Her sagging breasts, flabby stomach, and bulging thighs suggested an age that far surpassed her actual years. She gasped, sucking in that godforsaken stomach for as long as she could manage—a few seconds at most. She turned to the side, her wide green eyes examining her all-too-sad-looking body. In the mirror’s reflection, light shone through the open blinds behind her and she gasped again—this time in embarrassment. Surely the neighbors could see every dimple she tried so carefully to keep concealed. She ducked, resting her paunchy knees on the marinara-sauce-splotched carpet that she had forgotten to clean again this month. Ugh.
Crawling out of the window’s sight, she straightened up again and allowed her body to become what it truly was—fat, ugly, disgusting. Her chin too jiggly, her neck too thick, her shoulders too square, her breasts too floppy, her ribcage too damn huge—nothing fit right. Nothing worked right. In her short twenty-five years of life, she’d become old, haggard, droopy, sad. Relaxing the muscles that had never been properly engaged, she sighed. Her waist so wide, her hips so puckered, her buttocks so flat, her legs so short, her feet so flat—she wasn’t happy. Glancing at her reflection once more, she realized it was no wonder no one fancied her. Not only was she unsightly, she was also completely paralyzed by self-loathing. Upon Googling her self-diagnosed symptoms, she finally came to terms with the truth—she was normal. She was suffering from normal issues that other normal people suffer from. She wasn’t alone. With that, she decided to get herself dressed in old clothes and a new attitude.
Cellulite isn’t the end of the world, she reminded herself while tugging on her skinny jeans. You’re curvy, you’re fabulous, you’re…normal. Everyone has cellulite. She grabbed the waistband of her jeans and jumped once, twice, three times, shimmying into them. Sucking in her stomach, she fastened the brass button and zipped. She decided not to breathe normally, instead holding her stomach taut and puffing out her chest. I could pull these off, she thought. I could make these work. She dug through her closet for a flowing tunic top; grabbing one and throwing it on, she hoped beyond hope that it would hide her muffin top. Her anxiety met her at the mirror. She primped and struck a thousand poses. The flowers on her tunic floated about, dancing to the beat of her every movement. The pink petals matched her flushed cheeks, and the green stems complimented the emerald hue of her eyes. She reached a level of contentedness with her appearance that would otherwise be considered settling, but the clock had struck twelve far sooner than she’d hoped it would.
Time for work. She sighed, throwing her bulky black jacket on over her tunic. Chicago looked cold today. She grabbed her brown purse and keys—complete with her “Anne” keychain that her baby sister had given her last year—and headed for the door of her studio apartment. You’d think that living in a sixth-floor walk-up in a large city would help trim her thick frame. Instead, Anne’s appetite was never satisfied. She wanted more, loved the rich tastes of her favorite foods, the way they felt going down her throat, the taut fullness of her stomach. Chocolate, pasta, chicken fingers and pizza seemed to be the extent of her diet. She smiled, thinking of the chocolate scone she planned on eating the moment she walked in to work.
Mocha Choka Coffee Parlor. This shop was both the bane of Anne’s existence and the root of her happiness. At $7.50 an hour plus tips, she barely made enough to pay for that sixth-floor walk-up, let alone the classes she’d wanted to take this semester at the University of Chicago. She’d thought that a political science class or two would be manageable this semester. Too damned expensive, this city was. At this rate, she’d never be able to take the LSAT, never get in to law school, never get out of the coffee shop and into the real world. Had she known it earlier, she might never have left the comforts of small-town Sidney, Illinois.
Luckily, Mocha Choka offered a wide array of sweet snacks, all eager to add to Anne’s waistline. Chocolate scones, marbled muffins, Seven Layers of Heaven bars—Anne sighed, examining the case, her mouth watering incessantly. Of course, eating one of those Choco-no-nos would probably just add to her self-image issues. She reeled from the case, shook her stringy blonde bangs out of place, and made a beeline for the restroom. God forbid she serve any of those sugary delights with unwashed hands.
