Weighting for Christmas Read online

  “What is it?” I ask cautiously.

  “Open it and see,” Mom replies enthusiastically.

  I do. I pull out a thick and glossy brochure. Fitness For You. It’s a gym, apparently. I look up to see four pairs of eyes staring at me. I look back down and flip open the first page. There is a certificate. It’s for a year – a year’s gym membership. I look up again.

  “This is so cool,” Grace sings. “Guess what? Mom and I have memberships too. We are all going to go together!”

  *****

  Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

  As I sat on the couch last year on Christmas morning, my Mom handed me a huge, and very heavy, box. I was so excited to open it and find out what it was, only to find a month’s worth of Nutrisystem meals inside.

  Two years ago, I got a three-month membership to Weight Watchers, and while I did get lots of other things, it was a bit of a downer.

  For my birthday last year, I got kettle bells.

  On Valentine’s Day earlier this year, my Mom and Dad took me to a new restaurant that ONLY serves salad!

  So, do you understand my response?

  Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

  “Well?” Mom asks. “What do you think?” I can see she is excited about the gym membership, and I really don’t want to hurt her feelings, but seriously?

  “I see a trend,” I begin. “I think you think I should be more aggressive in my weight loss goals.”

  “You should have a goal,” Grace snorts.

  I ignore her. I’ve learned to do that over the years.

  “We’re just trying to help,” Mom says softly. She looks like she might just cry.

  “It can’t hurt though, right?” I say cheerily. “Besides, it’ll be good bonding time. I’ll lose weight and Grace will gain it. How could I not enjoy that?”

  The rest of the day goes by in much of a blur. We eat… a lot, and watch some football. I help with the dishes and load leftovers into plastic containers that Mom divvies up between me and Grace to take home. Then Dad helps me carry my stuff to the car and we load up the backseat.

  “You know, sweetheart, that we love you just as you are,” he smiles, but I see the sadness in his eyes.

  “Why do they always gang up on me like that?”

  Dad pulls me to his chest and wraps his arms around me. I’ve always loved his bear hugs.

  “They just want you to be happy.”

  “And they assume fat people aren’t happy?” Tears sting my eyes but I blink them back into submission.

  “Of course they can be happy. I love you, Katie bear.”

  “Love you too, Dad.” I pull away from him and slam the door shut, then open the driver’s door and slide inside. “Tell everyone bye for me, will ya, please?”

  “Sure thing, Kate.”

  THREE

  Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

  It has become my new favorite word. If I can’t say it out loud, like when I’m at work or at my parents’ house, I think it in my head, over, and over again.

  Today, however, it is being said out loud as I stand in my bedroom. I’m trying to find something to wear to the gym. “FUCK!” Mom and Grace are picking me up in thirty minutes and I’m still standing here in my sports bra and underpants.

  I settle on a pair of old grey yoga pants and an over-sized t-shirt that has a giant silver Eiffel Tower on the front. My hair goes up into a ponytail and I put socks and tennis shoes on my feet. I guess I’m ready.

  I really don’t want to go. Grace is the perfect size 6 and gorgeous, and even my Mom, at sixty years old is pretty damn fit. She power walks with a couple of her neighbors a few times a week and swims as often as the weather allows. She puts me to shame. I really don’t want to go.

  And here they are. Mom is driving and has pulled into the visitor parking space in front of my building. I grab my jacket and head down to meet them. Did I mention that I really don’t want to go?

  Mom and Grace chatter about the baby all the way to the gym. That’s fine with me – I’m sulking in the backseat. My arms are folded across my chest and forehead creased in a scowl. I know I’m being ridiculous but I don’t care. The reason I don’t use the gym in my apartment building is because I don’t want to be compared to all of those twenty-something size 2’s and sculpted abs and perfect figures. Going to a gym is the same thing, just on a much larger scale.

