The Weight of Words

I remember myself always trying. If I could read the right material, join the wisest group, or discipline myself through several days of my new plan, the whole thing would kick in. I would at last know the secret. I would be trim, wearing those Bermuda shorts my mother made for me in the sixth grade, pulling on that slim skirt without the bulge through my thighs in high school and, when I was married, sewing up Vogue patterns without increasing the seams through the hips on a Calvin Klein or Donna Karan. I never gave up. But I got tired. Sick and tired of trying again. Still, I did it. I started over when my disgust winnowed down to a seed of logic. This is my life, I said. I must try again, because I refuse to spend the remainder of my years without an attempt, without the pleasure of turning to a mirror, elegant, graceful, and wise, or exploring my Ohio woods in nifty knickers (I pictured myself as an adventurer.) or pedaling my new red Schwinn up a hill without giving in to walk the final feet of road, or selecting Size B panty hose at Krogers. I would not not try. The scenes, though, between those tries are haunting. In one, I’m waiting for my husband Dan to come home from work. Lying on the bed with an empty bag of potato chips, a mostly empty bag of Cheetos and one lone Little Debbie Swiss cake roll in a box next to my head, I can barely breathe or turn over or do anything but wish I wasn’t so full. If my stomach hadn’t been stretched out like a balloon, I would have taken another frantic bite—to forget, with a momentary taste in my mouth. But I am flat-out on the bed, unable to even look at a Little Debbie, let alone unwrap it.