The Lighter Side of Large (5 page)

The day my perfectly orchestrated life fell apart, Fi was barely two weeks old and I was struggling with postpartum depression. It was so bad that Mama Rose had taken Abe for a few days just to give me a little break. I felt like I was hurtling through the abyss of nothingness. The doctor prescribed me some pills but warned me that I had to stop breastfeeding so Fi wouldn’t be affected. So much for losing all my pregnancy weight the easy way. Breastfeeding burned calories like nobody’s business. I’d lost all of my pregnancy weight with Abe that way, but when Fi was conceived I was already two stone overweight. Now I had two more stones on top of that to lose. Or not to lose. I just didn’t care.

I remember Fi sleeping in her bassinet and I was staring at the TV, which was turned off, when Mika got home from work one Monday evening. I heard his car pull up, heard the car door open and slam shut, heard the side door open and close, footsteps on the new wood floor. Then he was standing in between the TV and me.

“I don’t love you anymore. I know you have this postpartum depression thing, but it’s not that. You’re not the woman I married. Just look at you; you’re not just overweight, you’re huge. I haven’t been happy for a long time. Tiresa and I have been seeing each other for a few months and she wants to move in, so you’ll need to pack your things and be out by the end of the week. I’ll support the kids, of course.”

He wasn’t remorseful. He made the decision without giving me a choice, without discussing our relationship to see if it was salvageable. I probably could have forgiven him, but he wanted her. I was not enough for him.

What does she have that I don’t?
I ask inwardly. Automatically, my head answers for me: everything. She has everything. She is still a gorgeous island-princess with a successful career, a busy social calendar, enough designer-clothes to open her own shop - and Mika.

Since our marriage ended, I see more of my sister now than before. Tiresa picks up Abe and Fi, nephew and niece and soon-to-be stepchildren (no pregnancy stretch marks on her, not when she can get kids the easy way), every Friday. Mika, who is usually busy at the firm, returns them home on Sunday evenings. That’s it. They never ask for my forgiveness; I never offer it. It is the black hole in my soul.

I catch a glimpse of the hippo at the end of the hallway again.
Darn.

CHAPTER FIVE

“ ‘Pride goeth before a fall.’ Pride preceding these moments is why you can never leave with it. It’s already ahead of you, ready for the next encounter with embarrassment.”

FROM BELLA’S BLOG
http://www.thelightersideoflarge.com/ch5

It’s a week before I see Sands again. On the way home from the grocery store, I stop by her gym. She’s just finished an aerobics class and waves me into her office.

“I did it,” I say as we step inside.

Sands whirls around. “You didn’t.”

“I did.” Out of nervous habit, I begin to jingle my keys.

“No way. Stop jingling.” Sands hates it when I do that.

“It’s done.”

“I told you not to!” she wails and plops into the chair behind her desk. “You can find a guy here for only $12 a month. How much did you pay? You paid double that amount, didn’t you? Triple?”

“It was a special offer. $49 for three months. But never mind,” I say as I squeeze into the narrow plastic chair in front of the desk and pray it doesn’t collapse. Its arms dig into my sides. Do chair arms really need sharp edges? “I’ll probably delete my account when I get home.”

“So did you meet anyone yet?”

“Yes and no,” I say vaguely.

She peers at me suspiciously. “You did. You met someone already and you’re going to meet him for dinner. No way you’re going alone. Text me when you find out where you’re going and I’ll go there and sit at a nearby table and make sure he doesn’t slip you the date rape drug.”

“You’re over-dramatising this just a bit, aren’t you? Yes,” I sigh, “I have chatted with a few guys and am unceremoniously dumped when they find out my weight.”

Now she looks at me like I’m crazy. “Your weight is a topic of conversation?”

I shrug. “I feel bad because my photo only shows an extreme close-up of my face and I want to be honest. I don’t want to lie to men. I want them to accept me, ALL of me.” I pinch my flabby upper arm for emphasis.

