Britt Reid
Library Editor
~BBW, Imagery, ~SWG - Young Singers Metabolism Matures - and her body with it
A "golden oldies" tale -
reposted to the WR story forums from the historic Dimensions Weight Room archives
Long ago Christina Aguilera had decided that she was a morning person. Waking up, finding the sun shining, thinking of the things she was going to do in the day ahead and then doing them -- she glowed at the very thought of it all.
Work could often be arduous if she was on tour or recording an album: the punishing schedule would scarcely leave her time to sleep, go to the bathroom, or linger over a meal. But at least she'd be singing, using the voice that had entranced her family, neighbors, her school, the New Mickey Mouse Club, and ultimately the whole world since she was six years old.
Over the years she'd watched the voice grow in strength and range until now, on a good day, on certain top notes, it had enough force to shatter light bulbs. Could that voice be coming out of the petite body God and adolescence had given her, the waist slim, the limbs equally slender, the breasts still no bigger than lemons? It seemed a miracle. She'd been told that it was.
For herself she knew at least that she was someone very lucky. How many other people only just into their twenties had enough Grammy Awards on the mantelpiece to use them as plates at a pizza party?
Lying in bed now, her favorite Little Mermaid figurine glinting on the bedside table, the fun of that giggly, happy party came into her mind. She should have another one, soon, she decided. This time with even more pizzas, even more toppings. And maybe fifty different kinds of milkshake. She closed her eyes briefly, recalling with pleasure how full she felt at the end of that day.
That reminded her. Breakfast! She was dying to try a brand-new cereal line -- the sugar-coated pieces were shaped like pop stars' heads, and she'd bought a packet of Elvis Presley. Eating Elvis, she decided, was probably going to be the day's highlight. But maturity told her that pleasure tasted even sweeter if it was approached through a little delay and anticipation.
So first she tripped off to the bathroom. The water jets cascaded down, the fog of moisture almost obliterating the Donald Duck shower tiles that Christina was beginning to wonder if she shouldn't replace.
As usual she started singing:
“Bop, bop, lollipop,” she crooned. It was a song from her new album, just recorded: even after all the grueling days nailing the takes in the studio, she could still sing for pleasure. She was that kind of girl.
“I'm gonna lick my lollipop!” She was onto the second verse now, soaping herself in her customary fashion, over the shoulders, down the arms, across the breasts, gently, gently. “I'm gonna lick -- ”
Suddenly the song and her soaping stopped. She had reached her stomach. It felt, she thought, a little different -- slightly softer than usual. She parked the soap in the soapdish and with both hands free began touching her body around her belly-button. No, it wasn't her imagination. Her belly was definitely softer.
“That's curious,” she said. Picking up the soap, she continued her journey downwards, soaping up more slowly as before. Over her thighs, she thought she felt a little more “give” in them than before; not quite so hard to the touch.
“Odd,” she murmured. Pocketing the thought just for the moment, she continued her ablutions. The song came rushing back into her throat. The water played over her body, washing away the suds. Tossing her head, she moved on to her hair and the shampoo. Christina loved to be clean.
The shower over, she began to towel herself dry, usually something she did without thinking. But today, like the soaping, she approached the process more deliberately, testing her body, its texture and contours, with each pat and rub. The more she probed with her towel, the more she sensed there was a little more flesh than usual to move about.
“Have I put on a little weight?” she wondered. She didn't know whether this was good or bad; all she knew was that when she touched her body, especially round her middle, she was experiencing something new.
To dry her legs properly she needed to balance herself on the bathroom stool. With an outstretched hand she felt the circumference of one her thighs. Definitely a little bigger, she decided. It was then, sitting down, that she noticed her stomach -- always so trim and flat before, but now with sufficient flesh to form itself into a roll across the waist. There was enough fat for her to squeeze. She squeezed it. She prodded it with a finger. On her face was an expression of awe and wonder, as though she were looking at the eighth wonder of the world.
“My God,” she cried, “where did this little stomach come from?”
It didn't stop her enjoying her day. Elvis, she found, was delicious.
****
The next few weeks passed in a blur. This was the calm before the storm, which would hit with tropical force when the promotion for her new album, “Christina: It's Your Planet”, began. Then she'd be working round the clock. For the moment she told everyone she was “chilling out”: This was Christina-speak for lounging around at home in her favorite attire -- t-shirt and men's briefs -- watching afternoon soaps, with a little something, maybe McNuggets, by her side.
At other times she went shopping, or painted her fingernails green. Some work crept in here and there -- schedules to OK, songs to try out for future use, like “Leelah, Have Some Tequila.” The song wasn't in her usual style; learning it was difficult. But there was nothing like a fast food fix to soothe and replenish.
For awhile, as the days went on, she continued to notice the little swell on her stomach, but the novelty eventually wore off and it largely passed from her mind. If she thought of it at all, it was as a new fact of life, nothing to bother about, even a vague source of delight. Kind of cute, wasn't it, her tummy?
But nothing lasts forever. The lull stopped. The storm arrived, the first sign being an abrupt summons to the rehearsal and recording of a TV spot. Her entourage came bright and early in a white stretch limo to whisk her off, along with the clothes she wanted to wear - cream patent leather trousers (always her “lucky” pants), a black belt with studs, a pink crop-top. Sweeping along the backstage corridor, she greeted her music director with a kiss and a hug.
“You're looking radiant!” he said, hands round her waist. “Ready for work?”
“You bet!”
“Mm,” he said to himself as they went their ways, “I think Christina's gained a little weight!”
