Slim to None Page 18

  "Look, Abbie. If you don’t want to sell it, we won’t sell it. It’s just that you seem so set in your ways, I hate to waste the thing."

  I stare at Barbie for a minute, and find it weird that they put nipples on mannequins now. Is there a need for such veracity? What next—packages on the Ken mannequins? Why not, what with the enormous Abercrombie and Fitch posterboy hard-ons that just so happen to be at eye-level when you walk by the store. Not much is left to the imagination anymore. Maybe that’s why it’s even harder to be fat nowadays, because thin women adorn their bodies with so little that anyone who disguises their body with fabric stands out all the more.

  "Forget about it. Barbie—I mean Shelly—can’t have my bike. It’s my bike. And I’ll get around to riding it when I’m good and ready." I don’t dare mention to him that I might actually pop the tires when the time comes.

  "Fine. It’s your scooter. If you’re so concerned about losing hold of more of your life, then keep the damned thing. I don’t care. But why don’t you think about riding it, rather than letting it fester, like you seem to want to do with other important things in your life, Abbie?"

  With that, William crosses the street and disappears in the late lunch throng of pedestrians, leaving me alone with Barbie and Francie, the odd girl out, the only real swell amongst us that of emotions burning through my breast like a bad case of heartburn.

  Never eat more than you can lift.

  Miss Piggy

  Bring Issues to Boil, Reduce for Several Days until Concentrated

  I suppose it’s a good sign that following my troubled exchange with William, I decided to spend some time at the gym, venting my stress on the treadmill and elliptical machines rather than opting to divert to a patisserie and delve into a pot de crème or an éclair or two. I have been known to do just that on more than one occasion. All things considered, so far today I haven’t strayed too far from my carb-free intent, even if I’m not exactly following the South Beach Diet the way God had intended it to be followed. That is, if God had any hand in it, which of course we all know he didn’t. So if it’s not God’s word, hey, who needs it? Follow the logic?

  At home I take out the pot of chicken stock—yes, the same breakfast indulgence from a few short hours ago, if you’ll recall—and heat up a mug in the microwave. Something gravely unsettling about choosing to snack on stock, but I’m willing to give it a go, at least temporarily. If need be.

  I notice an envelope on the nearby counter and pick it up. In William’s wobbly handwriting on it I see a large heart with what appears to be a drop of blood escaping from where an arrow pierces it. Above the arrow says Abbie and below it says William, and he’s made a little plus sign out of the arrow, with the feather vane at the end intersected with the letters TLA. True Love Always. How sweet. Curious, I rip it open.

  Abbie, Love—

  I hope you’ll understand I’ve decided that I need a little break from us for a while. I’m just trying to work through my feelings right now, trying to understand why our paths have diverged so greatly and wondering if and when we might be able to get things back on track again. I’m trying really hard to see things through your eyes, babe. But I’d be lying to you if I didn’t admit that so far I’m falling short. So I need some time to clear my head. I think you’ll agree that time apart could well help to clarify a lot of things for us both. So please, respect my wishes that our time apart be just that: separate. No visits, no phone calls, no communications, barring emergencies. Okay? I’ll be in touch when the time is right.

  Love,

  Me

  I stand for a good long while digesting this, my mouth feeling suddenly exceedingly arid. Huh. He’s really taking a break this time. Not just a Jersey getaway, but more like an Abbie getaway. As if I’m a really harsh winter in Boston and he feels compelled to seek a Caribbean panacea. The cure to Abbie-dom. Wow. So. Okay then. What does this mean in the big picture? I read and re-read the missive, mining his words for a gem of a clue. I think maybe William just needs to get away for a while and he’ll see things differently. He’ll realize that everything’s fine with us, really it is. Isn’t it? I mean, heck. That baby thing? It’ll all happen some time. Just not yet. That’s all. As for right now? It’s just a little break in the action. Every marriage needs a spell sometimes. This is just halftime of the football game. A digestive respite before the dessert course. Yeah, that’s what it is.

