When You're A Jet

I used to wear men’s cardigan sweaters and golf shoes. And argyle socks. At age 16. I thought I looked pretty cool/loafer/hip that way, and the sweaters hid my hideous, hideous swollen body, with the girlie curves that I loathed so.

I look back at photos and want to weep at what was such a normal, healthy body. I was a little lanky and a lot clueless and then there was, oh my god, such self-consciousness. I say I want to weep, but I'd get the beignets damp, and we can't have that. Crying plus fried goods equals a dangerous choking incident. We all have learned that one the hard way, right?

I went out and bought myself a scale - because how will I know that I am being healthy and in shape unless the little machine tells me so? We’ve had scales in this house before, a long, long time ago; the relationship has always ended badly. Charlie, 7, is fascinated by this newfangled contraption.

7 PM. Charlie, coming out the bathroom, utterly nekkid, announces, “I’m fifty-seven pounds!”

7:15. Charlie, in the doorway, holding an armful of snorkel gear, a washcloth, and a large, dusty Playmobil ship, extremely water-tight with aqua guys, suitable for water play. “Now I’m sixty-two pounds!”

7:45 PM. Charlie can't believe how cool this thing is! “You get on, Momma!” he urges. I grit my teeth. I’ve already gone all OCD with that thing. I weighed myself when I woke up, before my shower, after I shower, after drying my hair. It’s such a mistake. I’m so angry at my number and my number refuses to drop by many other numbers, no matter how pissed off I am.

I hesitate. He offers to let me hold the big boat. The cardigans and golf shoes are long gone. Maybe I just need a new look.

I reach for the snorkel.