Generally, I didn’t suffer over wardrobe decisions, but tonight I’d be seeing a guy from college years. Had I changed in nine years? Was that my worry? I hadn’t yet taken off the gray-on-gray lawyers’ skirt suit. Two-inch black pumps pinched. I kicked them off, my toes looked like hoofs trapped in the nylon’s reinforced toe. Shimming out of the pantyhose felt like walking into air-conditioning after being outside in the city’s heat and humidity. I peeled off the grey skirt, jacket, white blouse, and lastly the bra and undies digging into my flesh. I twerked my booty. Wiggled my toes. 

Dinner at Mike’s was in half an hour at eight. I didn’t want to go. Friday nights were my radical self-care time curled up with a book, Earl Grey tea in a delicate China cup, a pile of Madeleine cookies and my phone turned off. 

It was out of character for me to give in to something I didn’t want to do. I felt . . . what was it I had felt? In my career I never felt obligated. I was the boss and only employee. I socialized with a handful of friends with similar interests in the Opera, Museums and Broadway shows. I only traveled to see my family out of state on Christmas and occasionally met them for a long weekend at the cabin in the Smokey Mountains. I didn’t have a problem saying no and I never felt bad about it. I also had no problem being honest with myself. I CAN handle the truth; I just preferred controlling who witnessed it. Members of the jury, the truth is I eat a lot and can be sloppy about it.

My defense for eating a lot is a common one, I love food. I love sweet, sour, savory and bitter. I love how food feels on the inside of my cheeks, roof of my mouth, tongue, lips, and teeth. I nibble and gnaw pretzel sticks like a rabbit. Licking peanut butter or cream cheese with the tip of my tongue from bagels feels sexy. I love deconstructing Kit Kats, Snickers, apple crisps, ice cream sandwiches, anything with layers. Your honor, not only do I snack when I walk, read, drive, in a taxi, and in the bathtub, I eat as if no one’s watching. Thus the messiness.

Another excuse about food and how I eat is work related and an important strategy for my job. Nearly every day I meet clients for long lunches and dinners. To assure them that they are not only in powerful hands, but that I am fun and happy, and that joyful pleasure is one of my secret weapons, I buy expensive champagne, chateaubriand, lobster and desserts. I transform what could be a droll, teary, or furious lunch meeting into a celebration. At least on my end. To further prove my bravado, I always order a bowl of spaghetti with marinara sauce. I ring it on my fork and slurp in the noodles that hang down. “See,” I’d say, wiping the tomato sauce off my lips with the back of my hand, “I don’t give a flying fuck what anyone thinks. Your soon to be ex-husband doesn’t stand a chance. I am the divorce attorney every woman needs. I fight fearlessly and, if necessary, obnoxiously.”

The women didn’t smile. Smiles cause wrinkles. None ever dipped a fork into the pasta I pushed their ways. I felt sorry for these skinny women with identical plastic surgery chiseled faces. Botox rendered them expressionless, and the pancake makeup only made them look older. They patted under their chins with the back of their hands. Just checking, I guess, that my double chin hadn’t migrated onto theirs.

“I get it. I’m fat. My face is round, cheeks so full my eyes squint.” I’d sop up marinara sauce with a roll and stuff it in my pie hole. “The thing is. It works. Your husband, all the husbands, desperate to hang on to their young, model gorgeous girlfriends, are nauseated by my piggyness. They want to spend as little time in the room with me as possible when we hash out the important, pricey agreements.” I’d pause. “I do everything to make it a very long meeting.” Then I’d stick my finger under the pearl necklace snug around my neck and wink. “Moi has always possessed a charm that is lethal to men.”*

What kept me going in the job, kept me excited, creative and determined, was hope. I hoped after the divorce that these women found true inner transformation. I hoped they would find freedom to let their hair go grey, ditch most, or all, of the makeup and stop the cutting, injections and sucking procedures. I hoped one day they’d walk right by me unrecognizable. Above all, I hoped they would embrace comfort, pleasure and joy. 

Only one woman in my six years in practice challenged me. “Really, fat as a tactic. It’s unhealthy for you to be so, so, I don’t know, stout.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m supposed to be heavy. It’s in my genetic makeup.” I peered at her with a fork full of chocolate volcano dessert at my lips. “Do you want minimal support? If so, we can stop now. You’ll get $3000 a month? There’s a form on the internet you can use. Or do you want what he can really afford and what you deserve, $200,000 or more a month? Do you want the house, his retirement, the boat, the summer home?” At that point, I handed the woman a pen and slid my contract across the table. “You brought your checkbook?”

