the losing 7

i thought i saw her, danielle, sitting in the far corner with dark glasses on. there was a tray there filled with empty wrappers and her face stained with hot sauce. i am angry. now i have to act like i am ordering to stay on the point scale. now instead of regular soda i have to have diet or better yet water. as she is near the end of her meal i slow down, take my time, read each item and their ingredients hoping she will leave. i hope she will not notice, not say my name, maybe be as ashamed as i am, to be fat, old and trying to sneak a meal past our spouses.

as i am getting past the point of no return, seeing the minutes of my lunch hour slip away, i take a deep breath and step forward. the lady at the register is ready. her face open, bright, young and eager to satisfy. she will be a manager one day.

'yes i would like a taco salad, no cheese and a large water,' my stomach grumbles disapprovingly.

'is that everything?' she says.

'no,' comes the deep full bodied baritone from behind me, 'he would actually like to cancel that and get what he wants.'

danielle is standing there, sauce staining her wide plump lips and large crowded teeth. she has her glasses atop her full rosy cheeked face, her auburn hair hanging limp, wavy as some sort of snake vine. i wonder if it's a trap? as she stands there bits of food still clinging to her dark shirt. i wonder if my wife has put her up to this.

'our secret,' she says.

'so is that everything, sir?' goes the employee.

i make a decision, 'actually i will have a large soda, two burrito's and a quesadilla.'

she waits, we sit together.

'friend or foe?' i ask before settling into my meal.

'how dare you,' she says and pulls a candy bar from her bag.

'now, that son of a bitch is beautiful,' i say and begin to eat.

she eats, as i do, quickly. we have been trained, by the shaming stares of others, to not savor. we must get in and out. we do not talk until it is over. she puts the candy bar wrapper under the food wrappers and we place the tray in the middle so that, with two sodas, people will think we shared.

'i see you are having the same time i am staying on point,' i say.

'life is to be lived i say.'

'if only.'

'you know i have not been able to stay under or at my points since this damn diet started.'

'but your losing weight,' i say.

'ah, diet pills. i take a few of those suckers and boom success. it's just so i can keep my husband off my back.'

'i hear you,' i say, but secretly burn from her celebrated cheating.

'you should try it.'

i tap my fingers along the table top. lunch time cars have filled the drive through. the place is beginning to fill.

'i'm afraid of my heart exploding,' i say.

'ah, old wives tale.'

she has her glasses back over her eyes. there is something buried under all that flesh that strikes me as sexual, as beautiful as worth wanting. bizarre. there is a part of me that feels like i am cheating, not from the food, but for being here alone with a woman. for being here alone with a woman that is not my wife and sharing a secret. i have a twinge of guilt. it's near the end of the lunch hour, for me. i get up.

'same time tomorrow?' she says.

'we'll see, i guess,' i say.

'hey, don't feel guilty we aren't fooling around. it's just lunch,' she says.

i watch her stained lips move to form words, i watch them as the plump up, purse dance about unsure of their transmissions but sure of their intention.

'yeah, houston's is my tuesday joint. have to cover your tracks, you know.'

'yeah, great place to do it.'

'hope to see you there.'

i nod. we part. in the car my face flushes, my hands strike the wheel and thighs. i am unsure, stomach full, what direction to take but understand nothing good will come of it.

'you haven't cheated,' i say to the mirror.

something has turned, or slipped and this current life, safe place seems in jeopardy. as i turn the car into traffic, turn towards the office i call my wife and think of houston's. i call to her voice and try to imagine her lips dancing, out performing the lips on the mouth of the woman i just left.

it's her voice mail. the road is open and at the stop i can take any direction i want. such are the choices we sometimes face.

the losing 6

well this is really right damn terrible, but a promise is a promise. i want to say something about my character and my track record of doing things the right way. you won't know, well most of you won''t know, that i was voted most honest in highschool. most of you won't know that i spend some of my free time helping out at church. i am, at my core, a good man i come home after work and play with my children. i come home after work and talk with my wife. i am not out hooting with the owls at some local bar singing about glory days or the sports page.

