Chapter 2


I figured the week would drag by until my Saturday night date with Andy, the guy who, for some reason, was interested in ME -- 21 years old and a resident of the realm that lies between chubby and fat. I'd spent the better part of a Sunday afternoon stuffing my face out of boredom at Robin's graduation party before he came over -- like some vision out of mythology -- and decided to make a pass at me. It wasn't really a pass, though -- the word has so many negative and tawdry connotations -- he just politely brought me a plate of food and asked if he could sit down. He didn't realize that I'd already eaten enough for any two growing boys, and I didn't tell him.

When he had to leave the party, I was gorged beyond belief, and then I was informed that my Andy was Andrew Sansome -- top male model in the world, owner of the most prestigious male modeling agency in New York, Miami, Paris and London, designer of a hot-selling line of clothing, etc. And he was picking me up for dinner on Saturday night!


On Monday morning, I woke up at around 8:30, after my parents had left for work and waddled, naked, into the bathroom. My belly was still as fat as it had been the night before and it almost blocked my view of the bad news in the scale's little window. 165 pounds! That was the most I'd ever weighed. When I'd weighed myself on Sunday morning it had read 157 pounds and that was bad enough. But -- eight pounds in one day... The thought that a lot of it was the food still in my belly comforted me for about a half-second. While I showered, my lathered hands kept coming back to rest on the taut skin over my full stomach, and I kept thinking about how I'd been so turned on last night that I pleasured myself into oblivion. What turned me on? I wondered, rubbing my soapy belly...

After towelling off and trying three different pairs of jeans, I realized that there was no way I was going to be closing a zipper that day, so I put on a pair of shorts with an elastic waistband and headed down into the kitchen. I heated up a bagel, slathered it with cream cheese and cheddar and washed it down with a glass of orange juice while reading the paper before I realized that I wasn't even hungry. "Okay," I said to myself, "You've gotta watch what you're eating because you have to lose some serious weight this week." I started thinking about what I would wear on Saturday and soon came to the conclusion that even if I somehow miraculously lost 10 pounds, there'd still be nothing nice in my closet I'd fit into.

So, I was a woman with a mission. I was at the mall when it opened, prowling every aisle of every department store, searching for THE outfit. My college degree was in fashion illustration and I knew what I was looking for. That is, I knew I'd know what I was looking for if I could only find it. Only -- I wasn't having much luck. Finally, after combing just about every shop in our shopping-heaven town, I saw it in a little boutique on a mannequin who wasn't too far off of my size (Ha, ha!). I walked in and about 3 seconds later, I walked out. WITHOUT the outfit.

My chosen profession was a haven for ridiculous prices. It WAS just a skirt and blouse outfit and there was certainly no justification for a $700 price tag. I stared at the outfit through the plate glass, seriously considering cashing in some of the bonds I'd gotten for graduation, when I suddenly came to my senses, realizing that it just wasn't worth it. "It's just lace and jersey cotton and some applique. The materials probably cost $20 -- if that much -- and..."

The wheels in my head started turning; there was no reason why I couldn't copy that. It wasn't that complicated a design. Rummaging around in my backpack, I found what I was looking for: a small sketchpad and a pencil. For the next 15 minutes, I stood there on the sidewalk sketching furiously from every angle. About 6 or 7 passers-by stopped to watch me draw and the girl who was running the shop -- obviously a fashion student -- looked over my shoulder and asked if I wanted to come in and sketch the back of the outfit. Some of the women watching me followed me into the store and by the time I left, the girl had rung up a couple of hundred dollars in sales from the passers-by.

It was 3:30 in the afternoon by then, and I had a bunch of errands to run for my mother, so I figured I'd get everything ready and get started sewing in the morning. I ate just a salad for dinner, then, before I hit the hay, I dug out my sewing machine and measuring tapes, pattern paper, shears, pins and needles, and called my friend Jess to have her come over to help take my measurements in the morning.


Tuesday morning proved to be a little friendlier in the weight department. I didn't have to squash my belly in with my hands to see that the scale read 161 pounds. I had a glass of tomato juice for breakfast and felt pretty good, although there was still no way I was going to get my jeans on.

Jess came over and we bullshitted for a while; I showed her my drawings and she made some good suggestions, then we went up to my room and I got undressed. Jess looked at me, shaking her head. "Wow!" she said. "I can't believe how fat you've gotten." "Thanks," I said. "Thanks a fucking lot!"

