quieted as passengers fell asleep. I rose from my seat to use the lavatory, glancing back at Pierce Brosnan's stand in. His eyes were fixated on the stomach that protruded out from my slacks. I pulled my shirt down to cover up. A look of disgust crossed his face before he replaced it with a pleasant nod.
The male flight attendant smiled at me as I approached the restroom. "Excuse me, please," I said. I emerged a minute or two later and he offered me a glass of champagne. "Thank you." I raised my glass to him.
His French accent was thick. "If I were not on duty, I would raise a glass to you. Celebrating a special occasion, oui?"
" My friend's birthday." I gestured to Tammy. Even in sleep, with her mouth wide open and her head bent to the side, she was beautiful in an exotic, earthy way. Men were always attracted to her and she had her choice of suitors. She never noticed when anyone looked at her as she had drawn admiring eyes to her since the age of seventeen.
No one would have guessed that when we first met in middle school, she was a pudgy duckling with braces and cheap plastic framed glasses. She had blossomed into a beauty, and after years of hard drinking, an occasional cigarette, and dozens of transient relationships, she still looked beautiful. Her skin shone like gold, and her smile could make someone forget who they were for a minute. I had the same feeling at certain times, when she shone her grin upon me, and I was pretty sure at this point in my life I was not a lesbian. At times I wondered what it would feel like to kiss her, but the thought of the action itself was so repugnant I squelched it as soon as it entered my mind. And this was for every woman, not just Tammy. Great. I'm on a plane with a poor man's Pierce Brosnan, Jennifer Lopez aka Tamara Lee, and Ed Harris. I'm typecast as John Candy.
"We plan to shop," I said after I took a sip of my champagne. The beverage was ice cold and sweet. The pre-dinner cocktails and wine had me feeling very relaxed. "Do you know of any good stores in Paris?"
" Louis Vuitton, Hermes, Chanel, Gaultier. Try the Golden Triangle. On the Right Bank of the Champs D'Elysess," he said. A lovely attendant with long, sleek blonde hair and her uniform cap tilted perfectly on her head behind him snickered.
"Elle est trop grosse pour couture," she whispered in his ear. I translated the words too big for couture and knew who she was referring to.
"I suppose I should ask you where I can find clothes for big women," I said as I handed him the empty champagne glass.
"Let me think," he responded, as he waved his finger in the air. "I will come to you and let you know where to go."
As I made my way back to my seat, the blonde flight attendant cackled. "Tell her to go to the gymnasium," she laughed. My ears burned.
I squeezed into the wide first class seat. Reaching into Tammy's purse, I withdrew a heart shaped mirror and stared at my reflection. I barely recognized the woman staring back at me.
At some point in our lives, I think we remember ourselves when we were at our best, whether it be when we were the youngest or the thinnest. When we like ourselves, the feeling imprints in our mind. For better or worse. The woman staring back at me was a creature I didn't recognize. A creature with a hormonal problem that made her gain 65 pounds since that time she could look in the mirror and say she really liked how she looked. My blue eyes gazed back at me, with long, curly dark brown lashes, and my milky white skin shone soft and almost flawless. The rest of me was drowned in layers of fat.
When the weight gain first began, I blamed stores which changed their stock to appease anorexic pop culture junkies. Then I blamed was the clothing dryer, which I was certain was a mechanism in a conspiracy by some evil electronics manufacturer to shrink my clothes. My mother told me gaining weight happened naturally by simply getting older. By the time I sought help for my thyroid problem, my jeans
The male flight attendant smiled at me as I approached the restroom. "Excuse me, please," I said. I emerged a minute or two later and he offered me a glass of champagne. "Thank you." I raised my glass to him.
His French accent was thick. "If I were not on duty, I would raise a glass to you. Celebrating a special occasion, oui?"
" My friend's birthday." I gestured to Tammy. Even in sleep, with her mouth wide open and her head bent to the side, she was beautiful in an exotic, earthy way. Men were always attracted to her and she had her choice of suitors. She never noticed when anyone looked at her as she had drawn admiring eyes to her since the age of seventeen.
No one would have guessed that when we first met in middle school, she was a pudgy duckling with braces and cheap plastic framed glasses. She had blossomed into a beauty, and after years of hard drinking, an occasional cigarette, and dozens of transient relationships, she still looked beautiful. Her skin shone like gold, and her smile could make someone forget who they were for a minute. I had the same feeling at certain times, when she shone her grin upon me, and I was pretty sure at this point in my life I was not a lesbian. At times I wondered what it would feel like to kiss her, but the thought of the action itself was so repugnant I squelched it as soon as it entered my mind. And this was for every woman, not just Tammy. Great. I'm on a plane with a poor man's Pierce Brosnan, Jennifer Lopez aka Tamara Lee, and Ed Harris. I'm typecast as John Candy.
"We plan to shop," I said after I took a sip of my champagne. The beverage was ice cold and sweet. The pre-dinner cocktails and wine had me feeling very relaxed. "Do you know of any good stores in Paris?"
" Louis Vuitton, Hermes, Chanel, Gaultier. Try the Golden Triangle. On the Right Bank of the Champs D'Elysess," he said. A lovely attendant with long, sleek blonde hair and her uniform cap tilted perfectly on her head behind him snickered.
"Elle est trop grosse pour couture," she whispered in his ear. I translated the words too big for couture and knew who she was referring to.
"I suppose I should ask you where I can find clothes for big women," I said as I handed him the empty champagne glass.
"Let me think," he responded, as he waved his finger in the air. "I will come to you and let you know where to go."
As I made my way back to my seat, the blonde flight attendant cackled. "Tell her to go to the gymnasium," she laughed. My ears burned.
I squeezed into the wide first class seat. Reaching into Tammy's purse, I withdrew a heart shaped mirror and stared at my reflection. I barely recognized the woman staring back at me.
At some point in our lives, I think we remember ourselves when we were at our best, whether it be when we were the youngest or the thinnest. When we like ourselves, the feeling imprints in our mind. For better or worse. The woman staring back at me was a creature I didn't recognize. A creature with a hormonal problem that made her gain 65 pounds since that time she could look in the mirror and say she really liked how she looked. My blue eyes gazed back at me, with long, curly dark brown lashes, and my milky white skin shone soft and almost flawless. The rest of me was drowned in layers of fat.
When the weight gain first began, I blamed stores which changed their stock to appease anorexic pop culture junkies. Then I blamed was the clothing dryer, which I was certain was a mechanism in a conspiracy by some evil electronics manufacturer to shrink my clothes. My mother told me gaining weight happened naturally by simply getting older. By the time I sought help for my thyroid problem, my jeans
Similar Books
