Fall 2021 Contest Finalist
Lessons in Transfiguration
He’s smiling at me and it’s that smile I’ve only seen in movies, when the girl walks in and the guy sees her for the first time, and then there’s a tedious yet oddly thrilling tug of war with each other’s heartstrings until they finally live happily ever after.
The meet cute moment. My meet cute moment. At age 26, it’s finally here.
I ignore the urge to look over my shoulder at the bombshell who must be standing directly behind me and smile back at him instead. I covertly take him in, from his shaggy dark hair to his straight white teeth, to his Converse sneakers.
When I return my attention to my book and continue flipping through it, I’m unable to focus enough to compute the meaning of the words. I feign absorption in its contents, straining my peripheral vision to keep him in my sight. I betray no hint of interest.
I shrug my messenger bag over to the opposite shoulder and brush a lock of hair out of my eyes. I hope I’m succeeding in my quest to appear as indifferent as possible, even though my heart is racing. It’s as if I’m a 14-year-old girl with no real romantic experience of the opposite sex. Which, of course, I might as well be.
After a few moments, he returns the book he was reading to its shelf and starts heading towards me on a wave of cedarwood scent mixed with some mysterious old-world spice.
“What’re you reading?” he asks. “Must be good.” He’s chewing gum discreetly on the right side of his jaw.
“Yeah, it’s really good,” I say, awkwardly holding the book up so he can see the cover, which features a ginger cat wearing lime green glasses and a violet wig, its tongue sticking out at the prospective reader.
“Fat Girls and Lawn Chairs? That’s . . . interesting,” he laughs.
I feel a dreaded flush creep up my neck to my cheeks and wish with my whole heart that I had been holding something else. Anything else, really. Maybe Fight Club, for the win? Or something by Hemmingway? Even Fifty Shades of Grey would have been better, but it’s too late now.
“It’s a memoir. I don’t usually read them, but a friend of mine told me it was really good.”
Nobody had told me it was really good. In fact, I hadn’t heard of it until just a few minutes ago when I had happened to notice it, facing spine-out, on the shelf. It had not been the ridiculous cat that had grabbed my attention, but the title itself.
After spending over 90% of my life as a “fat girl” the reflections of another had seemed like a comforting beacon in the darkness of my newly skinny reality. The more my skinny self saw of the world, the less I recognized it. It was a new level I had reached in the game of life, with doors that I hadn’t even known existed before, let alone been able to open.
Two years of 4am workouts, diet changes, and relentless dedication had enabled me to lose over 200lbs. It had all happened so fast I wasn’t sure how I had done it. Until moments like this, I couldn’t really believe that I had.
I’d never realized how invisible I had been until I lost 2/3 of my body weight. Suddenly people just seemed to care more, took more interest. They opened doors for me. Complimented my appearance and fashion sense. Smiled at me more. For the first time in my entire life, men gave me a second glance — sometimes even a third. I could walk into any clothing store and pick anything I wanted to wear, and it would fit. No more crying in the fitting room. No more plus sized elastic granny jeans for me!
Suddenly, I always felt like I was on life’s runway, that I was finally being seen, even though there was less of me to see than there had ever been before. I felt totally unprepared to receive the attention, after so long on the sidelines. I was 26 and had never even been on a date. I was Drew Barrymore in Never Been Kissed. I had so much lost time to make up for.
When I saw the title Fat Girls and Lawn Chairs, I had felt an odd pull towards it. I felt the promise of a story kindred to my own, and maybe even a map to follow in this weird uncharted territory.
Now, I look at this handsome guy who is staring at me expectantly, as if he’s waiting for an answer.
“What’s your favorite book?” he repeats.
“Harry Potter.” I smile what I hope is an inviting smile. I have no idea what I’m doing here. I lean in a little closer to him and his overzealous cologne wafts over me.
“Which one?”
“All of them.”
“Those are great. What’s your favorite thing about them?”
“I love the world she created. Nothing is what it seems.”
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