Confessions of an Ex-Girlfriend by Lynda Curnyn Page A

that catalog I gave you?”
    In truth, I had glanced through the catalog before dumping it in the trash, probably out of some vague curiosity about the shopping worlds of lonely old women. Not that I planned on being one or anything, God help me. “No, no, I couldn’t find anything.” Closing my mailbox, I poised to say my hasty goodbyes and make a quick exit, when Beatrice’s next words stopped me.
    â€œI’m surprised. I mean, it’s perfect for women like us. I usually—”
    â€œWhat does that mean exactly—women like us?” I demanded, cutting her off. I knew I should just leave it alone, but I couldn’t help myself. I had to know.
    Her eyes widened behind her thick glasses. Probably because I was glaring at her. “Well, I just meant size 14 and up. You know. Large women. Don’t you find it’s hard to find clothes that fit right and are comfortable? I know I…”
    The sack of snacks sagged in my hand. Beatrice’s voice faded away as a larger version of myself swam before my mind’s eye. Much larger. One I somehow managed to miss every morning as I stood before the mirror.
    Then my defenses got the better of me. “Well, that’s very sweet of you, Bea, to think of me, but I’ll have you know that I am a size 10. ” And with that I marched up the stairs, leaving Beatrice staring up, I was sure, at my suddenly oversize rear end.
    Once safe inside my apartment, though, my mind exploded with thoughts of all the skirts I had slid to the back of the closet in recent months because the zipper closed up a little too snugly for my liking. And all the waistless cardigans and tunics that had taken the forefront in my attempt to disguise my somewhat bulging midsection. Then I remembered the new trousers I had bought two months ago, and I dropped my bag of illicit treats on the counter and rushed for the closet, searching frantically. Pulling out the hanger where the pants hung, I quickly glanced at the tag in the waistband. Size 12.
    I was finished.
    Hanging the pants back, I took off my blazer and went to stand in profile before the mirror, noticing—for the first time, apparently—how my stomach billowed out just enough to make my pants look sloppy, my physique unappealing.
    I slumped in a chair, eyeballing the Hostess cakes that peeked out of the bag on the counter as if they were the demon seed. How had I let this happen to me?
    To make matters worse, I began cataloging every time that I had made a comment to the effect that I had gained weight, and realized, with sudden horror, that no one had denied my declaration once in the past few months. Not my mother. Not Alyssa nor Jade. Not even Rebecca, who despite all her newfound faults, always came through with a “you look great,” no matter what state I was in. And, worst of all, not even Derrick.
    In the early months of the relationship, while we were still basking in the glow of our first lovemaking and first shared words of deeper affection, I had made some joke about how I had acquired an extra roll of flab due to all the comforts of loving him. Of course, our food and sex fests never had any effect on Derrick, who somehow managed to retain his lanky frame through it all. Seeing my sudden insecurity, Derrick pulled me into his arms and told me he would love me no matter how I looked.
    Now my mind skittered forward to six weeks ago, when I was trying to cram myself into a miniskirt to attend a film festival in which Derrick’s friend had a short film. I had asked the fatal question: “Does this make me look fat?” only to have Derrick look up from the magazine he’d been reading and say, “Well, do you have anything else to wear?”
    I should have seen the signs back then. Now I wondered if this was one of the things that had doomed my relationship with Derrick in the end. Maybe he had planned on taking me to L.A., only to discover the woman he once