Ugly Girl Ties the Knot Read online

  I hushed her and we huddled together in my cubicle as she admired the ring. “It looks beautiful,” she gushed. “I knew it would.”

  “You knew?”

  She grinned at me. “Okay, don’t tell Sam I told you, but I helped him pick it out. He wanted to make sure to get something you’d like.”

  “Couldn’t you have talked him into something a little cheaper?”

  “Oh, I know,” Donna sighed. “He went a little overboard. I told him you would like something smaller just as much. But he had a number in his head and he just wouldn’t budge. He really wants to impress you. It’s very sweet.” She looked down at her own tiny diamond and made a face. “I’m so jealous.”

  Donna isn’t really jealous, or at least not in any real way. She’s already married and a few months pregnant. She’s been married several years, so she and her husband aren’t in that “crazy in love” phase anymore. But there’s something to be said for being comfortable with another person.

  “I’m going to have to plan you an amazing bridal shower,” Donna said.

  I froze up when she said that. I’d been so caught up in the idea of getting married, it didn’t entirely occur to me that I also need to think about planning a whole wedding. Honestly, I’m not super excited about it. I should be. I mean, I’m a woman.

  The next person to come over to gaze upon my ring was April, who sits two cubicles away from me and presumably heard Donna squealing. April is about my age, maybe early thirties, and I overheard her talking in the restroom about how she was expecting a ring from her boyfriend of two years.

  “Wow,” April gasped as she stared at my finger. “Your fiancé really went all out.”

  April is incredibly pretty, and is the sort of woman I’ve always been jealous of. To see her actually jealous of me felt somehow wrong. April was the one who should’ve had the giant diamond, not me.

  “Congratulations,” April told me.

  I forced a smile. “Thanks.”

  She squinted at the ring again. “You’re marrying that guy down in IT, right?” she asked. “The one who’s in the…” She lowered her voice to almost a whisper: “...wheelchair.”

  I don’t understand why people feel the need to whisper about the fact that Sam uses a wheelchair. He knows that he uses a wheelchair. I know it. Everyone knows it. It’s not like it’s some kind of big secret.

  “Yes,” was all I said.

  “Well, that’s really nice,” April said. And she didn’t sound jealous anymore.

  February 19:

  The medical community uses something called Body Mass Index, abbreviated BMI, as a measure of how fat you are.

  The BMI is calculated as your weight divided by your height squared, although if you look online, there are plenty of websites that can spare you the trauma of having to actually do math.

  (In order to make the calculation, you have to first convert your height and weight to kilograms and meters. I know this is very difficult for people in this country to do. Don’t even get me started on the fact that Americans don’t use the metric system. I mean, what makes more sense for doing calculations: 5,280 feet in a mile or 1,000 meters in a kilometer? Gerald Ford, during his presidency, attempted to introduce the metric system to this country, and it’s a testament to how stubborn Americans are that we still use feet and pounds.)

  In any case, your BMI can tell you very scientifically exactly how fat you are. If your BMI is between 20 and 25, you are a normal weight. I don’t think I have ever personally experienced a BMI between 20 and 25.

  If your BMI is between 25 and 30, you are officially overweight.

  This is where I have lived for most of my adult life. I’ve always been overweight, even as a teenager, before my metabolism supposedly slowed down. I have accepted it, especially since no amount of dieting seems to be able to get me below that 25 threshold. And considering that without exercise, once you hit your 25th birthday, you begin to lose lean muscle mass and replace it with fat at the rate of up to three percent per year, I didn’t think my situation was going to get better as I got older.

  But today I hit a new landmark.

  This morning I got on the scale and felt sick when I saw the numbers that came up. I quickly did some calculations and discovered that my BMI is now 30.2. If your BMI is between 30 and 40, you are obese.

  I am now obese.

  To be fair, one in three people in this country are currently obese. So I’m in good company. But it still made me feel awful. I’ve always thought of myself as overweight, but I’ve never thought of myself as obese.

  It really shouldn’t have come as a surprise though. I’ve gained so much weight since I’ve been dating Sam. It’s not even funny. A lot of my clothes don’t even fit me anymore. I finally had to make a trip to Target and purchase some clothing from the plus-size area.

  I don’t think there is anything more humiliating than shopping in the plus-size area. I kept trying to stay on the periphery, lingering close to the normal-sized clothing in case somebody was watching me. And the clothes are all awful. They look like something my mother would wear. But it’s not like I can wear a sack to work, so I don’t have much of a choice but to shop there.

  Anyway, I’ve decided that I need to lose 30 pounds.

  If I’m honest with myself, 30 pounds is on the low end of what I need to lose. Fifty would be great. But I don’t think it’s going to be possible to lose 50 pounds. Actually, 30 probably isn’t possible either. Maybe I can do 20.

  I want to lose the weight for the wedding. If I’m going to be wearing a wedding dress, I want it to look halfway decent. I don’t want everyone to be whispering about the obese girl getting married. I know that’s what will happen if I don’t lose some weight.