In the public restroom, Anne couldn’t help but examine her acne-scar-pocked cheeks. She had fastened her hair back with a bobby pin, but the static frizzies didn’t want to stay in place. Finally resting her eyes on the dark bags beneath them, Anne decided to make a change. She thrust her hands under the automatic dryer and stepped out of the restroom a new woman. No more Choco-nonos. No more self-degradation. No more popping pimples.
“You’re late!” Linda’s shrill voice carried over the din of the customers’ conversations.
“Yeah, I know. But my hands are clean!” Anne wrapped her brown apron around her belly, careful to cover her muffin top.
“I’m gonna start cutting your hours, Saunders.”
“No, no, please don’t! I know I’m late a lot, but it’s because of my asthma. I can only walk so fast!”
“Leave earlier. Consider yourself a seasonal employee. Watch your back.”
What a heinous bitch, Anne thought as she made her way from the apron station to the cash register. With her black hair and brown eyes, Linda certainly was a likely candidate for the devil’s wife.
“Get to work,” Linda hissed from the left side of her mouth.
“Welcome to Mocha Choka. How can I help you?”
On her way home, Anne usually had a large Mocha Frappuccino with extra whip in one hand and a scone in the other. Somehow, she seldom noticed the three gyms, the Weight Watchers outlet, and two clothing stores for petite women that she passed on her regular route. Today, however, her hands were empty. She’d elected to skip the normal snack in her new diet. She’d decided to stop eating during the day, instead filling up on one larger meal at dinnertime. Anne’s cheeks flushed at the sight of all those scantly clad women that were willing to ride their stationary bikes in full view of the rest of the world. How could she get a body like that? Why wasn’t it easier? Anne sucked in her stomach once again, inhaling fully and feeling her lungs burn from the bitterly cold air. After a few more deep breaths, she opened the door to the nearest Weight Watchers storefront.
Home again, Anne shed her bulky jacket and pulled the Weight Watchers application out of her purse. Yes, she thought, this is a good idea. This’ll work. I can make this happen. She reminded herself of what the Weight Watchers representative had said to her next to the scale.
“Remember, you control your destiny,” the svelte brunette rep insisted, smiling brightly at Anne. “You can regain control of your life.”
She threw the application near the sink, its stark white contrasting the dark Formica countertops. She opened the cupboard, grabbed a glass, and poured herself a glass of milk, taking deep gulps to slow her heavy breathing. The sixth-floor walk-up wasn’t doing anything for her asthma, that’s for sure. Putting the gallon back in the fridge, she noticed a distinct lacking. Rotting strawberries, one plate of leftover pad thai from the restaurant around the corner, and a bottle of ketchup was all that was staring back at her. Grocery shopping was going to be a hassle. She pulled a pound of ground beef from the freezer, hoping that it would thaw quickly.
Anne considered avoiding her email, but couldn’t help but wonder what craziness her parents were up to this week. After Anne and her sister graduated and moved from small-town Sidney, their parents sold the farm, bought an Airstream, and started driving. They’d been criss-crossing the country for years, rarely stopping to take a breath before continuing down the road. Anne couldn’t remember the last time her parents had seen her apartment, with its peeling paneled walls, it’s chipped toilet bowl, and it’s cheap linoleum flooring. They were keeping a blog, somehow, and her mother couldn’t help but update it hourly. Anne had scrolled through pictures of the Grand Canyon, the Golden Gate Bridge, Route 66, Mount Rushmore, and the Pacific Ocean, not surprised that they had never taken a vacation during her childhood.
In her spare time, Mom was scanning all of their old photos onto the computer. Every once in awhile, she’d send Anne one with a caption exclaiming, “remember when you looked this good?” Staring back at her from the screen was usually a prepubescent Anne, thin as a rail with long, lanky limbs. Anne had started gaining weight in high school and, after graduating and with new-found diet freedoms, her weight had skyrocketed in college. Since then, she couldn’t go a day without her mother reminding her of what she could be. Between the pictures of her childhood and the pictures of her parents—they had been married for thirty-two years and had tall and thin replicas of one another—Anne was constantly reminded of her hefty downfall. The criticism from her mother only made her want to eat more, however.
