, I'm sexy. I'm confident, I'm sexy.

No, I'm not. I'm a fat girl in a yoga class.

In the yoga studio, I'm horrified to see that all the walls are covered in mirrors. Now, not only do I get to see a room full of thin and flexible girls doing things I only wish I could do, but I also get to see them from all angles. And as an added bonus, I can now compare the slender angles and modest curves of those women to my exaggerated curves. I can now see
my
body from all angles too, as I try to twist and stretch into shapes that will likely seem unnatural to me.