Memoirs of a Fat Girl

What, pray tell, led to these events? What on earth compelled me to find and contact the boy, now a man, who almost unknowingly broke my heart all those years ago?

Now, looking back on it all, I'm sure he's asking the same question. I know I am.

While there were pieces to the puzzle that when put together, walked me down the path to aforementioned e-mail, I've now chalked up the whole experience as either a random act of ballsiness, or complete and utter insanity. Knowing me as well as I do, insanity is probably the more stable option.

Shall we go through the signs, then?

#1: The Men and the Boys. Call me crazy, but writing about Sandy for one week solid was probably the catalyst. I couldn't believe the clarity with which I'd remembered things, especially since I've spent even longer trying to force myself to forget. Do you have any idea what it's like to think you don't remember, only to realize those memories were buried under a super thin surface and just waiting to be rehashed?

It's totally fucking creepy. Creepier still comes the admission: since the moment we met outside that stupid takeout chicken place 15 years ago, I've thought about him almost every single day. Boyfriends have come and boyfriends have gone, but through my ups and downs, in length or in passing, Sandy was the one who was always with me. Cue Twilight Zone theme music here.

#2: My mother. That woman just won't quit. She has that mom radar and knows when to mention things exactly when I don't need to hear them, like, "Did you take out your trash today?" "Did you iron that HUGE pile of wrinkled blouses I saw in your room?" "How much money are you putting into your mortgage this year?" "Whatever happened to that boy you went to prom with?"

That last one was a doozy. We were in her car and parked at the lot of a discount home goods store, sharing a pack of crackers since we'd skipped lunch when she dropped that question on me. Right then I bit off more than I could chew so that she had to slap me on the back while I coughed and my eyes watered. "What?"

"That boy you went to the prom with, I think his name was Sandy?"

Keep in mind this was in the middle of my Sandy writing marathon, and hearing mumsy dearest mention him at that precise moment was pretty damn odd. "Lady, where the hell did that come from?"

She sighed. "I don't know, I think about him sometimes. I really liked that boy."

Good Lord.

#3: Georgia. We never went to the same school again after the tenth grade, but have always stayed strong. Although she’s not doing her nails in math class anymore, she does work at IBM, is happily married with a house in the burbs, minivan parked in the driveway, and is waiting to turn that floral-y guestroom into a nursery. And, apparently on the waiting list to be dancing in a Sean Paul video. Some things never change.

She and I get together every so often just to catch up, and were eating dinner all of one day after moms had mentioned him when Georgia just happened to mention, "What do you think Sandy is up to these days?"

I really have to appreciate how people strategically place these questions when I’m eating. This time it was a Japanese-inspired salad with wasabi dressing, and my new choking item of choice was a sugar snap pea.

More coughing, more spluttering, more watery eyes and then, again, "What?"

She gave me that knowing look. "Well, have to confess that I’ve thought about him here and there. Haven’t you?"

Bloody hell. If she only knew.

#4: My prom dress. I was around 20, 21 when the original owner asked if I wanted to have it. I was personally astounded she didn’t want to keep her prom dress, but ecstatic to finally own mine and so took it home with me. Two days after my mom mentioning Sandy, then one day after Georgia bringing him up, I was going through some of my high school boxes in the basement, when there she was. My beautiful, blast from the past prom dress that I hadn’t seen in years.

Seeing those flowers, feeling that silk and taffetta brought that night back like a jolt. If fate takes any place in our lives whatsoever, if there are such things as signs, let me assure you that I can take a hint.

I don’t have to like it, though. I stuffed the dress back into the box, yelled, "Fine, then!" at no one in particular, then threw something. I think it was a doggie toy. And then, I stormed off to my desk and pulled up Google.

Journalism school can be a fantastic thing. Thanks to Professor Bobby Bassinette and his 8am snoozer class, "Computer Assisted Research," finding anyone is a breeze. In 10 minutes I had Sandy’s address, home phone, place of business, work phone, e-mail, list of numerous urban planning projects he’d been a part of, and full accreditations. If journalism or writing don’t work out, I can always take up stalking.

Very quickly I deduced that I was too chicken to call, and chose the work e-mail. Whipped up that message and was about to send, when the full realization of my idiocy hit me like a blow. Here on my monitor was an e-mail to not just anyone, but Sandy. Sandy, of all people. Had I gone completely bonkers?

Trying to put aside the big YES! that was screaming in my head, I went through my options and decided to go with "second opinion."

Here are my voices of reason: Oli, Raj, Georgia. While Oli is usually always my first choice, her master’s in psychology degree reflects awfully well in such situations, and hearing, "But how does this make you really feel?" often freaks me out. No Oli.

Raj, bless his little gay heart, offers advice that walks a fine line between revolutionary and absurd. I could hear him now: "Kookoo, this is all in the past. Don’t be stupid, unless all you’re calling for is rebound sex, which is fine. Just fuck him then and be on with it." Nope, no Raj.

Georgia time. Besides being rational, focused and the only person of the three that knew both Sandy and I at the time, she still owes me for letting her copy my Science class homework. And so I dialed her number, gave her the scoop, and then let the seizures take over. "What the fuck am I doing, G?" I yelled into the phone, pacing my room and being sick.

Georgia, of course, was in the wrong mood. I needed her to be serious and threatening, not giddy and excited. "You’re about to contact Sandy! Hurry up already, I want to see how he’s doing."

"You do it then!"

"No way. You know he’d rather hear from you. You two had something amazing, you know that."

Sigh. "I know."

"And no matter what happened, he was never an asshole."

Bigger sigh. "I know."

"So just send it."

"I can’t! What if he forgot me?"

She laughed. "You know he didn’t."

Pout. Then, more hysteria. "Why am I doing this? Why have I not been able to forget this person? It’s been 14 freakin’ years! What the fuck is wrong with me?"

"Nothing is wrong with you. Did you ever think that maybe your story with him isn’t finished?"

Too many times. I didn’t say that out loud.

"Are you looking for a relationship out of this?"

"No! I’m not that stupid."

"So you’re going to be okay if he’s married? That’s a big possibility, you know."

"Yes."

"You’re sure?"

"Of course."

"So why are you doing this?"

Long pause. "I miss him."

"Even after all this time?"

Longer pause. "Yes. Even after all this time."

"Well, the choice is yours. But I have a good feeling about this, and I think you’re doing the right thing."

That summed up my conversation with Georgia, which did push me closer to the finish line, but did absolutely nothing for my clammy hands.

It amazes me that I can do some pretty serious things without batting an eyelash, yet have trouble with tiny little details. I thought a lot about that as I looked at that still unsent message. I moved to a foreign country without looking back, but I can’t send a stupid e-mail. I snowboarded down a mountain (okay, mostly on my face), but I can’t send a stupid e-mail. I walked through a minefield on a broken shoe, but I can’t send a stupid e-mail.

Then I remembered what I had to ask myself before moving to the foreign country, snowboarding down the mountain and going through that field; what I ask myself every single time I’m faced with a situation that unsettles me. I’m scared of doing this, but will I regret it forever if I don’t?

Sending Sandy a message vs. down a mountain on my face don’t exactly belong in the same category, but require gut checks all the same. Time for another one.

Okay chicky, here in front of you is a message to your first love. You’re a big girl now, you don’t expect anything, and you have nothing to lose. Are you scared of doing this?

Immensely.

Will you regret it forever if you don’t send it?

Immensely.

I hit the Enter key.