Snug in her bed, Anne found the application less than appealing. Anne decided to think it over a bit longer and instead opted for some spaghetti and meatballs to curb her appetite. She turned on her television to find that the six o’clock news had just finished. Just in time for “Man Vs. Food,” Anne thought, smiling while digging the spaghetti noodles out of the pantry. Before flipping the channel, however, the beginning credits for “The Biggest Loser” came onto the screen. Anne hesitated. Should I watch this instead? Maybe it’ll inspire me.
Commercial time. Anne struggled to pull herself off the couch, carrying a plate, once heaped in spaghetti, meatballs, and marinara, to the sink to wash. She left one plate, one glass, and one fork to dry in the dish rack and turned to the freezer, where one pint of Ben and Jerry’s was sitting with her name on it. Anne grabbed a spoon from the drawer and hurried back to the couch just in time for the eHarmony commercial. Damn, it seems like these things get played triple time before Christmas.
“Joining eHarmony wasn’t necessarily to get a date; it was to meet the right person,” Lee claimed from the TV screen. He and Anne Marie looked too damn happy.
Anne dug her spoon into her Chunky Monkey with intensity, her face turning red from the physical exertion. I am sick of these commercials telling me what is and isn’t good for me. I want it all, faster, easier, better. Before she knew it, The Biggest Loser had returned. Anne dropped the empty container, satisfied with her choice to eat like a real person.
Anne climbed in to bed, her flannel sheets providing warmth that her otherwise cold and empty bed did not. It was only late at night that she wondered what it would be like to be smaller. To be in shape. To be any shape at all. It must be a burden. I can’t stand the idea of having to maintain that kind of image. I think I’m fine the way I am. With that, Anne rolled over on to her side and fell promptly asleep.
Monotony ensued. Anne’s life slogged on at a snail’s pace. She ripped up the Weight Watchers forms the next day and tossed them in the trash on top of the empty Ben and Jerry’s container. She continued to pass the gyms and clothing stores on her way to and from work. She continued to eat entire family portions of her favorite foods. She even stopped dreaming of, one day, being able to go back to school. Instead, she settled for a mundane existence in the Windy City.
At Christmas, her parents called and wished her a merry one. She’d elected to spend it with her sister, Mary, at her home outside of Milwaukee. Watching her nephews race through the house, slipping on the wood floors and shooting each other with their brand-new Nerf guns, Anne realized how alone she truly felt. She helped herself to more than her fair share of Christmas cookies and smiled, hoping that a new year could mean a fresh start.
In April, the lilacs and tulips bloomed outside of Anne’s high-rise apartment building. The sun shone brightly again, and the runners returned to their normal loops, passing Anne by as she coughed and heaved her way to Mocha Choka. The last traces of snow were melting, as was her resolve to be happy the way she was. Her weight had skyrocketed through the winter months, adding more jiggle than ever before. Anne’s habits had gone from bad to worse, as she could now finish an entire box of spaghetti in a single meal. Her clothes stopped fitting again. Her jacket was too tight around the middle. What she had chalked up to “winter blubber” had become Anne’s new norm.
Why is it that, as soon as I start thinking somewhat positively about myself, I decide to binge? Why can’t I keep any of the promises I make to myself? Why don’t I have the resolve to lose weight?
April had proven promising. Anne decided to join a gym. She was getting more hours at the coffee shop and so allowed herself the extra expense. At first, she worked out in men’s sweatpants and the most athletic-like shoes she could find in her closet—a pair of flats from Payless. She promised herself that, with each pound dropped, she would add money to a “gym clothing” savings account. She even hired a physical trainer, who sent her to death’s doorstep three times a week.
