Confessions Of An Ex-Girlfriend. Lynda Curnyn
she replied. “You also might want to update your résumé, to give Pat some sense of your whole career.”
Gulp. I wondered how my stint at Good Grub and string of temp jobs was going to hold up against Rebecca’s experience as a trade editor and God-only-knew what other accomplishments. “Hmm. Yes. That is a good idea,” I agreed.
Caroline’s brow furrowed once more as she studied me. After a few painful moments she said finally, “As you go through your clips and update your résumé, Emma, take the time to take stock. It’s a good opportunity for you to see the work you’ve done, analyze your strengths and think about future directions.” Leaning back in her chair, she continued, “After all, it’s not every day we think about what we want to be doing over the next few years.”
Wasn’t that the truth? In fact, if I had thought about my future, I might have realized a few things: like the fact that there was no way in hell I would ever be able to compete against Rebecca, who seemed to be growing in accomplishments by the minute. I might have even figured out, for that matter, that I would be manless at thirty-one years old rather than married to Derrick, seeing as he had scheduled his departure from our relationship from day one. But I said none of this to Caroline as I stood up, murmured a few words of thanks and headed off, I was sure, to my next and imminent disaster.
Four
“To binge, or not to binge, that is the question.”
—Weight Watchers escapee
Confession: I am not as thin as I think I am.
O n my way home from work, after managing to convince myself that I had an absolute right to an all-out binge, I stopped at the bodega on my corner.
“Hello!” called out Smiling Man behind the counter, so christened by Alyssa and me, due to the fact that despite his likely status as a minimum-wage worker being exploited by his own bodega-franchise-owning family, he was relentlessly cheerful, no matter what hour of the night you came in—and he worked all night.
“Hello!” I called back cheerily, masking my feelings of despair and heading straight for the Hostess rack in the back. As I contemplated the Ho-Hos and Suzy Q’s—even turned over the Twinkies package to shamelessly check the fat content with some vague hope that a nonchocolate selection might save me from utter overindulgence—I realized that for the first time in two years, I was about to head to that counter up front (with an armload of snack cakes) alone. No Derrick by my side to pawn off three-quarters of the booty by making some offhand joke about how he should have limited himself to one or two selections. Picking up a Suzy Q—the largest little cake on the rack by far, and containing the most chocolate per square inch—I actually considered buying one cake here and then hitting another bodega or two until I had enough fat-filled treats to obliterate any glimmer of unhappiness I might be feeling about my prospects at Bridal Best and in life in general.
But then an old, familiar anger gripped me. What the hell did I care what Smiling Man thought about my fat intake? I told myself, furiously grabbing a coffee cake to add to my Suzy Q before moving on to the next rack for a bag of sour cream and onion potato chips. I realized now that was exactly my problem: I cared a little too much about what others thought. Forget Caroline and her enigmatic expressions. (What the hell did interesting mean anyway?) And who did she think she was, with her Earth Mother approach to life and that perfectly constructed bubble she lived in out in the burbs, to judge me just because I wanted something better for myself, I thought, grabbing up a Yoo-hoo from the dairy section before I headed for the front and, with a look of false bravado, plunked everything on the counter.
“Is that it?” Smiling Man asked, his grin seeming somehow wider as he gazed on my selections.
“Yes, that’s it,” I said, standing strong as I counted out the obscene amount of money the register showed after he had rung up my purchases.
“Goodbye! Have a good night!” he called out in a singsong response to my muttered thanks.
Marching down the street to my building, I tried desperately not to let any thoughts creep in about how Derrick and I used to wander this way, arms linked, gazing at all the beautiful brownstones and dreamily picking out ones we’d like to live in. Of course, he was only caught up in the moment, while I—
“Hello, neighbor,” Beatrice said, holding open the door to the only dilapidated building on this magnificent block—ours.
“Hi, Beatrice, how are you?” I said by rote, then cringed for the response.
“Well, I’d be a lot better if I hadn’t let myself eat pastrami for lunch. I’ve been tasting it ever since! Oh, the indigestion that stuff gives me, and I don’t know why. In truth, I—”
“Mail come today?” I asked, not wanting any more information on the particularities of pastrami the second time around as I made my way into the foyer.
“Of course it came,” she said, following me to my box and standing a little too close for comfort as I pulled out a wad of junk mail and bills.
Eyeing a clothing catalog in my hand, she asked, “Did you ever find anything you liked in that catalog I gave you?”
In truth, I had glanced through the catalog before dumping it in the trash, probably out of some vague curiosity about the shopping worlds of lonely old women. Not that I planned on being one or anything, God help me. “No, no, I couldn’t find anything.” Closing my mailbox, I poised to say my hasty goodbyes and make a quick exit, when Beatrice’s next words stopped me.
“I’m surprised. I mean, it’s perfect for women like us. I usually—”
“What does that mean exactly—women like us?” I demanded, cutting her off. I knew I should just leave it alone, but I couldn’t help myself. I had to know.
Her eyes widened behind her thick glasses. Probably because I was glaring at her. “Well, I just meant size 14 and up. You know. Large women. Don’t you find it’s hard to find clothes that fit right and are comfortable? I know I…”
The sack of snacks sagged in my hand. Beatrice’s voice faded away as a larger version of myself swam before my mind’s eye. Much larger. One I somehow managed to miss every morning as I stood before the mirror.
Then my defenses got the better of me. “Well, that’s very sweet of you, Bea, to think of me, but I’ll have you know that I am a size 10.” And with that I marched up the stairs, leaving Beatrice staring up, I was sure, at my suddenly oversize rear end.
Once safe inside my apartment, though, my mind exploded with thoughts of all the skirts I had slid to the back of the closet in recent months because the zipper closed up a little too snugly for my liking. And all the waistless cardigans and tunics that had taken the forefront in my attempt to disguise my somewhat bulging midsection. Then I remembered the new trousers I had bought two months ago, and I dropped my bag of illicit treats on the counter and rushed for the closet, searching frantically. Pulling out the hanger where the pants hung, I quickly glanced at the tag in the waistband. Size 12.
I was finished.
Hanging the pants back, I took off my blazer and went to stand in profile before the mirror, noticing—for the first time, apparently—how my stomach billowed out just enough to make my pants look sloppy, my physique unappealing.
I slumped in a chair, eyeballing the Hostess cakes that peeked out of the bag on the counter as if they were the demon seed. How had I let this happen to me?
To make matters worse, I began cataloging every time that I had made a comment to the effect that I had gained weight, and realized, with sudden horror, that no one had denied my declaration once in the past few months. Not my mother. Not Alyssa nor Jade. Not even Rebecca, who despite all her newfound faults, always came through with a “you look great,” no matter what state I was in. And, worst of all, not even Derrick.
In the early months of the relationship, while we were still basking in the glow of our first lovemaking and first shared words of deeper affection, I had made some joke