Chapter 1

(excerpt)

    I teeter on a small step stool as I reach for the plastic storage bin on the highest shelf of my closet - the one with my size four clothes I haven’t worn in almost twenty years.  I give the box a good push and jump as it crashes onto the carpet. 

    I pry off the lid and hold up the preserved dresses one by one.  I lift out the $200 Adrienne Vittadini, my first and only “little black dress” that I wore to a long-forgotten company Christmas dinner back when I thought I’d have plenty more of those little dresses in the future.  Next I find the entire Liz Claiborne collection that took me five years’ worth of employee discounts at Macy’s to complete.  I rub my fingers across the tiny stitched flowers on the hem of a powder pink angora sweater.  And finally I see the dark blue denim skirt with triple gold stitching and the slit up to there, the one my mom said was way too slutty for a nice girl to wear - and the one that I’d worn the night my husband proposed to me.  I hold it up to my waist for a minute and remember the young, sexy woman who wore that skirt, the one who knew how to bat an eye and flirt and walk just so when she knew someone was watching.

    You have to understand that this particular day’s journey down memory lane is no ordinary closet-cleaning.  I cannot just put the box out on the curb for the charity van to take away.  It is an end to an era, and so it deserves a proper goodbye.  The dresses in this box are never going to be part of my someday, the day when that fat lady in the mirror is gone for good.  I am finally ready to accept defeat.

    The fat lady in the mirror is here to stay.

    She’s been around for a long time, although I have no idea when she actually took up residence in my home.  I don’t remember a day with a doorbell ringing only to find some woman informing me that she was moving in and taking over.  No, I don’t remember that at all.  One day I was this tiny little thing who pretended to complain about her tiny little clothes, and the next I was a frumpy, harried housewife in three-year-old Birkies and a stained t-shirt from Target.

    I do remember the day I tried to give her an eviction notice.  For months, even years, I ignored her, averting my eyes when I stepped out of the tub to give that fat lady in the mirror some privacy.  I did drop subtle hints like snapping the waistband on my pants and saying in a loud voice, “I am tired of buying clothes with elastic waists.  I want to buy something with buttons and zippers and a tailored waistline.”  And I know she heard me, because she smiled that tight smile of hers and just took another bite of her ice cream.

    I said things like “I need to go on a diet” and “I’m going to buy the smaller size and fit into it by summer”.  But she just turned the music up and asked if we had any more of the movie butter popcorn, because she didn’t like the anemic light stuff I’d bought the last time I went to the grocery store.

    When I finally realized that polite wasn’t going to work on her, I tried being direct.  I told her in no uncertain terms that she was moving out whether she liked it or not.  I let her know that she was going to have to learn to like exercise, eating carrots, and skipping dessert.  I was firm about it all.  Really.

    Being firm had always worked with my kids, so I thought it would with her.  But she was tenacious and subtle and oh, so beguiling.  She knew how to hit when my defenses were down, how to say just the right thing to make me give in.  And she’d smile at me and offer up a bite of her delightful candy bar.  Who can kick out someone who is so willing to share? 

    Yes, the fat lady is here to stay.

    I sort through my collection of “someday” clothes and admit defeat.  I’ve battled long enough against her, and I’m tired of fighting.  And since she is here to stay, I might as well make some room in the closet for some of her things.  She hands me a cup of Ghiradelli hot cocoa and offers to finish up the job while I rest my feet.  I know it’s bad for me, but it smells so good, and heck, I’m tired.  And depressed.  I’ve just given up on a dream.  So I take the hot chocolate and put my feet up for a bit.

    Defeat always tastes better with hot cocoa.