A Weighty Error

Suck in, zip up an inch – this has to fit, I know I’m a size six. Formal is next week, and this dress has been reserved for months. Maybe I’m just a little bloated, or perhaps it was the massive burger I had for lunch – I knew I should have gotten the salad! However, my eating habits haven’t exactly been health conscious these last few weeks. Junk food is easily accessible in a college dorm; it’s mini fridges full of coke products and pantries loaded with quick-fix microwave dinners and ramen noodles. The infamous warning of the “freshman fifteen” is no myth.  I was influenced by others’ habits, so it’s not completely my fault, right? Who am I kidding, I’ve lost all sense of self-control. Hostess is my vice, and Red Bull is my confidant.

“How you doing in there? Should I grab a different size, perhaps a wrap to accessorize?”

I hate when sales associates badger me with questions, especially when I’m trying to focus on whether the outfit accentuates the incorrect locations (makes my butt look big). “No, I’m doing fine, thank you!” Lie. I’m starting to feel light-headed, perhaps due to the fact I’ve been restricted to shallow breathing for the past couple minutes. Suck in a little more, tug the zipper up another fraction of an inch.

I glare at the mirror in front of me with a look of utter disgust. That pouch wasn’t there a few months ago, and walking in sky-high heels is difficult enough, much less with thighs that will be chafing by the end of the night. These observations are reason enough for me to forgo the dress, never mind the gaping side zipper that refuses to comply with my weight gain. With a solemn (limited) sigh, I chose to remove the beautiful gown.

The zipper sticks. My mind is jolted to a horrific childhood memory of Winnie the Pooh getting stuck in a rabbit hole because of his gluttonous tendencies towards honey. I go into a distressed panic – the dress constricts further the more I wrestle to break free. What sadistic designer would create a bodycon dress without a trace of lycra or spandex – a situation like this was bound to occur, and it would obviously affect me personally. I consider screaming help, but that would be just a tad bit awkward. Think rationally – in times of distress, simply enter said predicament into Google’s search box. “What to do when a zipper sticks?” I quickly scroll through the results praying for deliverance, but to my disappointment, I didn’t think to come prepared with a bar of soap. How negligent of me.

“Still doing alright?”

Desperate times call for desperate measures – “Actually, it appears I’m stuck. Is there any chance you could be of assistance?” That didn’t sound too terribly pathetic, did it?

“Oh, well that’s not good!”

You don’t say. I unlock the stall door and lift my arm to indicate my dilemma.

“Well let’s see what I can do.” She has a look of sympathy and concern written on her face, but she must be smirking inside. I wonder how many times she’s been put in this uncomfortable position – I’m inclined to think I’m not the first chubby girl to get stuck in a dress.

She inspects the zipper and fiddles with it for a moment, then plainly states, “It’s jammed beyond repair. I suppose we’ll have to cut you out.”

My eyes bug and heat flushes my face to a deep red as I legitimately consider dying of humiliation.

“I’m just joking, honey! Don’t look so frightened!” the worker laughs as she gives one quick yank to the closure, releasing its grasp to the surrounding fabric. She pulls the zipper down and I inhale deeply to recollect my nerves.

“Thank you,” I breathe. I genuinely appreciate mockery and the realization that I’ve packed on the pounds right before my first college formal. Really, I do.

She leaves me to finish changing, and I place the demise of my dignity onto its hanger. As I exit the changing room, I surrender the dress to the employee. She looks confused and says, “You don’t want to try on a different size? How about you go up to a size six?”

To Kill A Mockingbird, Uncut

The following account was a creative writing assignment given to me in literature class. We were studying Harper Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird. This is my narrative of Mrs. Dubose’s history before her death as a morphine addict.

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My story ain’t as grand as many of y’all townsfolks think. I don’t hide no pistol in my drawer of stoles and garments, and there ain’t no tragic tale of lost loved ones and scandalous behavior, so I reckon y’all do away with these ridiculous suspicions and leave me be. I’m bitter by mine own doing, and none of y’all in this darn town could understand. Children runnin’ wild and decent white folks defending them good-for-nothin’ Negroes – what is this world comin’ to? Back in my day, none such acts would be tolerated! Why, back in my day, I was nothin’ like I am now. I was young and social – went down to the parlor all the time and ordered a tall, fizzy Coca-Cola. I was liked by my peers, and even fell in love once. But that was a long time ago, and all them good folks left the sweet South to become Yankees in hopes of gettin’ rich. I never had such desires. Right before the turn of the century, I moved to Maycomb County; time don’t move quick here, but I ain’t mind one bit. I made my living assistin’ a shopkeeper, and busied myself with gardening and reading on the weekends. But my life changed for the worse in the year 1910 – my fingers and toes ached indescribably when it rained, and didn’t feel any much better when it wasn’t. The town doctor told me I had rheumatoid arthritis, somethin’ he described as chronic and wouldn’t git better none ‘til the day I died. He prescribed to me morphine – my savior and ruin, all in one. The slippery little pills helped, all right; my whole person went into a cloud of relief and nothin’ hurt anymore. The pain slowly lessened, but them drugs were clever little devils. They got in my bones and snuck up on me; my body needed ‘em to feel comfort and in my mind, stoppin’ wasn’t an option. Years passed, and my knees and hips gave out, confinin’ my decrepit body to a wheelchair – I didn’t feel none too much pain though. The pills took care of that. But my addiction rendered me weak and feelin’ sick, makin’ me always rely on Jessie, who’s really the only confidant I got. I feel the reaper’s on my doorstep, waitin’ to take me any minute. It makes me sad, lookin’ back on life and realizin’ I ain’t accomplished much. It makes me sadder to think I ain’t able to control myself, and how I’m dyin’ by my own hand. I wanna git better, really, I do.

Studies & Starbucks – Daily Prompt

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She looks frazzled.  Undocumented receipts protrude from her wallet as she scrambles for plastic to cover the cost of an overpriced caffè mocha with an extra shot of espresso. The duties of a barista aren’t elaborate, but essential – by the looks of it, this poor girl could desperately use an energy boost. I prepare the drink with ease and expertise, then slide a zarf onto the sizable venti cup. Before questions are raised, you know those disposable cardboard sleeves that proudly announce the Starbucks emblem? – those are zarfs. Anyhow, I scribble “Abby” onto the cup and speak her name above the noise consisting of patrons’ friendly chatter and business garble, along with the faint humming of Iron and Wine in the background. She picks up the drink and grabs a couple napkins before walking out the door. When outside and away from the chaos, she chooses a table and pulls out an enormous textbook and an infamous Texas Instrument from her tote. I periodically glance at her through the window for the next hour or so as she fingers her way through the book and methodically sips her coffee every few pages. Her furrowed look has slightly softened and she appears more relaxed, despite the bulging backpack lying on the ground next to her, with book corners jutting against the seams, beckoning the zipper to part its teeth. Being end of semester, I imagine she’s studying for finals, cramming every underlined phrase and bold word into the little available space left in her memory capacity. I commend students for their labor – regurgitating facts and understanding foreign material is no easy task. Judging by the time lapse and disregarded cup no longer in reach, it is safe to assume her beverage has been depleted. My shift ends in five minutes, so I quickly make another sweet mocha and generously froth whipped cream over the steaming dark liquid. On the side of the cup, I quote Erdos: “A mathematician is a device for turning coffee into theorems.”  I place the drink on her table and give a cordial nod before walking to my car. The product I endorse serves as comfort for those long, studious nights – and the possibility of free drinks, a motivation. 

written for The Daily Post, Daily Prompt: The Cat Says Meow