“Seven more! Anne, you can do this! Six more!” Jeff’s face flushed as he screamed orders at her. Sweat dripped from his forehead, soaking his muscle tee during the first ten minutes of each session. His V-shaped body, sex-foot-one-inch height, and rippling muscles intimidated Anne, giving her both the energy to push through and the will to quit.
The gym, Muscle Madness, was a sole room that smelled of sweat and empty promises. Jeff met her at the door on that first Monday, greeting her with a “humpf” and forcing her to do a turn, as if he wanted to know what he was working with. He pointed out the cardio stations near the front windows, the circuit machines in the middle, and the locker rooms in the back.
After ten crunches, she couldn’t bear anything more. But Jeff was always kind enough to help her remember her self-worth.
“Anne, get your fat ass up and do some push-ups. Pronto!”
Ten push-ups later, she found herself sweat-covered and collapsed in a heap at Jeff’s feet.
“Anne! I’m not going to tell you again. Get your fat ass up. It’s cardio time!”
His veins bulged from his forehead and neck, making his red face all the scarier. Anne didn’t remember signing up for Army boot camp. Of course, Jeff was an ex-Marine and, therefore, didn’t think anything of his routine vocal abuse.
Three times a week, Jeff led her through normal exercises—sit-ups, push-ups, cardio, circuits—and, three times a week, Anne left the gym feeling as if she’d die before ever again stepping foot in her apartment. Her asthma was working overtime and her muscles ached from all the new activity. Anne couldn’t help but complain to anyone who’d listen. Her sole friend at work, Candace, would shake her long brown curls in earnest every time Anne brought it up.
“Anne, you are not fat!” she would exclaim. “I don’t understand where this obsession with weight comes from.”
“Candy, I’m just so lonely. I think that losing weight would help me find a guy.”
“What do you need a guy for? You’re gorgeous, perfect just the way you are.”
“Get back to work!” Linda would shout. “It’s about time you lost some weight.”
“Get your fat ass up, Anne!” Jeff shook sweat from his brow. “You have a million pounds to lose!”
He handed her a list of approved foods and snarled, “See you next week.”
She examined the list. Fish, spinach, salad dressing on the side? This is going to be harder than I thought.
“I just don’t trust fat asses to report back to me honestly,” he claimed at their next session. “I don’t care how dedicated they are. There’s bound to be slip ups here and there…and Jeff doesn’t do slip ups.”
Anne’s self-worth dwindled dramatically. She was starting to realize that she wouldn’t be able to do this forever. This weight is a lot to lose. And I still love food. That love affair will always be number one in my heart. Why am I doing this to myself?
“Screw this!” Anne screamed, jabbing the STOP button on the treadmill with her pointer finger. “I QUIT!”
“Oh no you don’t, fat ass. No one quits on Jeff. You’re sure as hell not quittin’.”
“Watch me, jerk.”
With that, she stormed out of the cardio area and into the locker room. Once there, she got onto the scale and weighed herself one last time. 147. Still not enough flab gone. I can’t stand this.
She left the locker room and skulked back to Jeff, her head hanging in shame.
“I can’t quit. I have so much weight left to lose. I know that,” she said, sighing and climbing back onto the treadmill.
“Damn straight you do,” Jeff said, punching the buttons to set the speed and incline. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking you look okay. Okay is not perfect. Jeff doesn’t stop until his people are perfect.”
On the walk home from the gym, Anne stopped and looked at her reflection in a store window. Maybe I do need a new attitude. It probably doesn’t help that everyone around me only agrees with me when I say I’m fat. Every time I tell myself that, I hear Mom, Linda, and Jeff screaming back at me.
Anne turned away from the window, her eyes not leaving her reflection. Without a word, a man walked into her, knocking her over and startling her out of her self-pitied daze. She looked up, assuming he would have continued past her. Instead, she was looking into the blue-gray eyes of a handsome stranger. His hand was outstretched towards her and he gestured, helping her to her feet.
“Hi, I’m Steve,” he said, straightening his glasses as Anne brushed herself off.
“Anne,” she replied, turning away.
Steve stopped her. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee, Anne?”
