Memoirs of a Fat Girl

There is still one more line I have to draw.

I was at a subway station in the city last week, just walking across the platform and taking my time, when I saw her. She was running down the stairs, her heels clip cloppeting on the concrete, in a hurry to catch the train before it left. She looked very smart in her pantsuit and shiny black hair cut to a shorter, more fashionable length. She was carrying a sassy leather briefcase, and I saw her flick her wrist right before getting onto the train, to check the time on her gold watch.

She didn’t see me. I preferred it that way.

“She” is Gisella, and she was my best friend. That declaration was never made, but for a long time we were pretty tight. The beginning of the end for Gisella and I was during the start of the new me, back when I lost all that weight. Instead of one of my dearest friends being supportive, which I’d stupidly assumed would be the natural route, Gisella started making snide little comments every chance she could, and became more distant altogether.

I knew we were done on my 25th birthday. She didn’t even call me, but showed up three days later with a present I knew had been re-gifted. A few weeks later, she stopped calling altogether.

Seeing Gisella after some seven-plus years affected me in a way I can’t quite explain. She looked very put together, all business and clean cut, a far cry from the grunge girl I remember from our school days. She was sophisticated, she was polished, and wore a look that screamed, I’m doing well.

You may be tempted to ask how I know this, being out of touch with her for so long, but when I spoke with her last she’d just accepted a job with a national corporation. A small, fresh-out-of-school job with lots of potential to climb the corporate ladder, which I’m guessing she’s doing as we speak.

It’s safe to say I don’t like Gisella, not after the way she treated me, and the bottom line is that I don’t want her to be doing well. Or at least, I don’t want her to be doing better than me. Is that bad? Yes. Is that jealousy? Yes. Do I deserve to be whipped? Big time.

I know I’m being awful, but I’m only human. Do the people who are cruel to us not deserve to do well? I suppose if that were the case all the bitchy cheerleaders would never become prom queen, and all the boys who bullied us in grade school would flunk out of college. Lord knows I haven’t been an angel my whole life so maybe someone out there is gunning for my failure, too.

There’s more to the story, though. The enigma of Gisella isn’t just about what she did, but what she’s like. That said, how could the dullest crayon in the box get so far?

You’ll be tempted to think my bitchy head is talking here, but I couldn’t be more serious. This is the girl who almost ran over a blind man, knocked the side mirror off her new car the first day she got it, and sprained her ankle in a revolving door. She stalked the lead singer of her favourite indie band for years because she wanted to marry him, and actually set herself on fire while lighting candles. As I recall she was wearing an acrylic sweater at the time, and it went up like a torch.

So you might understand how I felt then, watching her run for that train, checking her gold watch. You just might accept that going through my mind was, You set yourself on fire and still got the business suit?

I can do as good as that, and I can be as good as that. Line I’m drawing for myself: New job. Must get new job. Not to show people up or display my gold watch for passerby, but for myself. I want better, and I want to do better.

There is another reason for this line, but that’s more a labour of love. When I was just an infant one of my cousins from overseas came to stay with my parents, and ended up looking after me. Lucia was the child of my mother’s oldest sister, so the age difference between them was only four years. Biologically she is my cousin, but I consider her more of an aunt.

She stayed with us for the better part of a year and as the story goes, I was very attached to her. I don’t remember any of this, I was too young, but my family always tells me that after she left I waited at the front door for a week, hoping she would come back.

Lucia has never returned since, but will be touching down on our soil in a couple of months, as she and her daughter are confirmed guests at the wedding. It will be her first time back in just over 30 years.

She is very excited to be making the trip, and we are all excited to welcome her. As fate would have it, Lucia is one of those fabulous relatives we all agree on. She was on the phone with moms he other day and after going over the details of their tickets, said that her dream has always been to return here to see how I’m doing.

This woman used to carry me everywhere, sing me to sleep, and dress me in pink jumpsuits with matching pom pom hats. She wanted great things for me.

I want great things for me too. At the very least, I want her to know I’m okay. Is that such a bad thing?