  I fold the letter in half, pressing the crease carefully with the side of my hand as if stroking the wrinkles out of my laundry. I fold it again, pressing firmly on the crease, fold in half again. Then again. Before I’m done folding it it’s a small wad the size of my thumbnail. I tuck it in the back of a kitchen drawer, making certain to shut the drawer all the way. I then take the ripped envelope, the one with the pierced heart, and hang it with a magnet on the refrigerator. Abbie + William. TLA.

  Well, looks like no William to be home for dinner tonight. No sense in sticking around here and listening to my voice bounce off the walls. Maybe I should just slip into the office now. Most everyone will be gone soon, I can work in peace and not feel yet again the perpetual eyes of pity on me. I gather up my belongings, including my laptop, feed Cognac, and head outside, the finality of the door closing behind me lending a solemn air to the moment.

  * * *

  The elevators are belching out clots of people headed home to loved-ones as I arrive at the office. Who else but the loved-oneless (or would that be loved-one-on-holiday?) go to work at this point of the day? But that’s okay, because this way I can get my work done in an environment unrelated to my home, to keep my mind off of things.

  I keep my head down, going right to my cubicle, avoiding the low murmur of a few voices. I’ve got scales on the brain: many issues weighing heavily in my brain right now: fair versus unfair, balance or not. Jess and Dex. Jess and Abbie. William and Abbie. Abbie and that sneaky rat bastard who stole my job. Abbie and her ex-dad. Abbie and her not-really sister. Something about my life seems extremely imbalanced, and balance, or lack thereof, always reminds me of scales. Which are, of course, the mortal enemy of yours truly...

  You Know That Line About the Scales of Justice?Well, That’s An Oxymoron, You Moron

  Or:There is No Justice When It Comes to Scales

  I think at this point it goes without saying (well, if it goes without saying, you editors are asking, why then are you saying it?) that scales to me are Public Enemy #1.

  I hate them, they only upset me (with the exception of the period immediately following a long bout with a stomach bug), and they only serve to create stress in an already stressful world. They should be banned.

  One of the downsides to gaining weight is of course the cruel reality of the scale readout. I can’t quite imagine why anyone would buy the type of scale that has a magnifier glass on it. It’s bad enough when the numbers are small and barely discernable. But amplified by the thick glass and with people nearby who will then be able to share in your painful secret—it’s just not something I’m willing to consider. In fact, if I was asked to design a scale, I think I’d create one that could whisper your weight into your ear—leaving no visible sign of the true weight.

  But in the meantime, I’ve come up with some suggestions that might make your daily/weekly/monthly/annual scale ritual a little more palatable:

  RULES TO MAKE SCALE-MOUNTING A LESS OBJECTIONABLE TASK

  1. Respect the laws of physics: never cough, sneeze, or apply any other type of undue force while stepping onto a scale.

  2. Never, under any circumstances, mount a scale with clothing on.

  3. Never—and this is punishable by severe depression—step on a scale after eating or drinking anything. My rule is a full twelve hours must pass before attempting a scale mount after ingesting anything. It helps if sleep occurs somewhere in this time frame; something about sleep can occasionally be forgiving when it
comes to added poundage from the previous day’s food intake.

  4. Take a deep, cleansing breath. Exhale completely and then step gingerly onto scale without inhaling.

  5. When things start to look really bad, you may want to consider looking into a scale that converts to kilos—it’s a far more user-friendly number.

  6. Consider two scales: left foot on one, right foot on the other. Maybe the weight will be divided that way, and you can average out the combined weight from both scales to no doubt come up with a far more appealing weight.

  7. Perhaps go online and order a scale from England. Your weight in stones versus pounds might even bring a smile to your face.

  To me, the ultimate public humiliation involving a device that calibrates body mass (aka a scale) is the mandatory scale mount when you go to see the doctor. In my rebellious dotage, I have decided that no doctor needs to know how much I weigh unless I’m about to undergo emergency surgery and the anesthesiologist needs to get it right so he doesn’t dose me with enough anesthesia to knock out a horse (who may, alas, weigh less than me at this point). Then, and only then, is this information being released to anyone.

