Weighting for Christmas Read online

  WEIGHTING

  for Christmas

  by AJ Harmon

  http://www.ajharmon.com

  First eBook Edition, November 2016

  Copyright 2016 by ABCs Legacy, LLC

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part, without written permission from the author.

  Dedication

  For women of every size.

  Table of Contents

  ~Me~

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  About the Author

  Other Books by AJ Harmon

  ~Me~

  I’m fat. Not just “isn’t she cute and chubby,” but fat. And not just the freshman fifteen, either. It’s more like the freshman twenty, the sophomore ten, the junior fifteen, and the senior I-threw-out-the-scale-months-ago fat.

  Why do I tell you this? Because since I was thirteen I knew I wasn’t ever going to be a model… or a swimmer… or even a pole dancer in a sleazy, dirty club where old men with no teeth frequent. My mom would say things like, “Oh, she’s just big-boned,” or, “her thyroid is on the fritz.” I have bones like a pigeon and my thyroid has always worked just fine. My mom just needed to make an excuse for me. I got used to it over the years.

  My younger sister, Grace, on the other hand, has never made excuses for me. Oh, no. She tries to make me realize how unhealthy I am and how I need to change my lifestyle – more like my entire life – so that I can lose the weight and be desirable enough to land myself a husband… like she did. Oh yeah, she’s full of advice.

  I can’t decide which tactic is the worst. They both annoy the hell out of me and I try to ignore it, but some days it’s really, really hard.

  Like at any family meal. It’s just my parents, Grace and her husband, Will, and me. But I have to walk very slowly to the front door from my car because once they see me arrive, Grace orders everyone to hide anything that contains sugar to help me avoid the temptation. Yeah, she’s so helpful, isn’t she? And my dad? Well, he just tells me that I should find myself a huge big NFL linebacker and we’ll be a perfect match. Yeah, gotta love him too. Will says absolutely nothing. Smart man.

  I mean, there are things that I could do to help myself. I sit in a chair all day long at work. I am a payroll supervisor for a large company and my days are spent working on a computer. I did try one of those stupid ball chairs once, but it popped after two days and I decided I didn’t need any more of that kind of humiliation so I went back to the old standard chair. The apartment complex I live in has a pretty nice gym for the tenants to use, but I don’t like going in there with all the twenty-somethings and their skimpy sports bras and yoga pants. I mean, why would I do that to myself? Usually in the evenings you’ll find me watching sappy movies on Lifetime or reading a novel, a bag of Oreos or shortbread cookies within easy reach and a can of Coke. Healthy? No. Comforting? Hell, yes!

  So, I just go about my life pretending that everything is fine and that I’m blissfully unaware of the offensive comments about my size. Developing thick skin is a must for any girl my size.

  *****

  Traditions in my family are more like holy rituals. Since Grace and I were young, my parents have remained steadfast in the belief that these traditions will keep our family close. And to their credit, it has, although as I am just a year away from my thirties, I think the Easter Bunny can finally take a break. Even the tooth fairy came a couple of years ago when I had all four of my wisdom teeth pulled. But I can’t complain because I got twenty-five dollars a tooth, and that’s not a bad take, even though I think it’s a little creepy my parents snuck into my apartment while I was asleep to carefully place the perfectly crisp one-hundred-dollar bill under my pillow. At some point, I may have to take away their key.

  Why do I mention traditions? This story centers around Christmas, and Christmas holds the most traditions of any holiday for us. My mother acts like she’s on crack the day after Thanksgiving, every single year, and so begins the six weeks of intensity the likes most other people have never heard of, and really don’t believe me when I try to explain what we have to put up with, every single year. Let me start at the beginning.

  ONE

  “If you guys aren’t ready to go in five minutes, we’re going without you!”

  My mother has been up since the crack of dawn ordering my father around in a manner that would make the Gestapo cringe. It’s the day after Thanksgiving and I am back in my parent’s house, in my old room, sleeping off the turkey dinner from yesterday. It’s only nine o’clock but mom is on it, like usual.

  My younger sister, Grace, and her husband are shuffling in and out of the bathroom. I can hear them because the bathroom is next to my room, and they aren’t being quiet. Apparently, they heard the call and are attempting to comply with the crazy woman downstairs. I have no intention of getting out of bed. So I wait, because I know it’s coming.

  “Kate!! Kate!”

  I hide under the pillow but it doesn’t drown out the screaming.

  “Kate!” The door bursts open and there stands my mother. I can’t see her because I am under the blankets but I can still feel her glaring at me. “Don’t you want to come and help pick out the tree?”

  “No,” I mutter. “I trust your good judgement.”

  “Kate,” her voice softens as she walks to my bed. “It’s tradition.”

  And… there it is.

  “Fine,” I grumble after the guilt sets in.

  “Great,” she claps in delight. “Downstairs. Four minutes.”

  I roll out of bed, pull a pair of sweats on and wriggle into a sweatshirt. I shove my feet in some Uggs and then stomp into the bathroom to pee, brush my teeth, swipe on some deodorant, and pull my hair into a messy knot on the top of my head. Ready, with thirty seconds to spare.

