It Started Way Before Today

"Stephanie, come here into the garage. I have some things I want to give you."

I obediently heeded Janet's summons, wiping the dust from my frumpy, baby blue sweat pants after kneeling on her bathroom floor where I was scrubbing.

As I approached her 4'11" frame, I noticed a scowl on her face as she eyed me from pony-tailed head to my white-stockinged feet. She didn't allow me to wear shoes or go barefoot in her immaculate condo, and I didn't have a suitable pair of slippers, so I simply wore my socks. At least this week I didn't have any holes in them. The smile disappeared from my face as her scowl deepened.

"I'm going to put you on a diet!" she announced.

The air in my lungs caught in my chest and tears immediately stung my eyes. I blinked them back, refusing to show any emotion toward this cold, heartless woman.

"You'll feel so much better if you lose weight!" she continued, shaking her head in disgust while her top lip curled into an Elvis impersonation.

Yes, I know I'm fat. I don't need some 87-year-old biddy to point out the obvious. Wait a minute, I was the cleaning servant! But she sure was ornery! And mean, and insensitive, and heartless, and ...

In the ten steps it took to cross her spotless living room, I became a child again, cowering beneath my mother's cricisms: "You're too chubby to wear pleats." "You're too fat to wear searsucker." "You're too heavy to wear big prints like that!" Then my mother's endearment for me echoed in my brain: Chunky Wunky. She thought it was cute. I hated it with a passion.

Still blinking back tears and trying to swallow the lump in my throat, I followed Janet to the garage off the west side of her home. As I stared at the back of her head, I fantasized about wrapping my hands around her neck and cutting off her windpipe. Nah, I wouldn't harm a single gray hair on her narcissistic head. But I wondered if she had any idea of how much her words stabbed me in the heart.

Probably not.

She opened a box on the table to display all her throwaways from Christmas. It was only two weeks ago and she was already trying to unload her unwanted junk on me. I was too spineless to tell her I didn't want it. I would simply pack everything into the trunk of my Saturn and throw it in the Dumpster when I got home. Except for that wreath--I'll keep that. And that gold garland might come in handy. Ooh, that red candle would look lovely on my antique steamer trunk. Who was I fooling? Her junk was my treasure! I'm sure one of these days she'd pawn something off on me that was best tossed in her trashcan. She thought she was doing me a favor letting me take her junk. I thought it was because she didn't want to deal with hauling it down to Goodwill.

I agreed to take everything simply because I didn't want to have to come up with excuses as to why I couldn't use it. I would be too tempted to lie, and I sure didn't want to do that. As she went back to her ironing in the kitchen (who irons their husband's boxers?), I returned to the guest bathroom to continue cleaning.

Pulling my cell phone out, I keyed in the following message: "Janet just told me she's putting me on a diet." I programmed my husband's number in, clicked "send," and let the tears flow, being careful not to sob out loud for fear she would hear me.

"What?" came the reply.

I hurriedly keyed in further details.

"Are you angry?" he asked after reading my message.

"Yes, but I'm more hurt than anything."

"I'm sorry," he responded. "I love you just the way you are."

I smiled. "Thank you, Honey. I needed to hear that. I love you too."

I tucked the phone away and finished the bathroom. For the next three hours as I cleaned a house that didn't need cleaning, her words kept replaying in my mind, and each time I told myself I was no good, I was fat, no one loved me, I hated myself.

I had been dealing with compulsive overeating for as long as I can remember. I remember stealing cookies from the cupboards in fourth grade, so I imagine my food issues started before that, but I can't remember exactly when. When I look at my elementary school pictures, I was always chubby, but when your mother cooks for a family of seven, there are never any leftovers so it's not like I ever had seconds. Were the portions she served way too big for my tiny body? We were admonished to clear our plates before being excused from the table ... starving children in Africa, ya' know. Was my mother to blame or was it me? Just how many potato chips did I steal, exactly?

When did the nasty looks start? When did the condescending remarks begin? When did people start judging me for being fat? Whenever it was, it started way before today.