Weighting for Christmas Read online

  Oh, and Chad has me drinking a gallon of water a day. A GALLON! Do you know how many times I have to pee when I drink that much? Well, I haven’t counted, but it’s a LOT! I swear my boss is going to dock my pay for excessive bathroom breaks.

  I have given myself a goal. If I can make it to a month of doing as Chad asks, I am going to reward myself with a pair of shoes I have been eyeing. Ordinarily, I would have just bought them, but the price tag has me a little shell shocked. But after a month of Chad, I know I will deserve them. And its great motivation to keep going back to the gym so that Chad can abuse me. I think that in order to be a trainer you must have a deep-seeded need to see other people in pain. I think there’s a name for that – sadist.

  Here’s the problem I have though: Chad is really nice. He’s encouraging and supportive and gets really excited when I’ve lost another pound. So far, in two weeks, I’ve lost three pounds. You would have thought he’d won the lottery the way he reacts to seeing the number go down. It’s actually kind of nice that he seems so invested in my success. I mean, he’s already been paid for the year, so it’s not as if he’s doing it to keep me as a client. He’s gotten the money even if I quit tomorrow.

  “Kate,” Chad says as we begin week number three. “I want you to know that I understand how hard this is for you.”

  “Sure you do,” I nod with a sneer.

  “I want to show you something, if you promise not to laugh.”

  “K,” I reply hesitantly.

  He pulls out his phone and hands it to me. There is a photo of a kid, probably in high school, maybe fourteen years old. He’s a cutie, with white blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. Wait. I look up at Chad and then back at the photo. This kid in the picture is pretty damn chubby. I look back at Chad.

  “Yeah. That’s me. Freshman year of high school. 265 pounds.”

  I don’t know what to say. I look back at the photo.

  “I really do understand what you’re going through. I get it. Change is hard and people suck.”

  “Yeah. Some of them do.” Like that jerk Ryan.

  “But I committed to not only changing my body, but changing my life. I wanted to go rock climbing, but I couldn’t. I wanted to go spelunking, but I couldn’t fit through a lot of the tunnels. I was tired of being called names. I wanted to go on dates but girls didn’t look at me once, let alone twice. I do understand.”

  “I guess you do,” I murmur as I give him his phone back.

  “So, trust me. Can you do that?”

  Looking in his eyes I can see the raw honesty there. I see the genuine man that he is. He isn’t like Ryan. Chad isn’t the A guy or the B guy. He is in a category all of his own. So, I nod. I can trust him.

  “Okay then,” he smiles. “Now let’s get to work!”

  *****

  I wear my new shoes to the gym. They are red stilettos and they make me feel tall and leggy. I also think they help with my posture. My shoulders tend to roll forward and if I do that while wearing these suckers I will more than likely fall on my face.

  As I open the glass front door I see Chad talking to a coworker. I’ve come straight from work so I am not already in my workout clothes. They are in the bag hung over my shoulder.

  “Well, damn!” Chad turns and sees me walk in.

  I smile. “Hey.”

  “You look fantastic.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Not exactly the outfit I’d wear to work out in, but to each his own,” he grins.

  “Ha ha. I think I’ll change and then meet you at the scales.”

  I can feel his eyes on me as I walk into the locker room. Yeah. The shoes were most definitely worth it.

  Ten minutes later I’m standing on the scale. I am overwhelmed with disappointment.

  “I don’t understand,” I moan.

  “Muscle weighs more than fat. You are losing fat – I can see it. But you’re also gaining muscle.”

  “I really wanted that scale to move.”

  “It will, Kate. I promise. It will. But you can’t just use the scale when tracking your progress. You are more than just a number.”

  “But I wanted the scale to move,” I repeat.

  I’ve made another goal for myself. When the scale reads under two hundred pounds, I get to reward myself with the new Michael Kors purse I’ve fallen in love with. I need that scale to move.

