wear anything tight, Stevie,” Eileen said, “because of your chest. ” She eyed my chest, as if it had somehow leaped up, wriggled around, and affronted her that second. “That chest! You can cover up some of that excess fake boob with this shirt.”
“Uhhh…” I crossed my arms in front of my chest. My chest wasn’t that big. I was a 34C, not exactly bopping about uncontrolled.
“Take it.” She shoved it into my arms. “This one, too.” She handed me a shirt with swirly designs that resembled amoebas. “Come on over to this section.” She dragged me to the Women’s Section, for large women.
What do you say to your friend who still weighs more than 300 pounds: “Eileen, I don’t fit here anymore? I know we used to shop here together, but now I can’t.” Wasn’t that insensitive? Wasn’t it calling attention to her weight? But wasn’t it obvious?
She must have read my mind. She patted her short brown hair. She used gel to make it stick up on top. “You think you don’t belong in this section, but you do. You so do. Maybe not the pants.” She shook her head in pity. “I feel so sorry for you, Stevie, for all you’ve been through. You’re a little grayish, today, honey. Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“And you look exhausted.”
“Thanks.”
“Oh, don’t get all sensitive on me. I’m honest, you know that.”
Why do people think they can tell someone, “You look so tired!” and get away with it with a smile? It’s the same as saying to someone, “You look terrible.”
“I know you have a problem with my being honest, Stevie, but you have to hear it sometimes. Better from me, someone who cares about you, than from someone else.”
“Eileen—”
“Eileen what?” she mocked, her face flushing. “Eileen, I’m too good for this section now? I want something that remakes me into a teenager? Come on, Stevie, it’s time someone told you that you’re trying to dress too young. Remember Mrs. Tomissan in school? Heather’s mom?”
I remembered.
“Slutty. She was slutty. She was trying to be young again. I think she was trying for sexy, but it didn’t work. So don’t be a Mrs. Tomissan.”
I felt hot and stupid. “I’m not trying to be her—”
“Good. What about this shirt?”
She pulled out a patterned, long-sleeved blouse. It looked like a puzzle squished together by ghouls. “I don’t think—”
“It’ll be flattering on you. Add some color to your face. You know, you can’t wear blah all the time.”
She piled a few more shirts on my arms. I hated all of them but said nothing because I am spineless. “This one will slim down those shoulders of yours, get rid of that football player look.” She smiled at me, then went back to her shopping.
Eileen Yorkson is wealthy. Her father owns an investment company and she works as the “manager.” She’s paid more than $250,000 a year. I hear about that often. She is “invaluable” to the company, she tells me. She has an expensive home in the hills of Portland, shops obsessively, and dumps tons of money, which she uses as an excuse to treat the salesgirls as one would treat contagious cholera.
I sighed again. This time, the sigh was for me and my patheticness.
“Can I help you, ladies?” a saleswoman asked. She was in her fifties, stylishly dressed with a gentle, kind face.
“Yes, thank you.” I smiled back, tentative, insecure. Shopping scared me to death. I had no clue what to buy or even the remotest hint of what would be right on me. I had been buying used clothes for almost two years, after buying only tent-sized clothing, changing them out as the weight dropped off.
“Let me see what you have there,” the saleswoman said. She examined the shirts that Eileen had pulled off the rack in my arms and held them up.
“This will be perfect with your coloring,” she told Eileen, smiling, friendly.
“They’re not for me,” Eileen snapped.
“Oh, I’m sorry, a gift then?”
“No, not a
“Uhhh…” I crossed my arms in front of my chest. My chest wasn’t that big. I was a 34C, not exactly bopping about uncontrolled.
“Take it.” She shoved it into my arms. “This one, too.” She handed me a shirt with swirly designs that resembled amoebas. “Come on over to this section.” She dragged me to the Women’s Section, for large women.
What do you say to your friend who still weighs more than 300 pounds: “Eileen, I don’t fit here anymore? I know we used to shop here together, but now I can’t.” Wasn’t that insensitive? Wasn’t it calling attention to her weight? But wasn’t it obvious?
She must have read my mind. She patted her short brown hair. She used gel to make it stick up on top. “You think you don’t belong in this section, but you do. You so do. Maybe not the pants.” She shook her head in pity. “I feel so sorry for you, Stevie, for all you’ve been through. You’re a little grayish, today, honey. Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“And you look exhausted.”
“Thanks.”
“Oh, don’t get all sensitive on me. I’m honest, you know that.”
Why do people think they can tell someone, “You look so tired!” and get away with it with a smile? It’s the same as saying to someone, “You look terrible.”
“I know you have a problem with my being honest, Stevie, but you have to hear it sometimes. Better from me, someone who cares about you, than from someone else.”
“Eileen—”
“Eileen what?” she mocked, her face flushing. “Eileen, I’m too good for this section now? I want something that remakes me into a teenager? Come on, Stevie, it’s time someone told you that you’re trying to dress too young. Remember Mrs. Tomissan in school? Heather’s mom?”
I remembered.
“Slutty. She was slutty. She was trying to be young again. I think she was trying for sexy, but it didn’t work. So don’t be a Mrs. Tomissan.”
I felt hot and stupid. “I’m not trying to be her—”
“Good. What about this shirt?”
She pulled out a patterned, long-sleeved blouse. It looked like a puzzle squished together by ghouls. “I don’t think—”
“It’ll be flattering on you. Add some color to your face. You know, you can’t wear blah all the time.”
She piled a few more shirts on my arms. I hated all of them but said nothing because I am spineless. “This one will slim down those shoulders of yours, get rid of that football player look.” She smiled at me, then went back to her shopping.
Eileen Yorkson is wealthy. Her father owns an investment company and she works as the “manager.” She’s paid more than $250,000 a year. I hear about that often. She is “invaluable” to the company, she tells me. She has an expensive home in the hills of Portland, shops obsessively, and dumps tons of money, which she uses as an excuse to treat the salesgirls as one would treat contagious cholera.
I sighed again. This time, the sigh was for me and my patheticness.
“Can I help you, ladies?” a saleswoman asked. She was in her fifties, stylishly dressed with a gentle, kind face.
“Yes, thank you.” I smiled back, tentative, insecure. Shopping scared me to death. I had no clue what to buy or even the remotest hint of what would be right on me. I had been buying used clothes for almost two years, after buying only tent-sized clothing, changing them out as the weight dropped off.
“Let me see what you have there,” the saleswoman said. She examined the shirts that Eileen had pulled off the rack in my arms and held them up.
“This will be perfect with your coloring,” she told Eileen, smiling, friendly.
“They’re not for me,” Eileen snapped.
“Oh, I’m sorry, a gift then?”
“No, not a
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