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“You’re a psychiatrist, and you’re letting something that happened over ten years ago stop you from going to a party?”
“Well, when you put it like that, it sounds pathetic. But it’s really not. I don’t shy away from my fears, and I’m always doing self-work on my issues. But this is different. It’s like Fettuccini Alfredo.”
Simone gave me aGirl, you’re crazylook, which I totally ignored and continued with my story.
“I used to love that dish. It was my all-time favorite. The creamy white sauce, the yummy noodles cooked just past al dente. I couldn’t get enough of it. Then, one time, I tried a new restaurant, and the pasta didn’t taste right, but I was in such a hurry that I wolfed it down anyway. That night, I spent several hours with my head in the can. Puking. Gagging. What was white, creamy, and smooth came out chunky and yellow and foul. Not once, oh no. I barfed up that meal for hours. Every time I thought, ‘Okay, that’s it. It’s all out.’”
I shook my head. “Nope. I was wrong. There was still more to lurch out of me, making my guts convulse. That shit came out of me so strong there were times I thought I’d pass out. It was the grossest thing I’ve ever experienced.
“And to this day, I cannot bring myself to eat it again. I’m ruined. Even the smell makes me sick to my stomach. What’s even worse, I can’t go into an Italian restaurant because someone is bound to order it, then I’ll smell it, and like magic, appetite gonzo. Logically, I know I won’t get sick from it again. But my body doesn’t know that. My body wants to protect me from ever having to clutch that fucking toilet—with the condensation sliming my skin—ever again.”
I shrugged one shoulder nonchalantly. “It’s the same thing with ballrooms and ballgowns. I just can’t do it without feeling sick to my stomach. Even though I know rationally that no one will point at me or laugh at my expense or ridicule my weight.”
Simone scoffed. “That’s bullshit, and you know it. I’m no therapist, but even I know what you’re describing is avoidance. I’ve known you for five years now and have never seen this side of you before. You’re the last person I thought would have body image issues. Who gives a shit what other people think?”
Leave it to the lawyer to see through my insecurities and lame-ass excuse. She was partly right. I was being a coward. So what if my stomach stuck out? Not every woman had the body of a Pilates instructor. It wasn’t like another guest would point at me and laugh as Bradley had done. These would all be strangers. But what if one of my clients was there?
No. It didn’t matter. I’d have a mask on…and I’d add a wig, so no one could recognize me. Maybe this was the perfect time to finally heal that emotional wound.
I squared my shoulders. “Okay, Simone. You win. As always.”
“I’m one of the best trial lawyers in the city. You didn’t stand a chance,” she said with a triumphant smile.
An hour later, I was home with my sweet little pooch.
I took thirty-nine pictures of her and texted them to my family group chat.
Nana: What the hell is that? A gremlin?
Dad: Awww, she’s so cute. Send me a picture of her teeth. And did you check for cataracts?
Mom: Very cute dog, sweetie. Ignore your father. He doesn’t know how to clock off work.
Me: Don’t worry, dad, the vet at the shelter gave her a full checkup.
Nana: Listen, Poptart, if you were going to get a dog, you should have gotten a guard dog. This ankle biter isn’t going to protect shit if someone breaks into your place.
Dad: I second that. Maybe you should get another dog. A big one that could protect you and keep Karma company.
That reminded me of Rambo. The big, goofy rottweiler Hawk had adopted. Oh great, now I was thinking about Hawk again.
Me: Go to go. Love you guys. xoxo
I gave Karma plenty of cuddles and praises for being the prettiest girl on earth, then told her to ignore Nana’s gremlin comment.