so what if i can't keep doughnuts out of my face. i mean it is not like i am doing drugs. so what if i buy the large chicken nuggets or buffalo wings. there are some really horrible things going on in the world, in the country, in the state, in the city or on my street. a man grows tired of having to justify his character because of his weaknesses. a man grows tired of defending those same weaknesses when they are so minor.

if carl was to have a birthday and someone were to bring in cake then i must eat. how can disrespect a man, or any coworker by not celebrating with them on this such an important milestone? now what if it isn't a birthday cake but instead brownies or fried chicken? what if it isn't a birthday but a milestone? what if it is for no reason other than building a communal bond? should i bow out? should i say no thank you i have to think about my points?

i am a good man, a kind man. i look deep into my soul for these answers and they always come back yes. they always come back to take part to build bridges. so why should i feel guilt when i wipe the sauce or powdered sugar from my mouth? why do i feel so torn? the answer, i believe, is in the constant psychological torture. ever since i was a child my mother would talk about weight and diet. we learn what we are repeatedly told.

i can remember the diet soda challenge. i can remember at ten being given the lecture on portion control. i can remember the tightening of the belt and the refusal of common childhood wishes. the sugar cereal did not grace our cupboard. the dinners would be steamed and boiled, the starvation would set in.

i can remember the wild look in my mother's eyes as she would break down. off we would rush to ________ for hamburger. off we would rush to _____ _______ for ice cream. off we would rush to _____ _______ to be lectured and weighed to shed tears and to promise a fresh start.

it would seem, with all these years of utter failure, that i would run from _____ ______ as an adult. well for most of my adult life i did. i would never have darkened _____ _____'s door step if it weren't for my wife. she was thumbing through her lifestyle magazine and noticed a coupon. i am not sure about your gender or relationship status but as a man who is in a marriage there is no worse a phrase than 'i found a coupon.'

the coupon has brought nothing but pain to my life. in the beginning they were celebrated, a few pennies off of eggs, some two for one on turkey or diapers, real economic boons. slowly they began to change, two for one pedicures that i must go to, ten dollars off of cable or satellite or interent causing us to be in constant flux over providers. there is the oil change thirty miles away that is 10% off and finally _____ ______.

'oh honey i found a discount on _____ _____, i really want to go. i need to get a fresh start, a leg up will go will you help me in this?' she said.

it was a friday evening and i had just returned home form work. i was tired and not thinking clearly. i agreed. that first night i did not sleep. tossing and turning i remembered the terror of my childhood. i remember the pain of gaining what i had lost, gaining it back to late night runs with my mother to a doughnut shop or drive through. i remembered the water aerobics the speed walking and general anxiety _____ ______ had caused me. now, with the threat of returning i was at a fork. should i tell the wife? should i deny her this joy of the coupon, of the denial of pursuing? i turned and was going to spill the beans, was going to tell the whole story but watching her tender almost innocent face glow in the night's faint light i swallowed.

'i am a man, it will be different what the hell a little kid of course he is only going to do as well as his parent. yeah this will be good, maybe finally be able to see my feet, ha! this is the right thing. the good thing. yeah i am excited,' i thought and dreamed of a waist size back in the thirties. dreamed of a shirt with only one x on the label. i was excited, hoping only for the best the whole adventure still out before me.

i am a good man. i am a honest decent man. i was one dumb naive sucker. sitting, here reflecting on all this, in my car wiping the barbecue sauce from my mouth and looking down at the empty sandwich, fry and soft drink containers. i look down, my stomach grumbles with satisfaction. my stomach belches in victory and i feel a quick shiver of fear understanding my enemies power. i am a good man, a honest man and an abject failure at dieting.

the losing 5

tired sitting here picking my nose wondering where to begin, again. danielle was quite pleased yesterday with the loss of a pound. we all celebrated by jumping up and down. her husband, whose name escapes me at the moment, clapped and wolf whistled. what the hell is his name anyway? dale? i can't remember. i am staying up to late watching television with the wife. i am sneaking out of bed too many times to stuff my face with pop corn and chocolate.

i have stopped going to the scale. the idea of the old woman, the numbers and disappointment is too much to bear. now we go to the lectures and afterwards when the line moves me to the front where the old woman is i pay and quickly turn about and leave. she says nothing, her wise weathered eyes pinched and crow footed wet about the corner as i turn to leave. people in my position are called wait ______ in the community. everyone who has started where i have started has had set backs.

the first time i did not weigh in our leader took note. the second time she stopped me by the door.

