Memoirs of a Fat Girl

Khaki cargo pants, white peasant blouse, black sandals, my favourite gold chandelier earrings with blue stones. Bit of lip gloss, bit of black eyeliner, bit of black mascara, lots of black curls loose around my shoulders. This was how I looked when Marco arrived.

It was the Thursday night of our first week in Amman. Raj and James were watching a movie in the apartment and enjoying a light snack of breadsticks and jarred cream cheese. I, on the other hand, was running around like a chicken with its head cut off. I ironed, I showered, got dressed, shitpicked myself up and down and cursed the pedicurist for my chipped toenail polish. Terrible pressure it is, trying to be perfect for "the event" that has been a long time coming, especially when you know there is no such thing as perfect but strive for it anyway. And while I realize that I did absolutely nothing for myself by applying extra mountains of nerves onto an already stressful situation, why, of all fucking times, did my turquoise toes have to be less than stunning?

Finally ready, pretty and perfumed, I joined Raj and James for what I assumed would be a few more hours of waiting, but it was all of a few minutes after I'd made myself comfortable that the phone rang. His taxi was waiting downstairs.

Ah, those moments in life when your heart drops into your stomach and you want to puke. So few, but always so important. I jumped up and ran out the door, ignoring Raj yelling, "I'll come with you, kookoo!!", flew down the stairs and outside.

It was dark, and street lamps were few. The road was littered with parked cars, but up ahead a trunk was open and bags were being unloaded. There he was. Marco.

A few weeks ago I wondered if when I saw him, my heart would stop or I would shriek in euphoria. Neither of those happened. Instead I ran without thinking, jumped straight into his hug and barely heard his smiling, "Hi, sweetie," when I did something incredibly, horrifically stupid. The kind of idiocy I'm only capable of when my brain shuts down and the space between my ears is a bag of hot air.

I kissed him. Bang on the lips. A crazy Hollywood smack with my arms around him and my eyes closed. And somewhere in the middle of that, a little voice in the back of my head said, Good lord. I just kissed Marco.

When our lips came apart and I opened my eyes to his smile, the sledgehammer of reality whacked me upside the head and I started to get dizzy. GOOD LORD. I JUST KISSED MARCO.

Stupid stupid stupid girl. It wasn't supposed to be like this! What in hell must he think of me now? Quick, assess the situation. Okay, he was still smiling. Good sign. Rewind scene in head. He kissed back. Better sign. Now stop gaping and do some damage control.

What do I do when I screw up? I really go in for the kill. Marco asked me how I was doing, but I was still too appalled by my Oscar performance to answer. I knew I had to do something quick, and a brilliant idea struck me: his luggage. He had luggage! Of course. I would carry something upstairs. I grabbed the nearest bag and, not even checking to see if he would follow, started hauling it towards the building. At lightning speed. When I got to the sidewalk I passed by a mystified Raj who hissed, "What the fuck are you doing?", and I replied the best I could: with some kind of noise that was a cross between a gurgle and a hiccup. And kept going. Too late to stop now.

I went through the building entrance, up the stairs and kicked open the apartment door. I then dropped the bag in the living room right in front of a confunded looking James who said, "What's the matter? Is he here? What's wrong?", but just ignored him too on my way down the hall and into the bathroom, where I locked myself in. It was a prime opportunity to scream my head off but since I wasn't alone, I had to settle for sitting on the toilet with my head between my knees, hyperventilating in private.

I'd love to say that never in my life have I acted so hysterically, if only to make myself feel better, but then I've done a *lot* of stupid things. This one though, deserved some kind of prize. Sitting there on that toilet and replaying it over and over, I figured all that was missing were some circus poodles and Bozo the clown. Wait, Bozo had been there all along. I was Bozo. Bozo the demented, inbred clown.

Couldn't stay in here forever, and I didn't want to. Marco was out there. One of my best friends for fuck's sakes, and here I was having an asthma attack on a toilet. And no matter how disastrous I'd just made things, I'd have to face him sooner or later anyway. Unless I could somehow sneak the washer out of here without anyone noticing - doubtful - this bathroom was far too small for a comfortable night's sleep.

Okay, Bozo. Deep breath, stand up, hand on doorknob, that's it. Little by little. Move your feet out of the bathroom, across the hallway, into the bedroom.... and there he was. Taking off his watch and putting it on the nightstand like it was the most normal thing in the world, almost oblivious to the fact that I'd just acted like the biggest loser on earth.

Almost. He had heard me come in and so turned around, smirking, left eyebrow up and that "Uh huh" look I knew so well written all over his face. Well, if anyone knows how big a loser I can be, it's Marco. If I'm going to make a complete fool of myself in front of anyone, it may as well be him.

Marco went around to shut the door, and then came back to stand right in front of me. He took both my hands in his, kissed each one, then pulled me in for a big hug and started to laugh. "Silly."

"Oh, shut up."

This only made him laugh harder and even though I was probably blushing like mad, I started to relax. I started to breathe. I settled into his arms at last and when he pulled me in for a kiss, I noticed something that just a few minutes before I'd been too panicked to enjoy: he tasted like sweet tobacco and fresh mint leaves.