Authors: Brandi Kennedy
Fat Chance
Fat Chance
Book One of the Kingsley Series
By Brandi Kennedy
Text copyright ©2013
Brandi Kennedy
All Rights Reserved
All my life, I have carried a dream in my heart.
And I am so incredibly thankful to those who have helped me to bring my dream to life.
For my children, who inspire me to keep going …
For their daddy who has always said he is proud of me …
For Jessica Schmidt, who helped to iron out so many of the kinks …
For my favorite cousin, Dana, my ever so awesome editor, who lent her time and helped me clean up the garbage in my work, again …
For Heidi Hoffmann, who worked to design the beautiful cover of this novel, just as she did the previous release …
And for women everywhere, fat and thin, short and tall, rich and poor, who have ever felt unloved, unworthy, unpretty, and underappreciated.
*Thank*You*
Table of Contents
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Standing there in the mirror, I survey the swimsuit I’ve squished myself into, so disgusted I could scream. I don't really need a swimsuit often, but I like to keep one around just in case, so now I’m standing here, frustrated, in the dressing room of the local plus size boutique. Of course, it has a cool, non-fat name, but I have always thought of it as Chubby Central. I hate my weight, and I really hate the fact that I have to shop in that store.
The weird thing about me is that I don't mind fat on other people. I’ve often watched women shop in this store, women larger than me. I have admired their confidence, envied their sense of style. But fat on my own body? Yuck.
I hate my body; I dislike my shape, I despise the parts of me that jiggle when they shouldn't, and I frequently curse the indented cellulite areas. I loathe the stretch marks that decorate my body, like the stripes of a tiger. Or a zebra.
Really, I suppose I’m on the lower spectrum of the available sizes in the store, but it still just kills me to shop for anything here. Especially bathing suits, and I've tried two already. This is torture.
The first one is sapphire blue, with a cute, sparkly motif that sits just between my breasts, as if tiny diamonds were spilling from my ample cleavage. As if my overlarge chest needs any more emphasis! The color is really nice against my skin, though and I even think I could live with the little sparkle thing. But then I do a little spin in front of that cruel mirror, and after that I give thanks that I am alone. The suit has a little skirt on it, nothing fancy and not very long. It’s pretty much just long enough to make my thighs resemble stumped-off tree trunks, and to reduce my decent-enough calves to insignificance, to cruelly transform my ankles into, well, cankles. Not that they don't usually look that way. But I am horrified by the lack of magic in that blue swimsuit, which makes the woman on the tag look spectacular. Taking it off, I scowl miserably, trying on the next one.
This one is a beautiful green, like emeralds. It makes my legs look a little longer, and it is even somewhat flattering in the rear view, too. The green is really nice with my eyes, and it has great chest support. The fabric isn't at all sparkly or attention getting in any way, which is definitely nice. There’s a very faint pattern of v's that crawl up my torso, which I love because it is rather wonderfully effective at giving me a pretend waist. Wide shoulder straps help a lot with my heavy breasts, but it seriously makes my arms and shoulders look like a first grade clay project gone awry. This one, too, belongs in the reject pile.
So here I stand, more and more depressed the longer I’m here, looking into my own image in the full-length mirror. Bathing suit number three is a rich color, a deep ruby red. With a high waist and boy short legs, it makes my torso look longer and therefore, thinner. But my legs! Oh, these thick legs! The short-shorts look of the suit is the only one that really gives ample coverage on the rear, but it makes my poor legs look awful, as if they are only six inches long and a whopping eight feet around. Not the kind of illusion I want to put out. Cursing a little, I toss this suit in the reject pile, too.
I hate swimsuit shopping. It’s just too much time to spend, looking for a spandex getup that can make me look somewhat cute, in spite of the fact that I’m always somewhat soft. Usually, I just have to rate them mentally and choose the one that makes me look least like a busted can of biscuits, misaligned chunks of soft oozing dough squeezing out from odd places. If only I had a normal body. Even if I have to be fat, I do wish I could at least be more proportionate, maybe with only one body type, instead of being a mix-up of all the types.