'charlie, hey how are you doing with all this?'

'my best,' i said.

she is a medium sized dark skinned woman. claudette, she has no lipstick on over her bulbous purple lips. claudette is wearing a red top over a black dress and if there was one word to describe her it would be kind.

'listen, we have all been here.'

'i'm okay. just not ready to get back on the scale,' i say trying to short circuit a longer conversation.

'i know, i know. just remember the motto of the jews,' she says.

i suck my lip and think for a moment.

'and what is that?'

claudette stares into my eyes. she has the unblinking power of a stare that mother's obtain somewhere in the evolution of raising children.

'if you keep walking, you'll make it to the promise land,' she says, 'all we are is these things we aspire to.'

'very good,' i say.

'wonderful, thank you,' says my wife and i feel a rage beginning to boil.

my wife is beautiful standing there. she is wearing a deep blue form fitting top, she is wearing tight clean straight legged brown slacks. she is wearing heeled shoes that allow her toes to peek through. she has her hair styled straight with the bangs to the side and her makeup is on. i am torn by her beauty and kindness and the fact that her weight control/loss makes me want to scream obscenities into her face.

you can love someone and be furious at their success. you can love someone and be completely eaten away by jealousy. i am a fat guy, i shouldn't have a woman this beautiful but at the same time i do so she must take the full force of my character and it's judgements.

now at the door to this nondescript business center, we are getting ready to leave. we say good night and thank you to claudette and she rushes over to talk to another wait ______. as we are moving into the night air i think of danielle. i think of her massive piles of flesh flopping up and down as she jumped. i think of my own massive stomach and breasts flopping up and down if i were to jump off the scale.

success is in the continual attempts. if you are falling down keep getting up it's only when you stop that you fail. if you never stop you can't fail. i am rubbing my stomach while we drive home. tonight i want to make love to my wife. tonight i want to start again get back up, commit and face the scale. tonight i want to shed the wait label and begin my life.

'that was nice, tonight,' my wife says and reaches for my hand.

'what part?'

'just he whole thing, how claudette talked with us and how the woman and her husband were so excited. i don't know, it makes you feel good to see people acheive something,' she says and leans her head back.

i know she is not thinking about me. i know she is not hinting about my scale avoidance and how she wishes i would try harder. at least i think i know those things, but something sparks a fire anyways. something causes me to withdraw, be hurt and angry anyways. we drive in silence and i think of danielle and i think how i will show my wife who can achieve.

this week will be different, starting tomorrow. i think and pull the car into the driveway, we are home.

the losing 4

i have to tell you that i am not using my own name here. it would be really stupid to come out and write 'hey this is chuck steesom from walnut street, come pat me on the back,' because you never know who could be watching this thing. my luck it would be the boss or hampson that son of a bitch neighbor with his cackle, muscle car and garage bench press combo machine.

hampson may think he is the summit of mount awesome, but let me tell you he has some more climbing to do. take his outfits, i mean who still wears those damned baggy gypsy pant? he struts out there, on the weekends listening to the rock station a bit too loud wrench or weight in hand yodeling into his blue tooth.

hampson the softball player, making his wife keep stats. hampson the grill master who calls everyone over. i can still recall last summer's cook up when amongst all the neighbors he grabbed my belly and pronounced, 'should of made this one pay,' everyone got themselves a good laugh off of that.

later over beers he tried to play it off as, 'having fun,' but i knew the real reason i could see his eyes drifting over my wife's body like a fog. he filled all the spaces around her, all her nooks and crevices. i wondered if she noticed. the person that did notice was hampson's wife and i could see her mind working, calculating the anger to be distributed later. this was not the first time.

matter of fact of do not use anyone's real name. i try to keep them all sorted on a piece of paper but last night my son took the paper and threw it in the toilet. though i am pretty sure that no one is reading this journal, i am going to apologize now for any screw ups.