  Today I am doing some new exercises. I start on the treadmill like usual, to get my muscles warmed up after doing some basic stretching, and then Chad leads me to a weight machine.

  “We’re going to make you strong,” he winks.

  “I don’t wanna look like Arnold!” I exclaim passionately.

  He laughs… loudly. “No fear in that,” he says. And then we spend the next hour rotating through the machine working different muscle groups. He is there every step of the way and I am almost… almost enjoying myself. I said almost!

  “How’s the water drinking going?” he asks after we are all done with the workout.

  “I’m doing it,” I whine.

  He laughs. “How about the Coke? Still drinking four cans a day?”

  “No. I stopped drinking and started snorting,” I smirk.

  “Then we should have seen more weight loss,” he replies seriously.

  “I was joking!”

  He laughs.

  I hit him in the shoulder. Holy shit! He doesn’t move… not a millimeter. I see his eyebrows raise just a little.

  “Trying to knock me over?”

  “No,” I reply. “It doesn’t appear I could even if I wanted to.”

  “You want to?” he asks.

  “A couple of weeks ago, yeah,” I grin.

  “And now?”

  “I’ll let you live.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  FIVE

  I’m wearing my new red shoes and carrying my new purse as I walk into the restaurant and look for my parents. It’s Valentine’s Day and we are having dinner… like every year. I told my Mom that she and Dad could go out, just the two of them, but she wasn’t having any of it.

  “We’ll go together just like we always do.”

  I guess she doesn’t want me to be alone on this very romantic day of days, not that I’ve ever thought of it as romantic, but whatever. Oh, and we are at the same restaurant as last year. I guess I’m having salad for dinner!

  I spot them already seated at a table so I meander through the other tables to get to them. I don’t know why they’re at the back of the restaurant. It’s not like it’s very full. I guess salad isn’t the most romantic meal to have on V Day.

  “Hey!” I say as I sling my purse over the back of the chair and sit down.

  “Hi. Katie bear,” Dad smiles. “How was work?”

  “Same as usual,” I reply automatically.

  “You look beautiful, by the way,” he adds.

  “Thank you, Dad.”

  The waitress appears and asks for my drink order.

  “Water, please, with a lemon wedge?”

  “Sure,” she smiles.

  “Water, huh?” Mom asks. “How’s the workouts going?”

  Mom has been sick – bronchitis – and hasn’t been going to the gym the last couple of weeks. I’ve told her not to swim outside in the winter. She doesn’t listen to me.

  “Actually it’s going pretty good.”

  “How much weight have you lost?”

  I frown. She asks me this question every time she sees me. “Ten pounds.”

  “Well, that’s too bad,” she sighs.

  “Hey, I think that’s great!” Dad pipes up. “Good for you.”

  I know she loves me and wants what’s best for me. I do. But sometimes I’d like to strangle her. Not to kill her or anything. Just to enjoy the feeling for a moment… or two.

  “Let’s order,” Dad says as the waitress arrives with my water.

  During dinner, I hear all about Grace and the baby. My parents are just glowing with joy at the ne
w grandbaby arriving in a few months. It’s kind of sweet how excited they are. Grace is doing well, although she is experiencing some morning sickness and has lost ten pounds. Of course she has. I am all but killing myself and she’s lost ten pounds when she’s supposed to be gaining weight. Maybe I should find a sperm donor and get pregnant. Of course, with my luck I wouldn’t have morning sickness!

  “So, Kate, I have a present for you.”

  “What? Why?” I ask my Mom.

  “For Valentine’s Day,” she responds.

  “We don’t give gifts on Valentine’s Day.”

  “I know,” she smiles, “but this is a special gift.” She hands me an envelope.

  “Another gym membership?”

  “No, silly,” she says. “Open it.”

  I do. It’s a membership to match.com.

  Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

  *****

  “Whatever is fueling your anger today, it’s sure helping with your workout,” Chad chuckles.

  I keep slamming the ropes on the floor with total intensity.

