I wrote this today, its really rough but I liked it enough to share. Read and comment.
I can feel myself gaining weight. I can feel the fat forming between my thighs and around my biceps and triceps. I can feel my skin stretching. I can feel it pull and fold over itself trying to make room and make it slightly comfortable. I can see my waist line expanding. What use to fit loosely in a size 4 now struggles to find room for the curves in an 8, and I refuse to buy anything bigger. I can feel the fat taking over my face, pushing up and making it harder to keep my eyes open. I am not Asian! I can feel the skin getting loser and dropping and making my chin so heavy that it has to create a new one just to support the highness of what use to be my cheek bones, now resembles Dizzy Gillespie’s cheeks mid way through a performance of Summertime.
This is sad. and my oily skins makes it look like I’m dripping in sweat and makes it look as though I just ran a 5k marathon, when I only walked to the elevator. I can feel my self getting fat. It’s the strange stare of the cashier at the supermarket or Dunkin doughnuts or at the McDonalds drive through window. When did it become criminal to order a tea and a plain bagel or a salad? I know how people think. Though my size 4 jeans rest in the bottom of some 4.99 target storage container, I still have my size 4 vogue sample sale mentality. I see the fat girls. Kankles! Moose Knuckle. Their food stains and their too small bras and the dimples that show when they wear stretch clothes. I use to love going to the gym, but I don’t have to leave the house to eat. It’s less judgmental. I don’t have to subject myself to the stares and the whispers of the thin girls on the treadmill whispering about my 180 failed diet attempts.
They don’t know me. The me who could wear anything to the beach, The me that made men crawl on their knees, that had 8 marriage proposals before the age of 22, the me who earned state gymnastics champion 3 years in a row. How could they? They probably see some suburban mom with 3 kids and a husband who no longer finds me attractive. I wish. At least then I would have a reason smile. I wouldn’t come home to the apartment and the cat that I hate but don’t have the balls to drown.
Its just me in this one bedroom the clothes I desperately want to fit into again and the bags of elastic waist band pants that leave my cheeks wet and my eyes puffy every morning. I don’t even bother to put on make up. Why would I want to draw more attention to my disappearing neck. I have the cutest turtleneck sweater dress that probably has enough elastic to look slightly decent on my enlarged frame, but damn that neck, or what use to be my neck. And I would have to wear a thong, and no one has seen me naked since size 6. There is Martin from the train, but I know he’s a chubby chaser. I remember back when I could find my size anywhere he would comment on how I should eat more. I am not that desperate to have a man in my bed to subject myself to his ham hock fantasy. I’d rather stick to my vibrator, and even that is becoming a bit of a work out.
Now, on the train, I choose not to talk to anyone. I stuff my face in a novels that I have sent to my house because the isles of the corner bookstore are to narrow for me to fit down. They lady who runs the store is nice to me. She calls me every Tuesday and tells me what new releases are coming in. This week I’m reading a 10 day diet book. I always order hard cover. That way I can hide. There is nothing worse than a fat lady with a diet book. To the rest of the world Im reading Jane’s love and sex something or another.
I do really want to be healthy. I want to be a size 4 again. I want a reason to smile. I guess somewhere down the line I forgot how to live and eating became the next best option. I want to blame him. And blame her too. I can’t. I can’t blame them for the elastic of my panties cutting of my circulation and leaving unsightly lines in my once bragged on thighs. He loved them would kiss them gently before he ran his finger and tongue between them. He’d spend hours down there, telling me to wrap my legs around him tighter. Then run his hands across my abdomen and continuing until he found a nipple to rub between his thumb and forefinger. There is nothing worse than a fat woman with small tits. My tits were perfect against my size 4 body. They now look like I need a training bra. June apples my mom used to call them.
I use to be cute and loved and popular. Other fat girls urge me to join there packs. I refuse. They find comfort in their size. I don’t. I won’t and will never. They splash on make up, and go to bars. They are fashionable, but not sample sale fashionable. Fat girl’s fashions are always a season late and never in flattering colors. I stick with basic black and white. I am a fat girl nun. Not apart of the world. I’m just a passer by. The other fat girls smell my fear. They try to console me. I don’t want their sympathy. I don’t want to be in the herd of cows in the buffet line trying to down our sorrows in gravy. I want a martini and I want a cute guy to buy it, one with a name that I won’t care to remember in the morning. The last guy to buy size 8 me a drink was 47 and married and only wanted to fuck me on Wednesday nights at my place when we was supposed to be bowling with co-workers. Size 4 me would never get such a horrible offer. Size 4 me got the job and the apartment and the Birkin bag and the Choo’s and Prada luggage set. Damn that Prada Luggage set. He brought it for the honeymoon, along with the Michael Kors bathing suite. The bathing suit I was going to be afraid to wear because of the heartbeat growing inside of me that he had nothing to do with.
The heartbeat, that selfish size 4 me created in a afternoon romp with one of my co-workers. Size 4 me loved him, but didn’t love the idea of being tied down to someone who on a scale of 1 to 10 was average. Size 4 me was a 10 on any scale. My co-worker was a 10. He worked in the mail room, but his face screamed upper management and I screamed and he had his way with me 3 times a week for 3 months. Condoms at first, that was a must, but then it became so passion filled that I threw caution and protection in the wind.
The heartbeat was created on a Tuesday. I remember. I had just gotten my hair cut the day before, and on that Wednesday he was fired for stealing. Maybe his face didn’t scream CEO. Maybe it was just a cute face and a huge cock with a slight bend to the left that touched and crushed my g-spot ever time he let me get on top. I blame him. I can’t even remember his name, but I know that he used to call me Lola, which was insane because my name was Cindy, size 4 Cindy, with the glowing chocolate skin. He used to call me Cici, but he was only a 5.
He loved me though. I can say that without an ounce of hesitation. I loved that he love me, and he loved me right until I started showing. He cancelled the wedding and offered to pay for the abortion. He couldn’t raise a child that wasn’t his. How could two beatufiul brown skin people raise a half white baby. I wouldn’t have any of that. The baby was mine. Mistake or not, I was going to love it. So he left.
I lost the baby in my third trimester. Some strange complications that I care not to talk about. No one was there the day I came home from the hospital with only one heartbeat. No one has been here since. My parents refuse to talk to me and my dad only sends chain letter emails because he doesn’t know how to remove me from his mailing list, but I know they are ok. My mother is a bitch just like me. She would hate to see me like this. She would hate to see me period.
So I hide, in my apartment. My room full of shit I can’t fit and bags full of plus size black pants and white blouses.
My only friend is food and an occasional bottle of wine.
I miss him. He now dates a Brazilian size 2. I bet she’s satisfied with him being a 5, hell, he looks like an 8 since my ranking dropped. I still think I’m find my self attractive on some days. Like, right after I just get my hair done and my eyebrows waxed. I bet he still loves me and wants to fuck…I mean make love to me even though I’m sure the journey from my thighs to my nipped is less desirable and more of a challenge now.
I saw him the other day. He didn’t recognize me and I’m glad he didn’t. He looked good. Still only an 8. I’ve dated 10’s, had them ready to pledge their lives to me. Ha! The good ol’ days, when being a bitch made everyday more exciting, now, when I’m bitchy I’m just the angry fat girl. My office at work used to be filled with pictures of me out on the town with girls. I took them down when I started buying bigger clothes. I didn’t want to hear “Wow, you were so thin back then”. I doesn’t matter. I’m still size 4 Cindy on the inside. Even if the outside is a size 8 and it will stay size 8, because if I reach 10 I’m jumping out the fucking window, and I haven’t given my self enough fat to cushion even that fall.