The checkbooks always came out. Five hundred-thousand-dollar retainers were written. Contracts signed. Easy peasy. I never advertised. Women talk. Women who get $400,000 a month support in addition to the house, half the savings, retirement and full medical. Plus, as a surprise bonus the philandering CEO playboys pay my fees. The last thing they want is pictures of me and him on social media and trashy magazine covers, me with a mouthful of food next to beer gut, mid-life crisis guys ditching bereft wives. 

Dang. I really wished I’d insisted Mike meet me at a fancy French restaurant another time. It wasn’t too late to feign a sudden cold and beg off not wanting to infect everyone. Besides looking forward to relaxing with a book and tea, maybe I was worried that my eating habits would erupt disgustingly at Mike’s. When my gorging had a purpose and a big pay day, I didn’t care. Plus, if Mike met me at a restaurant, oh what a joy it would be to order an expensive meal then have the tab set in front of him. That, indeed, would be nice for a change. I sighed. I didn’t date. Hadn’t since before law school. My time was spent learning the trade, passing the bar on the first try and establishing my own practice. There was one guy, though, well, that was a very long time ago.

This ridiculous dilemma started four days ago when Mike emailed me totally out of the blue. Freshman year we met at a hot dog eating contest. The totality of our relationship was the contest and seeing him at Mustard’s Last Stand scarfing down piles of hot dogs. I had my own piles. He caught my eye, “hot dog contest?” I nodded. That was it, well, except I don’t count the few seconds he nibbled my earlobe. I’d have forgotten that barely wisp of a happenstance except it was my wet ear turning ice cold that he pulled away from mumbling something about the munchies then he abruptly left my dorm room. I hadn’t invited him to my room or known he was a stoner. It all began after the competition, he followed me, begging me to train with him for the next year. When I turned to demand he leave, our tummies bumped and next thing I knew his lips encased my earlobe. It was a college experience blip for the round file. No harm. No foul. I remembered being so happy to be done with hotdogs and Mike that I ordered a large everything pizza, tons of Chinese and two pints of ice cream. I ended the evening pleasantly stuffed and nodded off in a food coma. 

Seven-thirty Thursday morning as I opened my laptop my phone binged it’s “Doo Dah, Doo Dah” new email alert. Mike. I’d already responded that Fridays weren’t good for me. Out of curiosity I opened it.

“I’m working on my final for culinary school,” Mike wrote including a steak icon. “The more people critiquing the dishes, the better.”

“People?” I wrote back. “Culinary School?” Completely forgetting I’d already begged off.

“With you makes eight. Yeah, since I love to eat, I decided to learn how to cook. [Smiley icon.]” Mike sounded slurpy, like he was eating while talking to me on the phone. Rude. “Remember Janet Duckles? from Professor Grange’s Econ class? She’s coming.” 

Tired of my indecisive ruminations, I jawed into a bear claw pastry and wrote, “Fine. See you tomorrow.” By the time I’d swallowed, I felt like myself again. Deconstructing slim geometric shards of cracked glaze from the claw, I laid them, one by one, on my tongue.

Janet might as well have been a stranger. She didn’t seem to recall me, either, but with a large smile plastered on her face, she tried to fake it. Mike was scruffier than I remembered, a short beard that seemed to cover most of his face. Still tubby, maybe even more so. In a nutshell, the dinner party crowd consisted of people who smiled a lot. Some would say they were all a bit too touchy feelie. Pats on my shoulder, finger tapping my arm reminded me of my midwestern roots. Comforting. As long as they steered clear of my pearl necklace, I wouldn’t shrug them off.

The men wore khakis with casual button downs. The women were in roomy casual pants paired with either a plain top or something with flowers hanging out. No tucking for these gals. Not much makeup either. I glowed neon bright in my pink jeans, pink silky top, and black flats with a pink bow. My black and pink spiderweb stitched shawl was big enough to tone me down wrapping to mid-thigh. Also, unlike my clients, these women didn’t fear wrinkles. No puffed lips or unmovable foreheads. Where had Mike found these people in a city like New York. 

The meal smelled yummy. Mike served by slopping a mound of mac and cheese on each plate, covered that with a pile of fries then placed pigs in blankets around the perimeter. He winked at me when he handed me a plate.

“Presentation – A+,” said Greg or Andrew. Does anyone remember names? I didn’t care enough to inquire. I’d eat and stay an appropriate amount of time. Glancing at my watch, leaving at ten would be proper enough. Another hour.