  And more importantly, I definitely need to stop gaining weight. Remember how I said that a BMI of 30 to 40 is obese? Well, after you hit 40, you are officially morbidly obese. That’s not even something I want to think about right now.

  While I was getting ready for bed last night and Sam was busy in the bathroom, I looked in the mirror at my full length reflection in underwear and I almost started crying. I really don’t like anything about my body. Sometimes I look at myself and I don’t even want to go out in public anymore.

  Sam came out of the bathroom to see me standing there mostly naked in front of the mirror and I nearly jumped out of my skin. I quickly went for my bathrobe to cover up.

  He smiled at me. “You look so beautiful,” he murmured.

  I really don’t understand how he could say things like that with a straight face.

  “Uh huh,” I said. I tied the bathrobe around my waist.

  “Don’t cover up,” he said. “I want to look at you. You’re so sexy.”

  I gave him an exasperated look. “Come on,” I said.

  Sam himself was in underwear. He was wearing his boxers and an undershirt. Like me, he wasn’t much for going around completely naked. Actually, from when I’ve seen him in his wheelchair with no shirt on, I have to admit it’s not a great look for him. He has no stomach muscles at all. He looks good with the undershirt though.

  “What?” he said. “What’s wrong?”

  “I need to lose like 30 pounds,” I told him.

  He frowned at me. “What? You’re crazy.”

  I sighed. I don’t know what’s wrong with him sometimes. This wasn’t me being delusional. I am obese. That’s a fact. “Look, I know you’re trying to be nice, but the fact is, I really have to lose some weight.”

  He looked troubled. “But if you lost weight, wouldn’t your boobs get smaller?”

  Sam has made no secret of the fact that he’s a bit infatuated with my breasts. I rolled my eyes at him. “Don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll still be plenty big.”

  “I think you look great the way you are,” he said thoughtfully. “I mean, if you want to lose weight for your health, that’s fine. But I think you look beautiful.”

  “Well, it’s not ideal for the bride to weigh mor
e than the groom, you know?” I said. I looked him over. “How much do you weigh?”

  “I have no idea,” he said. “Maybe… 160?”

  Oh God, I really do weigh more than him.

  “Maybe more,” he said quickly. “I haven’t been on a scale in a while.”

  I didn’t want to think about the question that had been running through my head, which is how could Sam possibly want to have sex with the girl who was staring back at me in the mirror. But as if on cue, he wheeled over to me and gently pulled open my bathrobe and started kissing my bare abdomen. “You’re so sexy,” he breathed. “I can’t believe you’re going to be my wife.”

  I ran my hands through his hair, bringing his face closer to my body. I stumbled back a few steps till I hit the wall and he continued to kiss me as I leaned against the wall and clutched his head. Just the feel of his lips on my chest and stomach made me moan with pleasure. I swear, he has the most amazing mouth on the planet.

  I should just be grateful to be with a great guy who loves me and not worry so much about my weight.

  (After I lose 30 pounds, that is.)

  February 23:

  Sam brought me flowers at work today. It occurred to me that I don’t think a week has ever gone by in our entire relationship that he hasn’t given me flowers.

  “You know,” I said to him as he handed me the roses from his lap, “you don’t need to buy me flowers every week. We’re already engaged.”

  “So?” he said. “You know, my parents have been married almost 40 years, and my father still buys my mother flowers every Friday.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Of course.”

  God, Sam is going to make a great husband.

  February 28:

  I went directly home after work today to finish packing up the last of my stuff, which I have been really slow and inefficient about doing. And by “home,” I mean my old apartment within a house that’s owned by a woman named Martha, who is a bit of a crazy cat lady. I can’t say I won’t miss Martha a bit, but most of me is really excited to move.

  Sam hired a few guys to help me move, even though I’m donating most of my furniture to charity. I’ve got some pretty heavy boxes that I literally can’t lift. And Sam can’t either, obviously. I think he feels bad about that. I mean, part of what’s nice about having a guy around is he can lift stuff that’s too heavy for me or open jars. Sam can’t do either of those things.

  The moving guys were named Jeff and Andy. They came striding into my apartment wearing T-shirts despite the fact that it was fairly nippy outside. They both had some serious muscles in their arms and chest to the point where I found myself staring a little. Not that I don’t find Sam incredibly sexy, but he doesn’t have muscles like that. He can’t.

  Jeff and Andy put my boxes in their truck and I met them over at Sam’s apartment. I let them into the building, where Sam was waiting for us upstairs. He told them to leave the boxes in the living room.

  “No, put the ones that say ‘books’ by the bookcase,” I told them. I didn’t want to point out that once the guys left, neither Sam nor I would be able to move these boxes.

  Andy hefted the first box into his arms, his biceps straining a bit, although they were actually able to lift most of the boxes without too much effort. He barely grunted. It made me feel like I ought to go to the gym more often.

  I looked over at Sam, who was shifting a bit in his wheelchair. I know it kills him not to be able to do pretty basic things that most guys can do.

  After Andy and Jeff had unloaded everything, I sat down at Sam’s dining table and looked at the stacks of boxes with growing dread. I really, really didn’t want to unpack. I wondered if I could pay someone to do it for me. If we can afford a $20,000 engagement ring, it seems like we ought to be able to afford somebody to put a few books on the bookshelf.