there is this mountain of a woman that has begun to attend the meetings. she comes with her husband dale, and let me tell you something, he is a real piece of work. this guy with his slick blacked hair and tight 32 waist. he leans forward during the discussion taking notes. at first i thought, 'what kind of monster takes notes to abuse his wife with later?' only to find he had his own book.

these skinnies are getting to be a real damned problem. i know, i understand, that they are looking in the goodness of their heart to support their fatso spouses but come on. if you are just starting out in the gym, you want to start with people at your rate or do you want to lift your twenty pounds and then have your spouse have to add more weight each time for their exercises? the fastest way to lose hope is to have someone who is not as desperate. one school of thought is that you get the inspiration of the final product, but this is not true. what you really are getting is a daily slap in the face about your failures and the hard work that lies ahead.

i am angry at all this and seeing slick boy dale over there sucking the end of his pencil while his wife quietly blushes does not help.

that mountain of a woman goes by the name danielle. she has blond hair, green eyes and a stomach that could rival mine. it's bizarre the way a woman's backside grows until it looks like it is about two feet long in their stretch pants. danielle has a serious ass. she shifts and the chair groans and as her husband makes notes she blushes and sweats.

i watch them as sweat runs down my own cheek and stomach i watch her and wonder about her struggles.

news flash, my son has just come into the room and thrown his cereal on the floor. so i guess that is the universe telling me enough for now.

the losing 3

now i know what you are thinking, 'how much does this poor guy weigh?' at least i think that is what i would think but i can't remember if i have written it down somewhere earlier. well let me tell you that

a) if i haven't then it is none of your damn business what that number is. that you should be ashamed for even thinking about it. what's that number mean? you just looking for another reason to judge?

b) it was less than today, after a night of complete and utter gluttony. by god life is a buffet and i took the time to stuff myself with it all. while little miss goal weight went for a walk i rushed a bowl of cereal. while she boiled the chicken breast and washed the lettuce i made an excuse about needing light bulbs, forgot the bulbs and ate a double cheeseburger skipping the french fries only to get a bag of potato chips with the light bulbs. i ate until it was hard to breathe. i ate until my stomach cried out, stretched against the barrier of pants and belt. i ate myself exhausted and returning home lay on my back sweating worrying over how to eat the dinner.

c) i am exhausted. closer to three hundred than two fifty. my children where trouble last night, crying out every hour on the hour from midnight on, teeth are a terrible thing to grow. as we would take turns going to their room, holding them, putting them back to sleep i would make side trips to the kitchen for slice of apple, for peanut butter on apple with mixed nuts or valentine candy.

i curse ______ _______, i curse the small measuring scale and points. i lay in bed grumbling thinking of ways to destroy my journal and point score food glossary. a man has got to eat, has got to be healthy have a belly. let's say we are in the wild and two animals are going to fight which one are you picking? a thin bear or a fat one? why doesn't that apply to us americans? why do we have to invent the skinny fit jean and celebrate jack thin body?

i am holding my stomach, pushing the sides together to make a fat hairy valley from my breasts to my belly button. the flesh canyon leads to the end of the belly and a waterfall of hair down to my privates.

i lay in the dark wondering if fat is truly like a suit. if my body thinks i am wearing a fat shirt and pants under my regular clothes. i wonder if my innards will go on strike against the mouth and brain. if the blood will send secret messages from the muscle and bones to go on strike, stop for long enough to cause a stroke freezing the mouth in a tight clasp so that i can only consume liquids. so that i will lose the weight and save them all from so much work.

i wonder on their union meetings if the ankle and jaw are willing to sacrifice themselves so that the doctor will have to wire shut my jaw and viola will put me on a body saving liquid diet. i think of blended hamburger meat or steak. i think of a life of triple thick chocolate shakes. i think of doughnuts and the pure joy of eating in the early morning when they are still fresh and warm.

i rarely think of making love anymore. i enjoy it. my wife she is heart achingly beautiful. she is magnificent in the sack but i lose focus. i think of my breasts flopping my stomach flopping my whole body moving like an angry sea. while we are conjoined there is the sound of the bed frame there is the sound of my hard breath and the heat of sweat covering me and i am embarrassed. i am sure that she has not achieved an orgasm in months which is not right. so instead of being emboldened, so instead of inspiration to screw it is just overwhelming shame. it is the shame that drives the body to the cabinet, it is the damn 'screw all this crap, you fat jerk lazy so and so,' thoughts that get me through the snacking and then satiated i lay on the couch fingering my fat breasts.