  “How about this one,” I suggest as I point to a little Douglas Fir half an hour later as we stand in the Christmas tree lot we go to every year. The owner knows my Mom by name.

  “Mmmm? No,” says my mother.

  “This one?” I am standing next to an eight-foot monster of a tree.

  She shakes her head. Okay, so she doesn’t want a four-foot tree and she doesn’t want an eight-foot tree. Six feet, it is.

  “This is perfect!” I exclaim as I point out the tree my father is standing next to. He is six feet tall and the tree is exactly the same height.

  “It’s too… too uneven,” my Mom replies.

  Why do I even come? It’s a tradition that my mother drags us all to the tree lot and then picks out the tree she wants while the rest of us stand around and watch her.

  Eventually, she does find a nice tree, even though I refuse to congratulate her on the perfect find. My Dad and Will haul it to the truck and throw it in the bed and after it’s paid for, we drive to the pancake place for breakfast. We do this every single year.

  The waitress fills my coffee mug and I reach for the sugar packets.

  “Are you going to use Splenda?” Grace asks me as she holds the packets just out of reach.

  “No. I don’t want cancer, just coffee,” I grumble. “Hand it over.”

  She does, grudgingly. I pour two packets of white sugar into my coffee and then a splash of half and half. It’s perfect and I sip on it as my Dad and Will recap the football games from yesterday. When the waitress comes back to take our orders, I ge
t glared at by my mother when I order a stack of pancakes.

  “What?” I ask. “You make me come to a pancake house and then criticize my choice of pancakes for breakfast?”

  “There are probably other items on the menu that don’t have quite so many calories,” Grace says, joining forces against me.

  “With a side of bacon,” I add to the waitress who looks completely embarrassed that she is witness to this conversation.

  “Don’t mind us,” my father smiles. “They’re just trying to help our little girl get little again.”

  Oh, God! I look up at the waitress and smile, too. “Aren’t they great?”

  Ten minutes later, we’re all eating and the conversation is about the food. I’m sure Dr. Phil would have a great time with us if we were ever to go on his show. I mean, there are probably so many underlying causes to my weight, that I’m pretty sure I could shrug off all responsibility and place all blame on my family and their helpfulness in trying to get me to lose weight. I think this as I’m pouring more sugary syrup onto my plate. I love bacon dipped in maple syrup. It’s truly a delight.

  The rest of the weekend is spent decorating the tree and the house for Christmas, while listening to every Christmas CD my parents own, which, by the way, is a shit ton of them. I don’t think my Mom repeated one for the two-day stretch. Finally, on Sunday afternoon, I am excused to return to my apartment and my life until the following weekend, when I am to return for dinner and the viewing of It’s a Wonderful Life. Tradition!

  *****

  “I think it’s great,” my coworker and friend, Tina, says to me when she hears about my holiday weekend. “My family only gets together when there’s a funeral.”

  “That actually doesn’t sound too bad,” I mutter under my breath.

  “Don’t knock it,” Tina continues. “There are a lot of people that would love to have what you have.”

  “I know,” I sigh in resignation. Really, I love my family, I do. They can be overwhelming though. I need a little bit of space to remember how wonderful they are. I think a few years on a deserted island with Zac Efron should do it.

  “Guess what?” Tina asks.

  “What?” Damn! Now I have to stop thinking about Zac. Couldn’t Tina have just turned back to her computer and back to work?

  “I may have found my true love.”

  “What?” I look at her like she’d just sprouted horns and grown a beard. “You aren’t dating anyone.”

  “I signed up for one of those dating sites and I have a couple of potential love interests.”

  “You haven’t met them yet?” I ask in astonishment.

  “Well, no, not officially.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “He winked at me and I winked back and we are going to have coffee sometime over the weekend.” Tina looks like she just won a billion dollars in the lottery.

  “What the hell are you winking at people for? That sounds stupid.” I really shouldn’t dash all of her hopes but this sounds ridiculous.

  “It’s just something the website does so that you can let someone know you’re interested.”

  I can tell in her voice that I have burst her bubble. I should feel bad. Should.

  “Maybe you’ll get lucky and he won’t turn out to be a Ted Bundy wannabe, or a pedophile.”

  Now she turns back to her computer. Where the fuck did Zac go?

  Tina doesn’t try to make conversation again for the rest of the day. She even goes as far as to sit in the break room with Hildy for lunch. Hildy! The floor whore, as I call her. She’ll sleep with anyone. I think she has a self-esteem problem.

  When the weekend arrives, I prepare myself for the annual Sunday dinner and movie. I love Jimmy Stewart, and I love It’s a Wonderful Life, at least I did the first eight times I saw it. But now I doze or play solitaire on my cell phone to get through the two plus hours of repetition. And this year is no different.

  “Dinner was delicious,” I say with sincerity. My Mom knows how to cook a great meal.

  “Ready for dessert? Or should we wait until after the movie?” she asks.

  “Depends on what it is,” I grin.