  Sam wheeled over to me and brushed a strand of hair out of my face. “Having regrets?” he asked. He had a teasing tone, but somehow I felt like there was an undercurrent of seriousness there. It’s comforting to know that I’m not the only one who can be insecure.

  “I hate unpacking,” I said.

  I thought Sam might say something sympathetic, but instead he said, “Do you wish I had muscles like those guys?”

  I blinked. That was the last thing I expected him to say. I mean, yes, Sam does sometimes seem a little insecure about his body. And yes, those guys had incredible chests and arms. But I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say something like that before. He usually seems pretty damn comfortable with himself. It’s something I always admired and envied about him.

  “Of course not,” I said. I added: “You’re perfect.”

  “You’re out of your mind,” he said with a grin. He pulled me out of my chair and into his. Well, at least he was just as affectionate as always.

  MARCH

  March 1:

  I spent today unpacking my books. There’s plenty of room for my books, especially since the top two shelves of both bookcases are empty since Sam can’t really reach them. I don’t know why he purchased bookcases where he couldn’t reach two of the shelves, although I have to admit I’ve had a few bookcases over the years where I couldn’t reach the top shelf. I’m not tall.

  While I unpacked my own books, I was browsing through his. He has almost exclusively computer science books. They range from books about computer science theory, like artificial intelligence or computation theory, to books on different computer languages. He’s also got a few math and physics books. He’s only got a handful of books that aren’t math or computer books and none of them look like toilet-bowl reading. I picked up one of them, titled Gödel, Escher, Bach, and it looks like it’s basically a story about math. Who would want to read a story about math?

  (I like math as much as it’s possible for a normal person to like math, but I definitely don’t want to read a story about Achilles and a tortoise solving nonlinear equations.)

  It occurred to me that I’ve never seen Sam reading any sort of fiction book. That’s got to be a little bit unusual. The average person reads five books per year, which may not be a lot, but it’s something. If Sam reads five books per year, then they’re all math or science books.

  “That’s a great book,” Sam said as he watched me flipping through Gödel, Escher, Bach. He had been sitting at his dining table, peering through his wire-rimmed glasses at his laptop screen as I unpacked. “It’s kind of like if Alice in Wonderland had been about math.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” I said.

  “I detect sarcasm.”

  “Don’t you have any real books?” I asked him.

  He gave me a weird look and pointed to his two half-full bookcases. “Yeah. See?”

  “But what do you read for fun?”

  He shrugged. “Mostly stuff on the web.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Porn.”

  I stuck out my tongue at him. “I’m just trying to get to know my future husband.”

  He laughed. “All right, all right. So here’s one of the websites I like to read. It’s called Slashdot.”

  I leaned over Sam’s shoulder to look at the computer screen, the lovely scent of his aftershave wafting into my nostrils.

  The website he was showing me had “Slashdot” written across the top, with the banner “News for Nerds. Stuff that Matters.” I looked at the first headline, which read, “Modular Touchpad Aims to Replace Most Input Devices.”

  “Oh God,” I said. “You really read this?”

  “I like it,” he said. He blushed slightly. “What? Too geeky?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” I said. “It’s just… not the kind of thing most people are interested in.”

  He shrugged. “We can’t all like classics like…” He squinted at my newly unpacked books. “Confessions of a Shopaholic.”

  Now it was my turn to blush. I guess since Sam and I are getting married, I’m continually trying to find cracks in our façade of a
perfect relationship. Sam is so easygoing and fun to be around. I feel like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  March 4:

  I decided today that if I’m going to lose weight, the first step is to start exercising.

  I thought about joining a gym. It seemed like a good idea if my goal was to exercise more. Also, if I invested money in a gym, I’d feel guilty if I didn’t go, and that might motivate me. But I read that if it takes you more than five minutes to get to the gym, it’s unlikely that you’ll actually go. Since the nearest gym is at least a ten-minute drive from the apartment, I decided that I’d be better off with a home exercise program.

  Meaning: running.

  This actually took a lot more planning than you would think. First of all, as of this morning, I didn’t own a pair of sneakers. Why would I own sneakers? What part of driving to work, sitting at my desk all day, and watching TV all night requires sneakers? But if I was going to exercise, I couldn’t exactly do it in my loafers or bedroom slippers. So I made a trip to Lady Footlocker and bought a pair of Reeboks.

  I probably needed a pair of shorts too, since my largest pair cut into my abdomen enough to make an angry red line. But I decided that could wait for next time.

  I dug out my earbuds so that I could listen to music while I ran. I also downloaded an app for my phone that would tell me exactly how far I had run that day. Given my weight, I would burn about 100 calories for every mile I ran. I figured that if I ran five miles every day, I would burn 500 calories. That was the equivalent of a small cheeseburger.

  I found out that the nearest park was a five-minute walk away from Sam’s apartment building. So I grabbed a bottle of Gatorade, laced up my Reeboks, and walked over to the park.