Confessions Of An Ex-Girlfriend

You’ll need it. The implication she had not voiced sped through my mind nonetheless as I stared at her retreating back.

Confession: My life has become some sort of inside joke—and I’m the only one who doesn’t get it.

“Come in, come in,” Caroline invited, once I finally gathered up the courage to actually go in and make my now somewhat pathetic-seeming bid for the senior features editor position. Thank God, I had Caroline to practice on first, before having to make my case to Patricia. Ever since I had come to Bridal Best, Caroline had been my champion, lavishing praise on my early writing efforts and encouraging me to go for the contributing-editor position when it opened up. Now, as I headed into her sunlit, plant-filled office, the shelves overflowing with everything from the international dolls she collected to photos of her and Miles, her husband, and their three picture-perfect children, I was glad she was my manager. But as I seated myself before her, it suddenly occurred to me that the theory I had recently constructed of the solid bond formation between Sandra and Rebecca didn’t hold water when it came to Caroline and me. There was no way I was the miniversion of Caroline, with her warm, loving home in Connecticut strewn, I was sure, with the hand-made crafts she excelled at and smelling of the fresh-baked cookies she tucked into her children’s lunch bags before sending them off to posh private schools carefully chosen according to each gifted child’s unique talents. Even her husband, a general contractor who was ever ready to build a new wing onto their already sprawling home to accommodate the next adorable addition to the Jamison family, seemed from some male mold I had yet to encounter in my own life. Not that I had ever been invited to said happy home or met the husband and kids, but I had gathered much from Caroline’s softly spoken stories at the communal lunch room table of the joys of family life. Even now, she was radiantly pregnant with Perfect Baby Number Four beneath her floral and feminine maternity dress. Everyone was always faintly amazed at how she returned to the office baby after baby, ever ready to do her part for the greater good of Bridal Best.

“I’m glad you stopped by,” Caroline said now, once I had made myself comfortable in the chair parked next to her wide desk, which was a maze of carefully stacked papers. Somehow, no matter how busy Caroline was, she was always prepared to offer you a chair and an ear to discuss just about anything that was on your mind, whether righteous indignation at your piece getting bumped from an issue, or dismay of a more personal nature, should you dare to share it with it a superior. Not that I ever did. And I wouldn’t dare share my recent Derrick Disaster with anyone in the office now that I was allegedly making so much progress in my life that a pro motion seemed like the next, natural thing. After all, whoever heard of a disgruntled editor and new member of the Recently Dumped making senior features editor at the nation’s most comprehensive guide to happily-ever-after?

“Did you want to talk to me about something?” I asked now, worried suddenly that Caroline, in her gentle way, was about to inform me that she had realized how seriously lacking I was in most areas of my life and work.

“No, no. Nothing specific. It’s just we haven’t really spoken in a while, and I was wondering how things were going. You know, sometimes with all the flurry of deadline pressures and, well, life, we forget to take stock of things. How are you?”

“Good, good. Great, in fact,” I replied, striving for the tone of a woman in charge of her life and ready to tackle any professional challenge that came her way.

“Wonderful.” She smiled, her hand going to her softly rounded abdomen and caressing it gently.

“How’s everything with you? Feeling okay, with the baby and all?”

“Oh, yes.” She laughed. “I’m an expert at this baby thing by now. Miles always jokes that I’m going to be given my own monogrammed paper gown by the maternity ward.”

My glance fell on the photo of Miles smiling out at me with the strong white teeth and tanned skin of a man designed to make a woman happy. “I bet you and Miles are just as excited about this baby as you were with your first,” I said, suddenly realizing I had forgotten the name of her first baby and hoping I would be saved from an awkward moment in this all-important friendly banter. After all, I didn’t want my seeming indifference to the children she loved more than life itself to become glaringly apparent. It wasn’t that I didn’t care—her kids were actually quite adorable, at least in their photos. It was just that I couldn’t keep up with her output.

Fortunately Caroline saved me from disgrace. “Oh, we are excited. But my Sarah never lets us forget who is the oldest in the house. I swear the way she bosses her brother and sister around, I wouldn’t doubt she has a management position in her future.”

“Funny you should mention that,” I said, finding my segue and readying myself to take the plunge and launch into how I was verifiably the smartest, sanest and strongest candidate for a senior position with the magazine. Oh God.

“As you know—” I began, gripping the armrests in an attempt to take the tremble out of my fingers “—I was promoted to contributing editor two years ago.”

“Yes, and you’ve been doing a fine job,” Caroline said with a smile.

“Thank you,” I said, feeling a measure more confident and relaxing my grip. “During that time, I’ve been a solid contributor, often initiating ideas for articles and getting more involved in lay out. I even wrote a lot of the promotional copy on our most recent subscription contest.”

“Your copy was lovely, Emma, as always.”

“Thank you,” I replied once more and rather calmly, I thought, considering that my insides were shrieking I’m in, I’m in! “I think my writing skill, as well my strong knowledge of the magazine gained over the past four years,” I continued, “make me an excellent candidate for the open position of senior features editor.”

Caroline’s expression fell, eyebrows dropping down as surprise spread over her features. “Oh.”