“Hence the extreme close-up. That’s really honest, Bella. What else did you lie about?”

I shrug again. “I might have made being a stay-at-home mum sound a bit more glamorous.”

Sands lets her face fall into her hands as she shakes her head in disbelief. Sands is my best friend from way back. A shrewd businesswoman, she is a fitness instructor and owns her own gym with plans to open more. Why we are best friends, I don’t know. She has everything yet chooses me, the antithesis of everything she represents, as a friend. She’s tall and beautiful and obsessed with staying fit and a consummate flirt. She gets any guy she wants, though ninety-nine percent turn out to be jerks. While my problem is not meeting any men, her problem is meeting too many men at her gym, the problem being that most take off their weddings rings before entering the gym or hide the fact that they have girlfriends until after she sleeps with them.

“Like I said,” I continue, “I’ll probably delete my account. I can’t take more rejection.”

Sands looks up and points a finger in my face. “That’s loser talk and you’re not a loser. You paid for three months and you’re not going to let the money go to waste.

“You said online dating is dangerous and didn’t want me to do it.”

Sands leans back in her chair and crosses her legs. “Forget what I said. You don’t want a guy from here, believe me.” She fails to make eye contact, which means only one thing.

“Who is it this time?” I prod.

Sands exhales. “Gregory, the blonde IT tech who joined a couple of months ago.”

“Sands,” I say. “Girlfriend or wife?”

“Wife. And get this: she calls right after we, well you know, and he answers the phone and then leaves because she needs him to pick up ice-cream. Can you believe it?”

“No, I can’t believe it that you will hop into bed with a guy without knowing more about him.”

“Do you think I’m a whore?”

“Yes. But I still love you.”

“Thanks. At least someone does,” she brightens. “There, you see? I get rejected too, so don’t let one guy’s rejection keep you off that dating site. You need to go home and get back on your laptop and meet some men. And then come back here tomorrow and start working out.”

“Sands!” I protest.

“No, I mean it. If you don’t want to lie about your weight, then you need to lose it so you don’t have to, full stop. Now get out of here and find a man. The wedding’s getting closer and you sure as hell aren’t going to take Cat or Riyaan as your date. It’s time to take charge, babe.”

I stare at her. “Have you been talking to my Dad?”

“No. How is he?”

“Just as full of advice as you are.” I get lost in thought. “You know, honesty gets me nowhere, so I might as well lie online.”

“You already lie online,” Sands reminds me.

“I mean about my weight. I can’t count how many stories I’ve heard where people meet someone from a dating site and they don’t look anything like they made themselves out to be, or their profile photo was evidently taken several trouser sizes ago. So why shouldn’t I do the same in order to make first contact?”

“And then it blows up in your face when they meet you in person. Yeah, that’s a great plan. Let me know how it works out.”

I rise from the chair, taking it with me. “I’m taking charge of my life, just like you said,” I say through clenched teeth as I struggle to disengage the chair, which is firmly attached to my butt.

“Let me help.” Sands gets up just as the chair comes off with a pop and crashes to the floor.

“No, I can help myself,” I say and hurry out of the office before she can argue.

•

It works. Lying works. Lying works because I have a date.

I stand outside Yummy’s Greek Restaurant awaiting his arrival, my keys jingling a mile a minute. We’d chatted for a couple of weeks online before Wesley, asked me out to dinner. Sure, he came off as a little arrogant, but successful businessmen often do and he is owner of a landscaping company which boasts a fleet of trucks and a dozen employees.

I wear a new frock, made of black (black is slimming) gauzy fabric which is not clingy and thus does not emphasize my rolls and folds. The short shirred sleeves and empire waist with small bow accent create a Grecian effect. Coupled with gold metallic sandals, I think I look very well and feel more confident than I have in a long time.

“ShyNSweet?” a voice asks. I look up to find Wesley standing there.

“RockStarMan83?” I reply, flashing him a smile and stuffing my keys into my purse.