Everyone nodded in agreement about the A+ for presentation.

“What about the food?” Mike asked. “I’d appreciate your honest feedback.”

One by one, each person said things like, “Mac and cheese makes my mouth happy. Amazing crispy fries. Tang and salt excellent. The bread on the pigs is heavenly.”

“What about you?” Mike pointed.

“Me?” I almost said Moi, but I preferred to save my French for clients.

“Yes, any thoughts on my culinary talent. Or not?” He giggled. If a smile could get bigger, it did, literally stretching from ear to ear. I stared for a moment then shook my head.

“Well . . .” I picked apart a pig in a blanket. Stalling. “Well . . .” I cleared my throat and took a bite of the bread.

“Be honest. I can take it.” Mike’s smile never wavered. The other six guests also kept smiling while scarfing down seconds.

“The food is excellent. I wonder about the choice of what seems like a kid meal or food found at carnivals and Disneyland?”

“Perfect,” Mike said. “I’m glad you noticed. We are also graded on originality. These are my favorite dishes. I’m thrilled you connected them with Disneyland. I practically lived there in high school. That’s why. Thank you.”

I left it at that. After dinner, I found myself on one of the two couches crammed against Janet’s yellow blouse, Bob and Greg or whoever were on her other side. Mike and the other three guests snuggled on the other one. It was weird. Arms were flung over shoulders, Janet’s head tilted onto my shoulder. It reminded me of those gooey, musty college years, a mass of us draped across each other on a single bed in the dorm. More precisely, these smiley people reminded me of stuffed animals. I blinked a few times, my eyes watered. Oh my god! They were stuffed animals. Had they been all along? One by one, Janet, then Bob, Greg, Andrew, Marie, and Susan appeared to me as furry with button eyes, smooshie arms and puffy tummies. One was Snoopy, another The Pink Panther, Big Bird, Cookie Monster, Goofy, and Donald Duck. 

“What the hell.” I jumped out of my seat. Donald Duck Janet snapped at my arm. I ran to the door. Mike blocked the way.

“I need a Minnie Mouse.” His tongue was hanging out. Then right before my eyes he grew black mouse ears and a red painted Mickey Mouse smile. Mike, the human sized stuffed Mickey, flopped into my arms.

“Arrrghhh.” I pushed and ripped loose, and for some unknown reason called over my shoulder, “Kermit’s my favorite.” I nearly tumbled down the five flights of stairs. I tossed off my shoes, my stride on the sidewalk was so fast that I rose onto my toenails nearly levitating. I said pardon, pardon as I swirled haphazardly between Friday night revelers.

“Hey, slow down you big squealer.” Mike’s voice? Couldn’t be. He was a stuffed Mickey Mouse. Must have been one of the men milling out of restaurant and bar doors. I sped up.

Big squealer or pig squealer? Both new ones. I’d heard hunk a chunk, flabbo and the sort, but never squealer. I couldn’t stop and “contest” this man’s word choice; I wasn’t far enough away from the horror of the party. Finally, out of breath and snorting congestion in my nose, I stopped at the corner of 5^th and Park Avenues. My god, I thought, what happened back there. Did I have too much wine? I felt a grip of terror squeeze me like a tight belt. The wine must have been spiked with a hallucinogen. Mike as Mickey Mouse mooning for Minnie, and it felt like he had the power to turn me into a big stuffed Minnie. Served me right going to a party where I barely knew the host. But seeing Big Bird, aww, man, good ole Big Bird. He looked so real, a dear old friend. Well, of course he was, I watched Sesame Street as a kid. Truth be told, I still watched it on cable. Weird, how I’d mentioned Kermit being my favorite. Well, he was my first love. 

Feeling revived, my fingers reached for my pearls. Safe. Whatever happened at Mike’s, I escaped unscathed. Most importantly, unstuffed. I focused my eyes onto the dark window of Saks. I expected the dark glass to be a mirror. But it couldn’t be because Miss Piggy was looking at me. I winked, she winked. Me? “Moi?”

*Miss Piggy quote.

About the author:

Jean lives in Boulder, Colorado. Over the years she’s published in Prairie Times, Vegetarian Journal, Women’s Edition Magazine and the Boulder Weekly 101 Word Fiction Contest. She’s read at open mics and at a poetry jam where she took first place. Jean is married to a computer guy who utilizes all the techie bells and whistles. Jean, though, predominantly uses her laptop as a typewriter that doesn’t required liquid paper to correct mistakes.

Part of our Fall/Winter 2024 Issue. New stories, poems, and essays now through December 2024.

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