Oh? My stomach plunged.

“Interesting,” she murmured, her brow becoming furrowed as she studied me.

Interesting? What did that mean, I wondered, my newly fostered hopes crumbling. “Um. I’m wondering. That is, I want—uh, what do I need to do to…uh, apply for the position?”

Finally she smiled, her trademark warmth returning and giving me a small shred of courage once more. “Well, the first thing you would need to do is talk to Pat, of course,” she said, her use of the editor-in-chief’s nickname a privilege allotted to management, apparently, as I had never heard anyone else refer to Patricia in this manner.

“And would you recommend pulling together clips for Patricia?” I said, hoping my question would show her how aware I was of the next steps in the promotion process.

“Good idea,” she replied. “You also might want to update your résumé, to give Pat some sense of your whole career.”

Gulp. I wondered how my stint at Good Grub and string of temp jobs was going to hold up against Rebecca’s experience as a trade editor and God-only-knew what other accomplishments. “Hmm. Yes. That is a good idea,” I agreed.

Caroline’s brow furrowed once more as she studied me. After a few painful moments she said finally, “As you go through your clips and update your résumé, Emma, take the time to take stock. It’s a good opportunity for you to see the work you’ve done, analyze your strengths and think about future directions.” Leaning back in her chair, she continued, “After all, it’s not every day we think about what we want to be doing over the next few years.”

Wasn’t that the truth? In fact, if I had thought about my future, I might have realized a few things: like the fact that there was no way in hell I would ever be able to compete against Rebecca, who seemed to be growing in accomplishments by the minute. I might have even figured out, for that matter, that I would be manless at thirty-one years old rather than married to Derrick, seeing as he had scheduled his departure from our relationship from day one. But I said none of this to Caroline as I stood up, murmured a few words of thanks and headed off, I was sure, to my next and imminent disaster.

Four

“To binge, or not to binge, that is the question.”

—Weight Watchers escapee

Confession: I am not as thin as I think I am.

O n my way home from work, after managing to convince myself that I had an absolute right to an all-out binge, I stopped at the bodega on my corner.

“Hello!” called out Smiling Man behind the counter, so christened by Alyssa and me, due to the fact that despite his likely status as a minimum-wage worker being exploited by his own bodega-franchise-owning family, he was relentlessly cheerful, no matter what hour of the night you came in—and he worked all night.

“Hello!” I called back cheerily, masking my feelings of despair and heading straight for the Hostess rack in the back. As I contemplated the Ho-Hos and Suzy Q’s—even turned over the Twinkies package to shamelessly check the fat content with some vague hope that a nonchocolate selection might save me from utter overindulgence—I realized that for the first time in two years, I was about to head to that counter up front (with an armload of snack cakes) alone. No Derrick by my side to pawn off three-quarters of the booty by making some offhand joke about how he should have limited himself to one or two selections. Picking up a Suzy Q—the largest little cake on the rack by far, and containing the most chocolate per square inch—I actually considered buying one cake here and then hitting another bodega or two until I had enough fat-filled treats to obliterate any glimmer of unhappiness I might be feeling about my prospects at Bridal Best and in life in general.

But then an old, familiar anger gripped me. What the hell did I care what Smiling Man thought about my fat intake? I told myself, furiously grabbing a coffee cake to add to my Suzy Q before moving on to the next rack for a bag of sour cream and onion potato chips. I realized now that was exactly my problem: I cared a little too much about what others thought. Forget Caroline and her enigmatic expressions. (What the hell did interesting mean anyway?) And who did she think she was, with her Earth Mother approach to life and that perfectly constructed bubble she lived in out in the burbs, to judge me just because I wanted something better for myself, I thought, grabbing up a Yoo-hoo from the dairy section before I headed for the front and, with a look of false bravado, plunked everything on the counter.

“Is that it?” Smiling Man asked, his grin seeming somehow wider as he gazed on my selections.

“Yes, that’s it,” I said, standing strong as I counted out the obscene amount of money the register showed after he had rung up my purchases.

“Goodbye! Have a good night!” he called out in a singsong response to my muttered thanks.

Marching down the street to my building, I tried desperately not to let any thoughts creep in about how Derrick and I used to wander this way, arms linked, gazing at all the beautiful brownstones and dreamily picking out ones we’d like to live in. Of course, he was only caught up in the moment, while I—

“Hello, neighbor,” Beatrice said, holding open the door to the only dilapidated building on this magnificent block—ours.

“Hi, Beatrice, how are you?” I said by rote, then cringed for the response.

“Well, I’d be a lot better if I hadn’t let myself eat pastrami for lunch. I’ve been tasting it ever since! Oh, the indigestion that stuff gives me, and I don’t know why. In truth, I—”

“Mail come today?” I asked, not wanting any more information on the particularities of pastrami the second time around as I made my way into the foyer.

“Of course it came,” she said, following me to my box and standing a little too close for comfort as I pulled out a wad of junk mail and bills.

Eyeing a clothing catalog in my hand, she asked, “Did you ever find anything you liked in 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.

“I’m surprised. I mean, it’s perfect for women like us. I usually—”

“What 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?”

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