“That’s me,” he grins in return and looks me over head to toe. I hold my breath. He now knows I lied about my weight but doesn’t show any sign of anger. “Are you hungry? Let’s get this party started,” he adds before I can reply.

As we enter the restaurant, he holds the door for me. I’m nervous and perspiring and trying not to fidget while we wait for the hostess to get our table ready. Wesley stands with one hand in his pocket jingling change.

“So how’s your day been?” he asks.

“Great, just great. Been busy with work.”

“You got that right.” He smoothes back his close-cropped black hair. He has a small bald spot on the back top of his head, stands about an inch taller than me and has a slight paunch. He opens his mouth to speak again when his cell phone beeps. He pulls it out of his jacket pocket and reads a text, then drops the phone back in the pocket. “Yeah, work has been crazy-busy, clients calling all day long and wanting their lawns done that day. I keep telling them they have to give us at least twenty-four hour’s notice if they won’t keep a regular schedule. They think I’m Superman and can do the impossible and then they expect
me
to show up with my crews. I mean, come on, I’m the boss. That’s why I get the office. I don’t work in the field anymore. I did my time. It’s like I used to always tell Michelle - that’s my ex-girlfriend - that I’m not available twenty-four/seven. I’m my own man. I have a life. I have plans. Don’t place demands on me.”

“Sure, you’re right, you deserve a break,” I agree, though I am surprised by his vehemence.

“Exactly.” He nods, happy for the affirmation. “Michelle could never understand that. Work time is work time. I don’t need to be chatting on the phone with her all day long. And then after work, I like to have a drink with the guys, unwind, shoot some pool, play golf. But no, if I shut off my phone and turn it on again a couple of hours later, there are fifteen messages from her and clients griping that I’m never available. You know, screw it, I’m not available for people who don’t respect me.”

I nod. “That’s smart that you stand up for yourself.”

“Oh yeah.” Wesley continues to jingle change, which is annoying. “No one messes with me. Not gonna happen.”

His phone beeps again and he pulls it out and texts some more.

The hostess returns and picks up two menus. “Your table is ready. This way, please?”

Wesley lets me go first, which makes me nervous as we wind through the restaurant. At least the tables are far enough apart that I don’t knock olives and feta cheese into anyone’s lap, but by going first, it gives Wesley a close-up view of my butt, which is not my most alluring feature and not one I want to promote on a first date.Our table is one of those cosy, romantic tables for two, complete with jar candle. “Do you mind if I sit there?” Wesley asks before I can pull out the chair. “I don’t like sitting with my back to the door.”

“Sure, no problem,” I say and squeeze past him and the hostess to get to the other side.

“Great, thanks.” He sits down without waiting for me to sit first or holding my chair. The hostess hands us our menu and leaves. Wesley doesn’t open his. “Do you know what you want so we can order right away?” he asks.

“Uh, no, I’ve never been here before,” I reply, taken aback by his briskness.

“I come here all the time. Want me to order for you? We’ll get our food faster that way.”

I close the menu. “Sure.”

“Great.” He nods and snaps his fingers. “Anatole, hey, we’re ready to order,” he calls.

Anatole rushes to our table. “Wesley, good to see you.” A tall, slender man with olive skin and dark hair greets us with a thick Greek accent. “The usual for you? Start off with pita bread and hummus, then Greek salad and moussaka.”

“You know it and the same for my lady friend here. Which wine do you recommend?”

Anatole jots down our order. “Tempranillo or Shiraz is good.”

“I trust your judgment. Bring whichever one you like best.” Wesley claps him on the back. Anatole gives a slight bow and hastens away. Wesley turns his full attention on me.

“So, we meet at last. Do you meet a lot of guys online?” He folds his arms on the table and leans forward.

I laugh nervously. “I just got on the site a few weeks ago and haven’t had much time to really get to know anyone. You know, work takes up so much of my time.”