it is in the night, this night with the plus number hanging as a sword of damocles that i think of her. it is in the night while we fight with the teething child that i trace her sleeping face. it is in the night heavy sighing from an overfilled stomach that i curse myself for being soft and making the wrong food choices. it is here amongst god and family that i promise a recommit to the program. a promise to start fresh in the morning and celebrate this promise with a handful of candy as one last kiss off. a handful of candy the sweet final kiss of a solider before he is shipped out to duty.

things are going to change around here, i think and place my finger in between belly and pelvis pushing the skin and fat skyward then letting it drop with a thwop. things are going to change.

the losing 2

there is always a party. ever damn day somebody is getting older or having a child. every damn day somebody is getting engaged, graduating or having a kid do something worth celebrating. the invitations come through the mail, they come through the phone and sneak onto your computer without warning. each with a warm front, a picture of small animals or of the hosts or of the honoree and each comes with a commitment card.

i curse their smiling, eager faces. i curse the innocent wanting eyes of babes as they express the emotion of 'please don't let me down'. so we check the boxes write the number of attendees and i await the onslaught of temptations.

like a shipwreck in a storm, i cling to the buoy of five pound loss as the waves toss me about trying to dislodge me from my hope and goal. first there are the whispers of, 'well we have been doing so well what's one drink?' growing to a crescendo of 'this is america god damned it and you are a god damned grown man who pays the bills, what you can't enjoy one drink after a hard week supporting your family?' the weather is merciless as i watch my wife getting her 'goal weight allowances' and passing them up.

i curse at her, under my breath, for never breaking down. i curse at her, under my breath, for always smiling as she makes a one egg white omelette weighing each item and marking them in her food journal with the joy of a school girl.

lunch, at the office, has become torture. i bring a sack lunch and make excuses. 'ah, that sounds great but i don't have any cash on me. what's that? oh, no don't worry about it, see i brought a lunch.'

i can hear them laughing and know it's about me. i take to eating in the car two streets away. i take to making excuses, 'oh my wife she needs me to call her so we can decide about _____ or else i would love to go.' in case they drive by or are spying i will push the ear piece and begin talking, waiting, pretending to listen and talking again.

men don't understand _____ _______ they wonder about the point scale. they wonder on the little book that was in my pocket but now hidden in the glove box. i tell them it's for my wife, how she really wanted to do this together and, 'i damn sure won't give up my beers and steak,' when i see the looks on their faces change to shock.

thursday is our weigh in day. it is by this time that i need the lift of the scale, to see the sweat was worth it before heading into the weekend where the devil sits temptation on either side. we have arrived, we have made it through the support speeches and food fighting techniques now are lined for the weight and exit. as my wife is at her target or below she will not have to pay. they have given her a pin and have her stand to be admired, during meetings. i will be paying for awhile.

we slide to the side. she steps on the scale.

'very good,' says the old lady.

she moves off and i move on. the numbers spin and land. before she says anything i know. my heart stops and my palms sweat as i can feel all eyes on me, judging my efforts and body. there is a deafening silence.

'you'll be alright honey. you just got to keep your head up, keep working the program. you'll make it i promise. don't let this break you,' the old lady says.

'plus two,' is what the scale says.

i can feel every fat inch of my stomach. it is laughing making rude faces through the shirts fabric and letting everyone know who is in charge.

'would you like to stay after and work with a councilor?' she says.

'it'll be alright dear,' says the wife.

'plus two,' says the scale.

'no thank you, but thank you. two steps forward is still more than one set back, right?' i say and muster a smile.

as we leave, silent i can feel her eyes on me wanting a conversation. as we leave i can hear my stomach rumbling it's victory song. as we leave towards the car under the veil of night, it is darkness, black and i can feel something terrible on the air. i know it is hungry,it is angry and justified as it arrives home from detention.