"I didn't say it to be mean," she said. "I just hadn't realized. Look at me. I'm really not one to criticize." She stood up and stretched out her arms and did a little pirouette, demonstating how huge she was. She'd been fat ever since I used to give her half of my lunch back in elementary school. She had fiery red hair, green eyes flecked with gold, and porcelain-white skin. When I weighed 132 pounds and thought that 161 was really fat, I would have guessed that she weighed about 180. Now that I was (gulp!) over 160 pounds myself, I realized that she must've weighed about 220. Her boobs were big, but she really carried most of her weight in her belly and butt.

"I know you weren't being mean," I said. "I'm just a little sensitive. This date and all. And, I mean, it's not like it's a secret or anything. I DID get pretty fat."

"Why?" she asked. " You were never really fat. When did you start putting on weight?" I stood in the middle of the room and handed her the measuring tape. "I guess it was when I stopped commuting to school from here and moved into the apartment in the city. It was junior year and things were pretty hairy. Living on my own, I wasn't eating regular meals like I did here at home, so I would just eat whenever I got a free minute. Add that to my not working out with Robin all the time, and... It wasn't bad at first; I only put on like 6 pounds in Junior year and lost most of it over the summer.

"But senior year -- it was like my metabolism totally changed or something. Number one, I was hungry all the time, so I was eating all the time. Not total gorge-outs like the other day, but -- a bagel for breakfast and a donut at 10, a slice
or two of pizza at 12, a burger at two, an ice cream at 4, chinese take-out at dinner time, a chocolate bar in the library, coffee and cake after the movies -- constant eating. Then, suddenly, it's graduation-time and here I am bulging out of everything I own and weighing in at 25 pounds heavier than I'd been. Of course, this had to be the time I meet the guy of my dreams, right?"

Jess wrapped the tape around my belly and I instinctively sucked in. "You can't do that," she said. "Even if you lose a couple of pounds, you're not going to be able to walk around with your gut sucked in all the time. Just relax." She was right, so I relaxed and felt the tape sliding through her fingers as my belly expanded. "Thirty-one-and-a-half inches," she said. "Now, the hips." I was still wincing from the first measurement when she pronounced that my hips measured 39 inches. I had her measure the inseam and the outseam, shoulders, neck, arms and torso. Then came the bust. I took off my ill-fitting bra and felt a little strange as the cold plastic-coated tape rubbed my hard nipples first and then the part of my chest above my floppy boobs. "Looks like you need to wear a 44DD bra." "Great," I said. "It was hard enough just trying to find the 42D bra I needed last time."

"Well," Jess said, "I wear a 40D bra and I usually can find one at one of the 'fat-lady' stores in the mall." I groaned. "That's like an admission of defeat, going into one of those places. It's like saying to myself, You're fat so get used to
it."

"No, it isn't," Jess said. "It's just getting something you need in the only place available. It's not a big deal. Besides, you'll probably look wonderful in a muu-muu." I flipped her the bird and we both laughed. Then, she said, "Well, hurry and get dressed, fatso, we've got to go fabric shopping."

There were a couple of fabric stores in town and we wound up hitting all of them, picking up the lace here, the cotton jersey material there, a little spandex in another place. We stopped for lunch in the diner and I just had a fruit plate and a bite of Jess's chicken breast sandwich. Out of habit, I almost ordered a slice of the Boston creme pie, but caught myself in time and ordered just a cup of coffee instead.

By the time we got back to my house, Jess had to get home. I went upstairs and started drafting my patterns and creating my slopers. I had a plate of pasta for dinner and my mother gave me a little wink when I said "no" to seconds. By the time I was done with all the drawing and measuring, it was well after midnight and I was ready to crash.


I spent all day Wednesday transferring the pattern, cutting the fabric, basting and sewing. I fought with the jersey fabric and ruined half of the spandex. I cursed and I bitched and I moaned, bruising my thumbs and pricking my fingers. The gathers and the pleats and the appliques took forever, but -- by 8:00 that night -- it was done. I had some salad and a hamburger for dinner and then I met Jess at the diner after she got done at work. I'd been good all week, so I allowed myself a slice of pie to celebrate the completion of my outfit.

"Melly, are you sure you want to eat that?" Jess asked. "It's only two days away." "I know," I said, rubbing my soft blubbery belly under the table, "but I'm doing good. And I'll be extra good tomorrow." And -- just in case I'm not or I won't or I can't -- I'd given the wraparound skirt an extra six inches of breathing room. I smiled to myself and the pie went down real easy.