  “Chocolate torte with sweetened cream.”

  “I’ll take some now.”

  “And later,” chimes in Will.

  “Sounds like a good plan to me,” my Dad concurs.

  “Kate shouldn’t be having that much dessert,” Grace frowns. “She can’t do this on her own and so we have to help her.”

  “Excuse me?” I am pissed off… royally. “I realize that you think you were put on this earth to turn me into the sister you want, but let me tell you something, Grace. I may be overweight, but that’s not all I am. You may not be able to see past the extra pounds but I am intelligent and witty, and I am actually a very nice person when people don’t piss me off. I am a human being with feelings and emotions and I am getting really tired of your constant nagging.” Everyone is quiet. I think they think I am going to cry. If I was alone, I probably would, but there’s no way in hell I will let a tear fall in front of this lot. “Now, Mom, may I please have a slice of dessert? I’ll go and put the DVD in and get the movie ready.”

  Everyone watches the movie in silence, with only the occasional chuckle as deemed necessary by the plot line. When the ending credits roll, I am the first to get up and say goodnight, getting my coat and my purse from the banister in the foyer.

  “Don’t let ‘em get to you, darlin’,” says my Dad as he gives me a hug. “They think they’re helping.”

  “Yeah, well, they’re not,” I mutter.

  “Text us when you get home so we know you made it safely.”

  “Yes, Dad,” I grin. I don’t think it will matter how old I am. I will always be his little girl.

  Family dynamics are interesting. My parents had two children; me and Grace. I look like my dad. I sound like my dad. Even my mannerisms are like him. Grace, on the other hand, is all mom. I love to spend time with my dad. Grace spends time with mom. Strange how it works out like that.

  *****

  The rest of December has several more traditions to get through before we hit Christmas Eve. There’s going to see the Christmas lights at the mall with hot chocolate to follow. There’s dinner and then The Nutcracker ballet. We all attend my father’s work party. He owns a landscaping company and throws two big parties a year for all of his employees and their families – one in April and the other in December. There’s serving in the soup kitchen the weekend before Christmas. My mother wanted to remind us when we were young how fortunate we were and it’s the one tradition I actually look forward to every year. And then finally, on December 22nd, there is the annual trip to buy wrapping paper and bows. I’m not kidding. My Mom, Grace and I have dinner, usually at Olive Garden, just the three of us, and then we go to Target to buy wrapping paper, even if we have yards and yards left over from last year. It’s a tradition, and I think my father may have started it to get an evening of peace.

  And then, we arrive at Christmas Eve.

  Seeing as though my Dad has always owned his own business, or at least since I have been alive, he has tried to be home the whole week of Christmas. It worked well during school and when we were in college, but since Grace and I became productive members of society by having jobs, we haven’t been able to spend the whole week at our childhood home, much to the despair of our mother. Somehow, she thinks we have abandoned her by not coming home a week early. When I told her I would take the week off in vacation if she would pay my rent for the month, she didn’t seem overjoyed at the idea, and has since stopped laying on the guilt. Score one for me.

  I do, however, only work a half day on Christmas Eve. I am able to get home and get my shit together, both physically and emotionally, before I head over to the Griswold’s house. I’m being serious here. Those two days of decorating after Thanksgiving are nonstop. My mother and Clark Griswold are a match made in heaven when it comes to making sure our house is easily identifiab
le from space.

  Anyway, the time has come and I can’t procrastinate anymore, so I load my car with my overnight bag – yes, we must sleep there – and my load of gifts, wrapped in the recently purchased paper and trimmings from Target. I must admit, they do look pretty. Score one for Mom.

  Surprisingly enough, the night before Christmas is pretty low key. Mom has spent the day cooking and baking and preparing for the feast that is Christmas. With that comes pizza for dinner. Yep, you read that right. We order pizza on Christmas Eve. It’s a tradition, one I very much enjoy.

  My Dad helps me unload my car and get everything into the house before the threatening snow begins falling. It may actually be a white Christmas this year. Once the presents are under the tree and my bag is up in my room I venture into the kitchen to say hello to Mom, who is still preparing food for tomorrow.

  “Can I help?” I ask as I lean in and kiss her on the cheek. “What’s left to do?”

  “Could you load the dishwasher?”

  “Sure,” I reply happily. My Mom is aware of my cooking skills, or rather my burning skills. The dishwasher is a safe place for me.

  “That would be a big help. Thank you,” she smiles.

  We work in silence for a few minutes until I hear the front door open and voices in the foyer. Grace and Will have arrived and they have brought a guest.

  “Did you know they were bringing someone?” I ask Mom.

  “Grace called a few days ago and apparently one of the men Will works with lost his parents this year, I don’t know how, and he was planning to spend the holidays by himself, so she asked if they could bring him.”

  “He’s sleeping here?” I ask incredulously.

  “Of course.”

  It’s like she sees nothing wrong with some stranger… a grown adult man staying with us for a couple of days.

  “He probably lives in town, Mom.”

  “I’m sure he does.”

  “So why is he staying here?”