  “My mom,” I stammer in between breaths, “signed me up,” I breathe again, “for match.com.”

  “The dating thing online?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Umm, did you want to sign up?”

  “No!”

  “So…”

  “She doesn’t want me,” I breathe, “to be,” another breath, “lonely.”

  “Are you lonely?”

  “No.” But that isn’t entirely true. “Can we not talk about it anymore?”

  “Sure,” Chad replies and changes the workout to planking.

  Ten minutes later, I think I have a hernia. “No more,” I beg. “Please?”

  “Let’s go cool down.” He leads me to the treadmills. “So, do you have guys that ask you out?”

  “Huh?” I ask

  “On match.com. Guys ask you out?”

  “I guess. I dunno. I haven’t been on there yet.”

  “So you’re going to check it out?” he asks.

  “I dunno. I guess. Can we change the subject?”

  I walk in silence for a couple of minutes until Chad says, “Are you gonna ask guys out? I assume you can.”

  I look at him, ready to yell, but I see he is really thinking about this. Maybe he’s interested in joining.

  “I assume I can. I’ll let you know after I take a look at how it works.”

  *****

  It’s been three days since my Mom gave me my gift. I sit down on the sofa with my laptop and my chicken salad (yes, I’m eating salad!) and open up match.com. I log in with the information on the paper from Mom and set up my account. I need a photo. Fuck! I close the laptop and turn on the TV. Oooh! Hairspray is on!

  I have great hair. I do. It’s naturally blonde with golden highlights. All nat-u-ral! Nobody believes me but it’s true. It’s the only thing I have that’s better than Grace. Her hair is blonde, too, but no natural highlights. Ha! And my hair has a natural wave to it that makes it look like I’ve curled into big pretty spirals. But no. That’s also nat-u-ral! I do love my hair.

  My facial features aren’t horrible but I have kind of a round face because I’m chubby and I have chin chub. For that reason, I don’t like my picture taken… ever. I avoid the camera at all costs. Adding a photo to my match.com account means I’m going to have to have a photo taken, an abhorrent thought.

  So, I have a choice to make: get a photo or forget match.com. Fuck!

  If I don’t do anything with match.com, my Mom is going to be upset, and will never leave it alone. But on the other hand, I must get my photo taken.

  The next day at work, I ask Tina if she would mind taking a few pictures of me at lunch.

  “Sure!” she agrees happily. “What’s up?”

  I tell her. She laughs hysterically. I guess it’s fine if you sign up on your own, but not if your mother signs you up. I’m not going to question it.

  At lunch we walk outside to a gloriously sunny day. There is a cool-looking fountain at the park across the street so we run over and Tina takes lots of pictures from every conceivable angle. I hope there’s one in there where I don’t look like a hippo!

  Once I’m home, I download all the photos onto my laptop. Tina took thirty-four! Eventually I find one that’s okay. Well, it’s the best of what I have so it’s the one I use for my match.com account. At least my hair looks good.

  I answer all the questions and two hours later my account is live and now I wait. It makes me feel vulnerable and I don’t like it. It’s like waiting to be picked for a side in PE. Two captains each picking their best friends to be on their team and the rest of us waiting, desperately hoping not to be the last one picked so that it’s painfully obvious I am the least popular kid in the class. Memories of middle school. Fuck! Have I said that’s my new favorite word?

  *****

  There is hopefully a point in life when I will not care what others think of me anymore. I want to live my life for me. I want my own expectations to steer my days, not the expectations of others. I just don’t know how to get there.

  As I stand with my legs spread apart and my arms straight out, allowing Chad to use a measuring tape on my torso and limbs, I am still pondering this dilemma.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Chad chuckles as he’s kneeling on the ground in front of me measuring the diameter of my thighs and scribbling numbers down on a piece of paper laying on the floor.

  “I…”

  “Go on,” he encourages.

  I hesitate. I don’t ever share personal stuff… ever! I keep everything to myself.