Finally, after I've begun to think I might drown in the pile of rejected bathing suits, I choose one. It’s a darkish cream color, which makes my perpetually tanned skin look bright and healthy. It contrasts nicely with my dark hair and brown eyes, and is cut miraculously well for my round body. I wouldn't say it’s slimming, exactly, but it is the most flattering of the pile now lying at my feet.
Heaving a sigh, I change back into my regular clothes and lift the pile of bathing suits onto the bench in the dressing room. Slowly, I match each suit to the hanger it was originally on. Leaving them hanging on the rack outside the door to be restocked, I gather my courage and head self-consciously to the cashier.
"I bet that color looked amazing with your skin tone," the girl says, passing the price tag under her scanner. I look briefly at her name tag; her name is Allie.
"It was ok," I murmur, embarrassed. I really don't want to talk about it. Trying them all on and hoping each one would work, only to be disappointed repeatedly was bad enough. Mostly, I just want to go home and curl into a ball, though the impossibility of the idea definitely makes me smile to myself. I'd be a pretty big ball.
"I tried this one in red the other day," Allie is saying to me, and I force myself to pay attention. "But it was just awful! I just stood there in shock, looking at myself and thanking the universe that no one else could see me! I did buy it in brown, though."
"That's good," I say, wondering if she’s humoring my obvious lack of confidence. Feeling rude, I try to think of more to say. Eventually, as she folds the suit into a bag, I manage to say, "I didn't see any brown today, but I generally tend to avoid swimsuits like the plague anyhow." Great, now I’m really embarrassed. What on earth do I say if she asks why? Can I say that I avoid them because wearing one makes me feel like an overstuffed sausage about to explode?
"Me too," Allie laughs, and I feel a little more at ease. "I don't usually mind being a bigger girl, because I've learned to dress my body. But a bathing suit hides nothing, and I think that's hard for skinny girls too."
Uh huh. Sure. I bet all those size four girls in the world just sit and cry in the dressing room mirror, trying to figure out how to deal with the horrible curse of their svelte stomachs and long legs. I don't say that though, of course. Instead, I bury my bitterness under false cheer and say, "Well, we all have our body problems, I suppose."
Paying for the bathing suit, I leave the store and walk through the mall, heading toward the garage where I parked my car. On the way, I stop in a scented candle store and browse around. All my life, I have had a love of all things wax, and it is very rare for me to be home without there being a candle lit somewhere. In the bottom of the bathroom closet, I have a hidden stash box of candles, because my attention span never seems to settle on one smell long enough for the candle to actually run out.
I sniff my way through the store, diligently avoiding anything food scented. For goodness sake, I have had to spend most of my life looking like I can't get away from an apple pie; the last thing I need is a candle that smells like one. This thought has me chuckling quietly to myself, looking around to make sure I’m not drawing strange looks, trying to imagine what the clerk might think if I walked up to him with an armload of candles that all smell of berries and cakes, cookies, pies and other treats. I could wink and explain my choices jokingly.
"I'm on a diet," I'd say, "but you guys didn't have any salad candles."
Not really brave enough for jokes like that, instead I choose a deep red candle in a heavy glass canister. It has a spicy sensual kick, patchouli interlaced with something sweet that I've never heard of before. The guy at the checkout line looks me over, taking my candle to scan it, and grins when he reads the label.
"I love this one, it smells up the whole house," he says.
"That's what I'm hoping for," I answer, smiling back at him shyly. I might not be a beauty queen, and I am certainly not any sort of model material, but I have a nice smile; straight white teeth tucked neatly into soft pink gums that didn't show too much. It is the one effort that I can make toward flirting without being mortified at myself.
We chat while we waited for my receipt to come up, and he suggests a few other new scents he thinks I might be interested in the next time I stop by. Once the receipt ejects itself from the machine, I am on my merry way, looking forward to the scent of the candle filling my apartment. Other than the embarrassment of my Chubby Central shopping bag, the rest of the walk to my car is mostly uneventful.
