The Big Girl's Guide to Buying Lingerie

9. GOODBYE 36-C

I cowered in the seat and squeezed my thighs together as we crossed two more lanes of semi-busy traffic and came to a screeching halt on the other side of the traffic light.  Amazingly, my pants were still dry.  I think.

The only other sound was our heavy breathing and the blare of horns from a bunch of very unamused drivers. 

“Get out!”

I slowly turned to look at my mother, who I was sure had just gone over the edge.  She sat hunched over the steering wheel, gasping for air, her face three shades of red.  And her hair was mussed.

“But ...but,” I sputtered.  I was facing a good two-mile walk!  Not undoable, but definitely not fun! 

“I’ve done my best for you, but I’m through!  I even tried to get Allan, bless his heart, to give you another chance.”

Me another chance?  “Holy shit!  Are you shitting me?!”

“Despite your...increased size,” she continued, wrinkling her nose at me, “and newly acquired potty mouth, he was willing to give it another go until your little announcement.”

That was it! 

I leaned back in the leather seat, trying to form words around the scream building in my throat, so I could tell her exactly what I thought of her and Allan.  “If you want him in the family so bad, why don’t you divorce Daddy and marry him.  God knows why poor Daddy keeps you around, anyway.  You make the Wicked Witch of the West look like a saint.  My God, Mother, has your bridge club taken up smoking crack in between games?  Have you lost your fucking mind?”

I clambered out of my seatbelt and nearly fell in my haste to get out of the car.  “And I’m taking you off my Christmas Card list!”   Dissatisfied with the lack of noise her BMW made when I slammed the door, I shot her the bird for good measure. 

I forced one foot in front of the other and never looked back while behind me tires squealed and horns blared.

I needed the exercise anyway.

By the time I limped through my front door my Timex read nearly nine and it was full dark out.  My feet hurt and I was sweating like the proverbial stuck pig.  The ringing phone on the kitchen counter wasn’t nearly as important as my near-to-bursting bladder.  I kicked off my sandals with a sigh of relief, letting the cool tile ease some of the sting from my poor abused feet, and hustled through the kitchen into the downstairs bathroom. 

The phone quit ringing, and my little house was dark and silent as a tomb.  With a sigh I locked the front door and hobbled to the kitchen on aching feet.  Two glasses of water later, I thought I might live long enough to crawl into a cool shower.  Then the phone started up again. 

“Hello,” I croaked, sagging against the counter.

“Are you okay?”

“Robbie?”  I sighed with relief, got myself another glass of water and slowly walked over and sank into a kitchen chair.  My calves were screaming.

“Yeah, you didn’t answer your cell....”

“It’s somewhere in the bottom of my purse.” 

“How’d things go with your mom?”

“We had a fight.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.  I’m fine.”  Despite the fact I was the proud owner of a nice set of blisters--on both feet.

“Listen, don’t worry about Sunday.  I’ll explain everything to the family, but I would like to see you.  I think we need to talk.”

And set up a time to have sex on the horse.  I shivered in the cool air, sure it was from the drying sweat. 

“I’m beat, Robbie.”  And I stunk.  And the pain in my feet increased with every passing second.  Walking upstairs would be ugly.  “Why don’t you come over for lunch tomorrow?  Call me when you get up and I’ll give you directions.  I’ve really got to go, baby.”

I hung up, flinching at the endearment that had slipped out and sat there near tears, the phone dangling from my hand.  Robbie was the endearment person.  He always had one on his lips--or fingers.  For the third night in a row I went to bed without checking my email.  Instead, I showered then lay staring at the ceiling, occasionally licking my lips at the memory of Rowdy’s kisses.  My Gawd, the things that man could do with his mouth!

Horsey sex?  Groaning, I rolled over, burying my face in the pillow.  My life truly was shit.  I’d spent yesterday morning’s drive home from Austin thinking of Allan, my mom and Rowdy, and by the time I’d reached San Antonio, my head was spinning so much I missed my exit and had to circle back around.

My lifelong struggle for perfection--regardless of my weight--was what made my other night’s antics at the country club so out of character.  And so enjoyable, I suppose.

It wasn’t even a broken heart that had left me in tears and caused me to retreat to San Antonio, too battle scarred and weary to try anymore, but my mother’s pronounced disappointment in me.  Again.  I’d done my best to follow her rules, to fade into the background, to be quiet, to be good, to be proper, to please her.  I failed her. 

More importantly, I’d failed myself.

I’d salved my battered ego with food and my computer, quickly outgrowing my size tens and 36C bras—then outgrowing my size twelves.  And after three years of only sporadic visits home, my tolerance level had dropped drastically--or HH had gotten worse.  That she would dare to try and step in and take over the reins of my life once more nearly sent me over the edge.  My life might not be what she wanted, but I’d come too far to let her take over.  Sadly, it had been easier to lie than tell the truth.  A truth that I knew wouldn’t have stopped her anyway.

And now look at the mess I was in.