  “You’ll feel better talking about it,” Chad says. “And I’m a really good listener.”

  He smiles up at me and I look at his beautiful face. He’s been my trainer for almost two months. I see him three times a week for at least an hour, sometimes two. Other than my coworkers, I spend the most time with him. His eyes are gazing up at me, the brilliant blue dazzling me. They say that the eyes are the window to the soul. If that’s true, I can see that Chad is one of the good ones. He is what he appears to be - genuinely kind and sincere. He is intelligent and a great conversationalist. His sense of humor is fun, but he doesn’t use any of that deprecating humor at the expense of others.

  One unnerving thing about Chad, however, is that he seems to be in tune with my moods and emotions. It’s actually kind of scary. He can read my expressions in a split second. He seems to have this uncanny ability to finish an exercise right before I throw my hands in the air and give up. It’s kind of freaky.

  “I’ve never been much of a talker,” I admit.

  “Maybe you haven’t had such a great person to talk to,” he grins up at me.

  That smile! Those sparkling white teeth.

  “I have a date for coffee tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Really?” Chad stands up and is just inches from me. “With who?”

  “Some guy from match.com named Adam.”

  “Where?”

  “The coffee shop on the corner of Grand and 57th.”

  “Did he ask you or did you ask him?” Chad asks, jaw firm.

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Chad steps to the right and starts measuring my bicep.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” I smirk. “I’m a really good listener,” I tease.

  He grabs his paper and pencil from the floor and writes down some more numbers. “You’ve lost a total of fourteen inches since you started here. That’s impressive.”

  Something is very wrong. Usually when he gives me good news, or praises me, his whole face lights up with his smile. But now? His jaw is rigid and there is no light in his eyes.

  “Yeah,” I reply. “Most of my clothes are too big. But I don’t want to buy anything new yet.”

  “Time for the treadmill,” he states dispassionately.

  I follow him into the large room with the treadmills and stair steppers. I step on the machine
closest to me and begin a medium pace to warm up.

  “It’s time to step that up a bit,” he says and presses some buttons.

  I’m at a jog, nothing horrible but I’m not a runner. I told him that at the very beginning. And then he ups the speed again.

  “Hey!” I snap. “I’m not competing against Usain Bolt!”

  “You want to look good for all your upcoming dates, right?”

  I don’t respond.

  “So let’s get that body working.”

  I’m struggling. Maintaining the pace he’s set for me is becoming more difficult with each step. My breathing is labored and sweat is already pouring off me. When he reaches for the controls, I assume to up the speed again, I lose it.

  “Stop!” I scream and jump to the outside edges of the treadmill, straddling the machine. My emotions are raw and very close to the surface. “Why are you being so mean?”

  His eyes are like small slits as he glares at me and I see anger. It breaks me.

  In my entire twenty-nine years, Chad has been the only one who has understood me. He has been the only person to use positivity to encourage me, rather than all the negative shit I’ve heard all my life about my weight. “Don’t eat that.” “Why don’t you ever exercise?” “Haven’t you ever looked in the mirror?” No. Chad says things like, “You are beautiful, Kate. Why don’t we make you stronger?” Or, “Man, you’ve got great legs. Let’s help to define those calf muscles a little more.” He’s always found something to compliment me on, and I admit to responding to it.

  “What did I do wrong?” I ask. It comes out with the sob that I’m desperately trying to swallow.

  “Nothing,” he says.

  We stare at each other for an eternity, although, in reality, it’s about four seconds. It may just be the longest four seconds of my life. I’m searching his face, trying to find the Chad I know, but I don’t see him.

  “So why are you so angry?” I plead. I’m praying he doesn’t notice the tears running down my cheeks. They’re mixed with sweat so hopefully he can’t tell the difference.

  His shoulders suddenly slump forward and he lets out a long sigh. “I’m sorry, Kate. I’m, I’m not feeling that great. I’m going to get Jess to finish up your session. I’ll see you later.”