Memoirs of a Fat Girl

Unlike cartoon consciences that have an angel and devil sitting on either shoulder, I have what James calls an Orthodox Left and a Catholic Right.

My dad is Orthodox, my mom is Catholic. Forever straining to keep balance in the household, Oli and I are both. According to James, the fiery, heated, arrogant gypsy girl in me who leaps before looking and has the libido of a thoroughbred is due to the Orthodox Left side of my body. Demure, sweet, guilty "Angela's Ashes" me who still cries watching Humane Society commercials is all about my Catholic Right side.

I hate to admit it, but he's not far off.

I am with Marco on the balcony, and I've just been told that I'm a sexy lady. I am feeling spirited, I am feeling wild. I am feeling free in a way I haven't felt in forever. I am hearing Orthodox Left: Pull him into your bed, woman, and take him right now!

Orthodox Left never comes without Catholic Right; they are the most demented twins in the world. This is his last night here. Do you really want him to remember you this way?

Orthodox Left: Yes. Yes! He loves you for who you are, and you expect nothing from each other. Do it!

Catholic Right: You're not good at letting go, honey. What if you fall in love?

Orthodox Left: You're not a child anymore, and you know better than that. It's okay to look at other men and have casual sex.

Catholic Right: This isn't casual sex. This is Marco.

This isn't casual sex, this is Marco. Big sigh. I can't do that to him, and I can't do that to myself. Catholic Right usually wins, anyway. I don't know why I'm at all surprised.

But then out of the blue, Orthodox Left gave me one final kick: That's right, sweetness. This is Marco.

What did I want to happen? I wasn't sure yet, but I wanted to find out. I took a very deep breath. And then I took his hand.