Memoirs of a Fat Girl

When Jess and I lived in Prague, we arrived at the tail end of summer. We were there all of winter and fall, and left at the dawn of spring. Not quite four seasons, but we saw them all.

I love the holidays, each and every one. Halloween is near the top of my list, mostly because the fall is my favourite time of year. The leaves are russet colours, the air is crisp, scarves and mittens come out of hiding, and apple pies are in the oven.

Halloween itself is a vault of memories for me. Getting excited every year about what costume I was going to wear, which tricks I would play, and all the candy I would get. One more night of spooky fun before the next day when, wouldn't you know it, Christmas was suddenly around the corner.

Outside of North America, Halloween is not a big deal. It's no deal at all. No costumes, no trick or treating, just an ordinary day like all the rest. The one, solitary sign of Halloween in Prague was a large pumpkin in the window of Fruits de France, a boutique Parisian grocery near Wenceslas Square.

October in Prague was when I started to get homesick, and the absence of little ghosties and goblins didn't make it better. I got mopey, and Jess noticed. It's hard not to notice someone's every changing mood when you're in such close quarters.

October 31st was on a Wednesday that year. I remember walking home from the tram stop after work, going up the building steps and opening our apartment door to a huge, orange pumpkin on the kitchen table.

I know my face lit up in a smile. He came out of the bedroom to kiss and hug me hello, and to the questioning look on my face, replied, "It's for you. I got it from the French store."

I was about to tell him how much I loved it, when I realized something. "How did you get it back here?"

"I carried it."

"Jess, the French store is at least ten blocks away. You're nuts."

He rumpled my hair. "I wanted you to have it."

Jess isn't one to express himself through words. He doesn't gush, or feel the need to tell me that he loves me every minute of the day. But, every now and again he does something so wonderful, so heartfelt, that it knocks me off my feet.

This was one of those times. He'd specifically gone out today to find the one pumpkin in Prague, and haul it all the way home, just for me. At that moment, right then, I knew the man standing in front of me would go to the ends of the earth to make me happy.

And that was good.

It is years later, several Wednesdays from that day, and our relationship has gone in a hundred different directions. We broke up in February, he said he was sorry, things have been eerily stable since, and he has pulled another rabbit from his hat: a ticket to Chicago. For me.

Do I want to go?

Yes. No. Yes.

Am I nervous to see him again?

No. Yes.

Do I still love the man?

No. Yes. Very.

Am I ready to tell him that right now?

No.

Are people capable of change?

I always liked to think so.

Can he grow?

I want to believe that.

Is there hope for us?

I want to believe that, too.

Can I handle it if things work out for us?

Yes.

Can I handle it if things don't work out for us?

Yes. I know that now.

Am I going to Chicago?

No.

No.

No.

Yes.