  Here’s what happened to me not long ago when I had to visit the doctor...

  I sit in the waiting room, dread creeping into my mind as I watch the clock slowly advance. Chewing my ragged cuticles, I know it’s only a matter of time before the usual confrontation will commence.

  "Abigail Jennings," the nurse calls for me.

  "How are you?" she flashes her Mona Lisa smile as she leads me into the bowels of the office; I think she relishes what comes next. "Now, come on over here, and if we can get you to just step up onto this scale—">

  "No, thank you, I think I’ll pass," I quickly interject, hoping the words will breeze by her as rapidly as I’d bypassed that scale.

  "Oh, but you have to," she insists.

  "I’m sorry, but I’m just here to have two stitches removed from my thumb," I assure her. "I don’t think it’s necessary for me to do that."

  The nurse, now glaring at me with suspicion and dismay, weighs her options (after all, who refuses a nurse’s orders?). She steps aside to confer with a few of her colleagues, then returns to me.

  "Well, I suppose, if you insist," she hesitates, her brow furrowed as she furiously scribbles information in red ink onto my top-secret medical chart. "Then just follow me into room number three."

  I’m sure I hear her crossly muttering syllable by syllable as she writes in my folder, "pa-tient—re-fu-ses—to—be—weighed."

  The remainder of my office visit is punctuated by curt questions on the part of both the nurse and then the doctor, my red-flagged chart singling me out as an uncooperative patient, merely because I refused to mount that dreaded scale.

  I simply can’t believe I’m the only one out there suffering from scale-phobia—that doctors’ offices across America don’t encounter reluctant scale-avoiders on a daily basis. Yet the reaction with which I’ve been met whenever I politely decline a nurse’s generous offer to weigh me seems to indicate that I’m the only one bold enough to reject this ritual.

  To me, a scale is nothing but the bearer of bad news, confirming my worst fears about my unconfirmed weight. It’s bad enough to experience scale mortification in the privacy of one’s own bathroom, but to have to stand on that platform while watching a stranger repeatedly flick-flick-flick those weighted metal squares further down the right side of the scale balance—eyes all the while growing larger with astonishment—-is more than I can bear.

  I suppose that my fear and loathing of bathroom scales is indicative of a deep-seated need to lose at least a few extra pounds. And believe me, I’ll be first in line when someone figures out how I can do that while still being able to consume food on a daily basis.

  Until that day, I guess I’ll just have to avoid getting sick, so that I can keep my doctor’s visits to a minimum, and keep my secrets to myself.

  * * *

  I’m entirely lost in my thoughts when I notice Barry speaking sotto voce nearby. I strain to hear what he’s saying.

  "Look Ling, fella. It’s up to you," he nearly whispers.

  Ling? As in Ling Chung? Whose highly-anticipated two-floor indoor/outdoor Asian tapas martini bar, Happy Chung, is set to open in two weeks and has been beset by construction problems and staff firings already?

  "Your call. You know where to put the cash-ola, my friend, by end of business Friday. No cash? Well, I’d sure hate to see any cute little whiskered vermin as I walk by the kitchen when I’m in there reviewing the place. We speaking the same lingo, Ling?" He starts to laugh and reminds me of a villain in a Scooby Doo cartoon.

  I’d have gotten away with it if it weren’t for you meddling kids!

  Only meddling now is me, who is at once appalled that he would taint the good name of the Sentinel food section with thuggish threats like that, yet also curiously thrilled that he’s setting himself up for me to exact revenge upon him, that rat bastard. Have I mentioned that term before in reference to Barry?

  But how do I follow-through on this? I’m not exactly MacGyver. I’m more like Angela Lansbury in Murder, She Wrote. Minus the proper British accent (but certainly sporting the dowdy exterior).