  Mom parks the car and we all walk to the front door. I have the certificate in my jacket pocket which I retrieve and give to the gorgeous man standing behind the counter. He looks like he could be on the cover of a fitness magazine or a romance novel, all chiseled and tatted up with a perfectly manicured five o’clock shadow on his chin, which is impressive seeing as though it seven-thirty in the morning.

  “Welcome, ladies,” he smiles, dazzling us with his brilliantly whiter than freshly fallen snow teeth. “And how are we this morning?”

  “Wonderful,” my Mom replies happily.

  “Great!” Grace responds with enthusiasm.

  “Fine,” I mumble, my arms once again folded across my chest.

  “Awesome,” he replies. “It looks like you are all set to go. Oh, wait. Who’s Kate?”

  “Me.”

  “Kate, you are with a trainer, so wait just a sec, k? Ladies, you two are welcome to check out the facility. Jess, here,” he points to a former Miss America lookalike just behind him, “will give you the tour and then get you started.”

  Mom and Grace head off happily with Jess and leave me standing in the lobby of the gym feeling like a complete loser. Gorgeous guy has disappeared, supposedly to find my trainer, and I take the opportunity to look around a bit and see what my mother has dragged me into. There is a sporting wear store on the other side of the lobby, with a juice bar right behind it. Several women are perched on stools sipping on green sludge and I try not to gag just looking at the disgusting slime. I don’t understand how people can drink that crap. Before I can think about it any longer I hear my name.

  “Kate?”

  I turn around and angels begin singing overhead. A halo surrounds him and I swear there are diamonds in his teeth that are glittering under the fluorescent lighting.

  “I’m Chad.” He extends his hand and I accept it for a quick handshake. “It’s great to meet you. Are you ready?”

  I nod, and make sure my mouth is closed.

  The truth is, I hate men like Chad. And now that the initial shock has worn off as I follow him through to a private conference room, my hatred can replace the instantaneous lust that often surfaces when I meet a specimen like him.

  Chad is over six feet tall and there isn’t an ounce of fat on his frame. He. Is. Ripped. He’s wearing black spandex shorts under a pair of black basketball style shorts and a muscle tank top. His hair is cut short, almost like a military shave and he has not one single facial hair. His chin looks as smooth as silk. His eyes are a piercing blue, like the waters of the Caribbean, and he has one single tattoo on his bicep – a heart with the word Mom written inside it.

  Yeah. I hate guys like Chad.

  My experience tells me he will do one of two things:

  a. Totally ignore me because I am overweight and not worth his time, or,

  b. Be overly nice because he is a nice guy and feels sorry for me.

  I don’t like either scenario.

  Chad pulls out a chair for me to sit down at the table. He is a gentleman. Great. I’m going to get b. And then he sits opposite me with a notebook and a pen.

  “So, Kate,” he smiles at me. His teeth still sparkle. “I’m really excited to be working with you. I have been a personal trainer for several years now and I really love what I do. It is extremely satisfying to help a client meet their goals. Tell me, what are your goals?”

  My head tilts to the side as I contemplate the question. “Well,” I begin, “I’d like to own my own home by the time I’m thirty-five. That’s in six years so I still have some time to work on my dilapidated savings account. And I’d like to go to Italy. Not just Rome,
but all over. I would love to stay at a vineyard, pretending for just a couple of days that I was Italian and the owner of said vineyard, eating pasta and riding a bike down a dirt road to buy a loaf of crusty bread at a small bakery in the town square.”

  “That actually sounds great,” he chuckles. “A great goal, but I’m talking about your health goals.”

  “Oh,” I sigh. “My mom gave me the gym membership for Christmas,” I shrug, “so…”

  “So you don’t really want to be here,” he finishes my sentence for me.

  “Not really.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” I repeat.

  “Why?”

  I could do this all day but I decide not to be a smart ass and attempt to be honest.

  “Look, I’ve always been on the heavy side. And it makes no sense because I am the only one in my family like this. I didn’t overeat as a kid and I didn’t as an adult, well, not until I figured out that it didn’t matter. I was going to be fat no matter what I did, so why should I give a fuck? Sorry.” My favorite word just slipped out there.

