Are You Still Fat?

“You won’t believe what she asked me!” The wind competed with her words as she drove, forcing me to push the cellphone closer to my ear.

I turned and walked in the other direction, in case the bad connection was on my end.

“What did she ask you, honey?” Thankful she couldn’t see the smile my words broke through, her obvious indignation conjured an image of my friend; short, and fiery, the hair she had worked so hard to contain that morning would, by now, have escaped its rubber restraints, so that it danced around and into her snapping, chocolate brown eyes.

“Are you still fat? That’s what she asked me! Are you still fat? Why does she do this to me, honey?”

“I…”, was as much as I was allowed.

“She’s so sweet! Why does she see me this way? Who would do that? I mean, you see someone you haven’t seen in a really long time, and do you say “Hi, how’re doing? Is your wife still fat?” Of course, you wouldn’t honey. You wouldn’t say that.” The wind continued to whip around her words, but her volume made it less of an issue.

“Well, I’m not sure…”, I started, again.

“I know, I know, she doesn’t mean it.” She anticipated my response, before pausing for a breath.

Sitting forward in the porch chair I had sunk into, I opened my mouth to continue, a moment too late.

“But she’s always done this, honey. You know she has! Remember the trip we took? The way she was always so solicitous of me?”

I rested against the cushions again, and, looking down, realized I still wore my running shoes. I did leg lifts, as I listened.

“This defines me, honey! Doesn’t she know that? Doesn’t she know my entire life has been defined by my weight?”

I did two more lifts before hearing her silence.

“Please don’t tell me that.” My voice was soft, but forceful, as I brought both feet to the ground, and stood.

“What honey?” Tired by her diatribe, her voice had quieted, too.

“Please don’t tell me that at your age you are still defined by your body type. I have to believe that at some point we just don’t care anymore, you know? And I count of you to be my barometer. What are you, thirteen years older than me?”

She left the question unanswered.

“I watch you, you know? I learn what to expect, from you.” I kicked a stray piece of mulch back into the flower bed as I walked.

“I’ve always believed that at some point we just don’t care anymore, that other things become more important, like what books we have read, or whether or not the garden is putting out, things like that. I need you to tell me that.”

Her silence continued for a moment before she asked softly, “What am I going to do, honey?”

“Did you ever think about talking to her?” Reaching the gate at the end of the walkway, I turned.

“I can’t do that. She has no idea she’s doing it. She’s so sweet.”

Her voice bore no sign of the horror she had described earlier, and as she spoke children’s voices drifted in and around her words.

“Well, I’m here, and no one seems to notice this thing sticking out of my ear.” I smiled along with her at the memory of every other time she had said those words.

“Hey! I posted to my blog! I mean I got to thinking about what you said…” Knowing her grandchildren would soon take her attention, my words came out in a rush.

“Good! ‘Cause if you left that last one in front, no one would ever come back! I gotta go, honey!”

And, this is what we do.

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