'don't give up, honey i am right here for you. we can do this together,' she says.

my mind already lost to the faces on the invitations, their buffets, their booze and the freedoms of man in america.

2/18 losing

we sit in steel chairs, those drab grey hurtful monsters. we sit close together heating the air, steaming the windows and causing our bodies to sweat. well not us all. we sit, we heavy breath, we move slowly adjusting our heavy frames as group leader to some attendees give their tales of the tortured stomach.

we the watcher of weight. i am among them, my dimpled plump belly pushing against shirt, against belt and pant button causing and impression. i am uncomfortable feeling the flab fill my arm pit getting caught trapped smothered against arm and pit rubbed raw by the hair and goosepimple chilling as the sweat rolls over and down the expanse of skin.

god damned these flabby breasts! i think. i am a man.

...i use to get a tan by the fridge light from checking to see whats to eat,' the group leader would say.

you were laughing at the tales of woe. you were attentive and reaching from my hand the whole time. you phony, you single serving princess that dragged me here. there is a big loud moon face clock behind the speaker. there is a drab rented meeting room in a drab economy hotel. there is a long easy fold particle board table with brochures fanned across it's face. there is the end with a kind faced old woman seated her glasses seated on her forehead. she is the judge, the money changer, the recorder of the scale. the white bathroom scale sits right beside her right before the door where one by one we will scoot to the end take off our shoes and be weighed. afterwards the weight will be recorded in our books, it will be authenticated with a stamp and signature our passports recorded we will be set free.

i curse you as each loud minute tock passes. i keep my head forward but shoot cold sideways glances towards you. you the tourist the easy to maintain push her plate away regular body bitch. my wife the enforcer, the honey voiced suggester.

'well maybe it would be great to go and we can learn some new tricks to staying healthy,' she says.

first it was the book. i come home from work and there is noise in the kitchen. i come home from work the kids are to be kissed so i lean and grunt purpling my face and causing my back to scream.

'how was your day?' she would sing.

'uh, hmm, good,' i would respond trying to catch my breath.

god what have i done to myself, i think.

the kids, they are young just starting out and i watch them anxiously. i secretly feel their size when i hold them to see if they aren't getting a little too much food. i try to think about the local team, i try to think about my wife and laying a good smooch on her face anything to avoid dreaming of our family fat as cows or floating about like parade balloons. placing one hand on my knee i push up with a battle cry and head into the kitchen.

she is there amongst the pots and pans, amongst the steam and smells. we embrace and glancing over her shoulder i see the book, i see the scales.

'whats that?' i ask. i ask but i know from a life time of my mother who took me to her meetings at eleven. i know from my mother who carried the scale who was always talking or listening to somebody talk about weight and weight control.

'oh, it's my old ____ ______ food guide and scale,' she sings and i am angered.

'ah, well you seem happy about it.'

she seems to catch the mood and is quick to react.

'wait, we agreed, i thought. we agreed to try this, so there is a meeting tomorrow night, i got my mom to baby sit...'

i am staring at her a fury has build in the pit of my stomach. i try to hide it. i grow distant and listen to the sound of small children playing.

'was i wrong?'

i take a moment, 'no, no just so fast i guess.'

'well we can cancel, we can try another time?' she says.

there is a moment.

'no, you are right, there is always a beginning and this is it.'

there is a silence as she returns her attention to the food on the stove.

'dinner will be ready in about ten minutes, why not go play with the kids they missed you.'

i do. ten minutes comes and we are seated. i am staring down at boiled chicken. i am staring down at spinach salad. i am staring down at the results of my years of avoidance.

this is going through my mind until we are here. we are at the end the kind old woman with her glasses down pen in hand as my wife sits atop the scale.

'well, you're already below your ideal weight, good for you...$12'

i am trembling from rage as i step on the scale. i am cursing her for being below her weight. i am cursing her for bringing me here to be trodded out like cattle for public ridicule and embarrassment.

'five pounds down, keep it up,' says the smiling old woman.

the fire goes out. success and joy swell my chest. i clap my hands like a child. i already feel lighter, light enough to float away i grasp my wife i lift her to the air and we retreat to the night laughing to ourselves.

we are innocent the night seems like the night and not the black of foreshadow the dooms to come.