  He laughs. “You can say whatever you want.”

  Oh good. Get ready. The fucks are going to fly!

  “You dieted as a kid?”

  “All the time,” I reply sadly. “Mom would ration my food so that I didn’t overeat, or eat the wrong stuff. And I basically starved myself for my first semester of college and I didn’t lose a pound, so I said, fuck it!”

  Chad is scribbling down notes on his paper and nodding as he’s writing. I have no clue what that means.

  “How about exercise? Have you done much? What have you tried?”

  “Walking. Swimming. My parents have a pool so I grew up a fish,” I laughed. “I tried badminton in college.”

  That made him laugh. He has a nice laugh, deep and melodic. But I still hate him.

  “Okay. I understand enough. So, let’s start off today by getting your weight and taking some measurements.”

  “What?”

  He stands up and looks at me. “We need to see where you are starting, your weight and measurements and then we can track your progress.”

  I am horrified. No, that’s not a strong enough word. What’s worse than horrified? Panicked? Petrified? Yeah. All of those.

  “I… I’m not…”

  Chad takes two steps and is kneeling in front of me. He takes my hands in his. “Listen to me,” he says softly. “No one except you and me are going to see the numbers. I take client privacy seriously.”

  “But… I…”

  “Kate, there is absolutely nothing to be afraid of here. You actually don’t have that much weight to lose and I am going to help you every step of the way.”

  “Are you fucking blind?” I burst out. “I’m a size 20. I can’t shop in the regular clothing stores. I have to go to the fat girl sections. I sit down and the roll of fat hangs over the waistband of my jeans. I repulse most people.”

  “Then you’re hanging around the wrong people,” Chad replies sadly. “You are a beautiful, vibrant woman, Kate, and if you can’t see that, then others can’t either.”

  *****

  As it turns out, I weigh less than I thought I did. 209. I don’t own a scale but Chad says I should get one. I told him it would cut into my Italy trip money. He said he didn’t care. Yeah. I still hate him.

  By the time I meet Mom and Grace at the juice bar, Chad has measured every part of me, weighed me, and he’d created a plan for my Get Healthy journey. He says if I think of it as having to lose something, my brain will consider it to be a negative. Instead, I am going to gain health, which is a positive and hopefully will inspire my subconscious so I don’t try to sabotage myself. It actually makes sense to me.

  “How was it?” Mom asks as I sat down next to her at the small table by the window.

  “Fine.”

  “Fine?” Grace replies in shock. “He is damn hot. I would love to have him as a trainer.”

  “I’ll let Will know,” I smirk.

  “Not like that!” she shudders. “But he is hot.”

  “Meh,” I add. “Let’s go. I need a pizza.”

  For the next seven days, I don’t have to change my eating habits – not one thing. But I do have to keep a food journal. Every Cheeto, every glass of water, every slice of pizza I have to account for in my journal. Chad says it’s important for me to realize exactly what I am putting into my body, and how much of it. I will start with a pizza.

  Just since I’ve been home from the gym, a total of fifteen minutes, I have thought to myself repeatedly, Chad says. Chad says this. Chad says that. I’m already annoying myself. I will silence my brain with pizza. Good idea.

  Thirty minutes later my doorbell rings and the Dominos delivery man is here. I give him a twenty-dollar bill and he gives me a medium Hawaiian and an order of bread sticks. I settle into the comfy sofa with my food and a two liter of Coke and I flip to HBO and the Veep marathon that is on all day. I love that show.

  *****

  It’s the sixth day into my first seven days of food journaling and I am horrified to see what I actually put into my body and how much of it. I am very embarrassed that I have to show it to Chad tomorrow. Did you know that I can eat a box of Oreos in three days? I can. I also drink three or four cans of Coke a day and I don’t drink nearly enough water. In some respects, I’m really pissed at Chad that he had to open this awareness in me, and in other ways I’m kind of grateful to him for allowing me to see, on my own, some of the unhealthy habits I have. But to be clear, I’m more pissed than grateful.