  As his voice draws nearer, I carefully crawl beneath my desk, aimed away from the entrance to my cubicle, hoping that Barry doesn’t notice my presence. All I need is for him to know that I know something’s up. But not to worry. There’s more than one way to skin a rat. Thank goodness I’m a smart woman. Because like Angela (who, by the way, was a hottie in her heyday), Abbie Jennings will get her man. Or in this case, her rodent. All it’ll take is a little cheese...

  * * *

  After slipping out of the office unnoticed I realize I have nothing to do with myself. What a lonely feeling that is. Here I am in a city teeming with humanity, and yet I’m all by my lonesome. There was a time when I’d automatically pop into one of my favorite restaurants, but frankly, that holds little appeal. I just start to wander and pretty soon I find myself approaching my latest regular haunt. It must be a sign. Even though I’ve already been here once today, I figure nothing bad could happen to me if I worked out at the gym for a bit longer, just to burn off the stress a little.

  In the locker room I put on my sweaty gym clothes from this morning and head out to the elliptical machine. It’s not too hard to get in the zone, and before I know it an hour has passed. I am drenched in sweat, and admittedly start to get bored of watching Extra on the personal screen in front of me. You can only take so much of Jessica Simpson’s weight issues before feeling the need to tune out. I feel sorry for the poor girl, being unable to enjoy eating enough that she steps up to a size four. Crazy country we live in when a size four is fat.

  "Can you believe they’re calling her fat?" I hear a familiar voice and look next to me to see Jane Greer, of all people, looking very neat and clean (and yes, thin) for being in the middle of sweating.

  I look at who she’s talking about. "Yeah, I mean granted, the girl’s petite stature reveals every ounce of fat she gains, but please, leave her alone already!" I say, figuring conversation with Jane Greer won’t hurt me too much.

  "I don’t know what’s wrong with the media, making her out to be such a clown. Well, sure, maybe there are things about her that legitimately make her out to be one, but not because of a few extra pounds on her butt," she says.

  I nod in agreement. Weird that Jane and I have anything in common. Aside from DNA. I never thought I’d have commonality with the woman on anything.

  "I liked your column the other day, by the way," she adds.

  "Yeah? The willpower one?"

  "Where your pants didn’t fit and your husband heard you sucking in your breath trying to force the zipper up?"

  I slow down a little so I can talk more clearly. "Can you believe I am crazy
enough to let the whole world in on my weight problems?"

  "I think it’s great," she says. "I mean no one talks about this. We are in this world in which grown women are expected to have the bodies of tweens. Whatever happened to the Jane Russells and the Marilyn Monroes of the world? Now those were real women’s bodies. Those extra pounds on Jessica Simpson would have been revered back in the day."

  "You got that right, sister." Um. By sister I didn’t mean sister. I meant it in the figurative sense of the word. Awkward!

  Jane looks at me, wondering if I am finally conceding something to her. She has a confused look in her eyes, almost as if she’s not sure how to process that one little word that slipped erroneously from my lips.

  She looks as if she’s about to say something, to acknowledge the term of reference, but then she shakes her head and continues to run in place.

  It’s quiet for a few minutes, but for the usual gym background noise: whirring treadmills, clanging weights, grunting men with excessive testosterone on display with too-heavy weights.

  I am not good with awkward silence and can’t help but open my yap.

  "What brings you to my neck of the woods?"

  "My gym gives me reciprocity with other places. I had some work in the city and figured I’d get in a workout while I waited for rush hour to clear out. Too much of a pain getting back to Jersey at this time of day."

  We whir away for a few more minutes.

  "You wanna grab some coffee or something?" She asks out of nowhere.

  Taken aback, I’m not sure how to respond. It’s not as if I have anything to do with my time.

  "Uh, sure. I guess so."

  "Great. I saw there’s a cute little juice bar in the lobby—you game?"

  I nod my head, wiping the sweat from my brow with a towel. Wondering if the sweat is from a hard workout or from being nervous about this ongoing engagement with Jane Greer.

  * * *