Big Girls Don't Cry by Gretchen Lane Page A

‘What if I pass out, and then I throw up? Will I suffocate? Will anyone give a fat girl mouth to mouth? OH GOD, I can’t do this!’ I let go of the door and turn to leave.
    “Let me get that for you,” he said, reaching around me , and pull ing open the door. I watched as the muscled arm stood flexed, holding it open . I was tr apped between him and my escape to the Dairy Queen— and I felt like he was reading my mind , as he tried herding me back inside.
    “Oh thank you,” I sa id, avoiding eye contact. “ I was -I was just leaving.”
    “What ? You do n’t like the club?”
    “No, it’s fine. I forgot something in the car.”
    “Well, make sure you come back, ok? You’ll like it here. I promise” he replied, with a wink as I looked up. He was gorgeous. Too gorgeous, and I looked away quickly as I slipped past him , hurrying away in a fluster.
    I don’t do well with good looking men, e specially when they talk to me . I get extremely nervous and I think I digress at least 50 I.Q. points. I start to stutter, getting all tongue tied and weird. I hate it. My girlfriends get a big kick out of it though . I swear they’ve paid guys to come up and talk to me at clubs. It’ s pretty amusing , I guess.
    I stood hidden outside another fifteen minutes before I got up enough courage to try again. This time I made it all the way to the empty front desk of the gym, spurred on by the voice of the handsome stranger at the door. ‘Well, make sure you come back, ok? You’ll like it here. I promise’.
    It’s still pretty early in the morning and the place is quiet except for a few people working out , and a small group of male trainers huddle d under a wall mounted T.V. on the far side of the gym. My back is to the group , and I watch in a mirror as they stand talking about the sporting event on the television , and contemplating who is going to come and help me. Normally, a group of trainers would be all over a 5’8” woman who weighs 248 pounds coming into your gym. But, they know me. I’ve been in here before. Not once. Not twice. But, three times. And every time, I’ve spent two hours with a salesperson , who showed me around the gym, made me run on a treadmill until I wheezed , kicked my ass on ten different machines , a nd while I sat there green at the gills ready to puke, told me how close I was to dy ing . T hen they offered to not only save my life, but at the same time turn me into a totally un-realistic, skinny model .
    ‘Wow! I’m in!’ I accepted, before they showed me the twelve thousand dollar, one year program price tag .
    ‘ Do you have anything for struggling college students?’ That’ s when I got my first two week pass. I used it one day, each time before dropping out . So, it’s no wonder nobody wants to help me now .
    I embarrassingly wait at the counter for five minutes pretending to be interested in the piles of supplements bein g offered for sale . Just looking at the before and after pictures make s me want to buy some of the life changing powders and elixirs. But, I won’t . I know it all works, but you have to actually workout when you use them. Something, I don’t do. Not yet, anyway. ‘Man , somebody is making a killing off of this stuff,’ I think, looking at the astronomical prices. ‘It’s cheaper to be fat!’ I’ve told Michelle before, when we emptied out my cupboards of tons of partially used expired jugs and bottles of the same products I’m looking at now.
    ‘Not emotionally, ’ she would reply. That’s why I loved her so much. She was the best friend a woman could ask for.
    The group of trainers slowly disappears into another area of the gym, and I realize I am not going to be helped. I’m feeling sick to my stomach as I walk to the door of the club . I just want to get out of here quickly , before anyone else has time to laugh at me for even thinking about coming in. I can hear them chucklin g in my head and I start to panic . My legs move faster a s I