  It’s Friday night. Know what I usually do on Friday night? I go out for drinks after work with a bunch of coworkers and I eat from the happy hour menu. I make sure I get there before 5:30pm, the cutoff for ordering. I order four or five plates and take home whatever is left over, snacking on it all evening while I watch TV.

  I’m sitting at the bar perusing the menu, feeling guilty as I try to decide what to order – fucking guilty! Damn that Chad! So I order three: mozz sticks, the artichoke and crab dip, and chicken strips. I desperately want the potato skins, but I pass. When I get home I need to make sure that I make a note of that in my journal.

  My friends and I are all sitting around drinking and having a good time when Ryan, one of the HR specialists, comes and sits by me after the seat is vacated for a restroom run.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey,” I say back.

  “Do you have plans tomorrow?”

  Holy shit! Ryan is one of the good looking guys. He’s never singled me out before to talk to me. Stay calm, Kate. Stay calm.

  “Depends,” I flirt. “Whatcha got in mind?”

  “I’ve asked Heather out but she needs a babysitter. I didn’t know she had a kid,” he frowns. “Anyway, can you help a guy out?”

  I will not let him see the crushing disappointment that is drowning me. I should have known. Why did I let myself, for that split second, allow myself to think that just maybe he would be interested in a girl like me? Why?

  Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

  Even my new favorite word isn’t helping me at all.

  I swallow my emotion and pick up a chicken strip and dip in the barbecue sauce. I know he’s waiting for an answer but I can’t speak. I don’t trust myself yet. I take a bite and chew… slowly.

  “Sorry, Ryan,” I whisper. “Not available.” I take another bite and turn ever so slightly in my chair in an effort to encourage him to go back to the other side of the table… back next to Heather… away from me and my chicken strips.

  I wave at the waitress and ask for my check and to-go boxes. I’m done. I’m going home.

  FOUR

  “You’re down a pound!” Chad exclaims. “What did you do?”

  “Nothing,” I mumble.

  “That’s awesome, and we haven’t even begun. I’m really proud of you, Kate.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Hey! Come on. This is great!”

  I shrug and step off
the scale.

  “Let me show you something.” He grabs my hand and drags me over to the cupboards lining the back wall of the room. He pulls out a yellow jello-like looking blob. “This is one pound. You lost this much weight. Here. Hold it.”

  I take it from him and look at it. It’s hard for me to feel the excitement. I’m still choking on the humiliation from last night, although I don’t know why. That kind of stuff happens frequently.

  Chad returns the blob to the cupboard and looks at me. His stare is intense and I feel… naked under his gaze.

  “What is it?” he asks.

  “What is what?

  “What’s bothering you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re a liar.”

  “You’re a jerk,” I reply.

  He laughs. “I’ve been called worse.”

  “You wanna see my food journal?”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “I thought I was here to work out. Are you gonna train me or not?”

  I can see him considering the question. He gives in. “Yes. I am. Come on.”

  An hour later I look as though I just stepped out of the shower. Sweat drips from every pore in my body. My shirt is sticking to my skin in a completely unflattering way but at this point I don’t even care.

  “Are we done?” I gasp.

  “We are,” Chad nods. “You did great today.”

  He’s had me on a treadmill, doing planks, sitting against the wall, and using battle ropes. Every muscle in my body is hurting like I’ve never felt before.

  “I don’t want you to do anything tomorrow. Relax, but drink a gallon of water, k?”

  “I can do nothing tomorrow. No problem,” I sigh.

  “And I’ll see you on Monday. Have a good weekend, Kate.”

  I watch him walk away as sweat drips down my forehead and into my eyes. I need a shower… and a body massage.

  *****

  Over the next two weeks, my body hates me. I heard once that sweat is your fat crying, or something like that. I am most definitely crying every time I work out. It hurts to sit down on the toilet. My thighs ache. It hurts to brush my hair. My biceps ache. Getting off the sofa kills my abs. I swear I’m not going to make it a month at this rate.