First things first. Alone in her dressing room, Christina fetched out her favorite Barney dinosaur and propped it up at the foot of the mirror -- the purple soft toy travelled everywhere with her, offering emotional support. Then she turned to her performance clothes. She eased herself into her patent leather pants, not worn for months. Before they had always buttoned at the top with ease; now, she discovered, the recent softening of her waist had made that close to impossible. She prodded the fat on her tummy, hanging slightly over the waistband.
“Oops!” she said.
She reached immediately for her mobile phone, in the shape of a Coke bottle, and called for Donna -- stylist, seamstress, all-round aide de camp. Within twenty seconds, Donna was at her employer's side.
“Hiya, Christina,” she said, “how you doing?”
Suddenly, the surreptitious pleasure Christina had felt sensing her body soften and grow vanished. She felt embarrassed. Vagueness, she decided, was the best policy. “There seems to be a problem with these pants! And they used to be such a good fit.”
She stood looking down at the problem area, thumbs tucked into the pants' waistband.
Donna immediately noticed the layer of fat on her stomach and the hint of love handles aorund the sides. She had a reputation for calling a spade a spade, but the mother instinct kicked in, and she decided not to be brutal. “Maybe they've shrunk, honey. Or it could be that you've put on a few pounds. It happens.”
“Actually,” said Christina, deciding to risk it, “I have noticed I'm a little bit rounder down there. But I'm eating the same as usual. It's odd!”
Donna smiled sympathetically, and took a closer look at the songbird. It wasn't just her waist, she now realized. Christina had also filled out a little in her face; and did her upper arms have that well-rounded look before? She thought not. But she kept her observations to herself. “Well, let's see if we can make an adjustment.”
“Thanks, Donna. You know these are my lucky pants!” As Christina bent to pull them down over her thighs, her midriff flesh started to bulge.
“My, my,” Donna thought, “little Christina is putting on weight!”
Something, she decided, would have to be said, and said out loud. She ventured forth. “It could be your metabolism. It always slows down with age.”
“Metabolism? What does that mean?”
Donna was mystified. Shouldn't her biology teacher have told her this? Or her mother? Doesn't this girl know anything? “It affects the rate at which you burn up calories. When you get older the rate slows down.”
Looking at her figure again, she estimated that Christina had probably gained about ten pounds.
Christina looked baffled. Grasping this was almost as difficult as learning “Leelah, Have Some Tequila”.
“You mean,” she said, glancing down at her tummy, “if I just keep on eating the amount I normally eat I will now keep putting on weight?”
“Well, not necessarily, but there could be a tendency.”
“And there's nothing I could do about it?” Her eyes were widening at the thought. She felt like an astronaut taking the first steps on the moon. This was a whole new world. No-one had told her about this. Barney certainly hadn't.
“Wow!” she said. She had brief visions of her body expanding before her eyes, popping the buttons off blouses. “And it's natural? A natural process?”
“Entirely natural. God's gift to women.” Donna smiled -- she was a woman of some substance herself -- and busied herself inspecting the pants' seams, trying to estimate how much extra material she could find. “You like carrying a few more pounds, then?”
By now Christina's embarrassment was tapering off. She felt Donna was a friend.
“Well, it still feels a bit strange, or it did. I've always been so slim. But it's OK, isn't it? It makes me more of a woman -- doesn't it?” She looked at Donna with spaniel eyes, begging for approval.
Donna nodded. “It certainly does.”
After looking at her figure again, and then at the seams, she sighed.
“Honey,” she said, “you don't have any other lucky pants, do you?”
***
The storm continued. After the album came Christina's new single, “Jack, the Toast Is Burning!” and, right alongside, the new music video: one followed the other as night follows day. At times like these she felt like a puppet, performing to order, singing, dancing, posing for publicity shots, always some new demand on her energy and time. At the end of each day she'd be exhilarated but drained, and ready for all the delights her fridge could offer. And then, immediately after, bed: every drop of sleep was needed to fuel her up for the next 24 hours.
Donna's needle and thread had worked what wonders they could, but by now the cream pants were unofficially retired, replaced in Christina's affections by a new purchase in midnight blue, scattered with sequins. These lucky pants were a size larger. The fit was snug, snugger than she had been accustomed to, but there was a certain thrill, she found, in moving about in tight clothes.
Accustomed by now to her softened tummy, she scarcely noticed as it grew softer still, building into a sweet swathe of fat filling out her midriff. Unconsciously, she'd fallen into the habit of wearing pants low on the hips to allow her belly more freedom to move. There were other new habits, all signs of someone carrying more weight than before.
Her stomach became a magnet, drawing her hands constantly towards it. Sometimes they patted it, sometimes they traced the outline as she concluded a meal or finished putting on her clothes; sometimes they fingered it absently as she tugged down a t-shirt. Was she reassuring herself that the tummy was still there? Was she hoping she'd find it bigger, or smaller? Christina was the last person to know, yet by feeling her stomach she seemed reassured of something.
Word by now was leaking out that Christina was no longer quite the stick insect of the past. Comments about her extra pounds appeared on website chatrooms and shrines, tummy sightings tabulated. Remarks were couched with some surprise and an occasional juvenile burst of scorn, but the general mood was calm acceptance that here was someone adjusted enough to let her appetite and body take her wherever they chose. And besides, didn't each pound make her more beautiful?
If only Christina's video director Herk Herkowitz thought that way. Christina liked performing for the camera. There was no stage fright to worry about; so long as she had the choreography memorized, she could sink herself into doing what she liked best, gyrating, pouting, acting cute, acting sexy, and setting the mike on fire with her voice.
She'd come to the session wearing her new lucky pants and a skimpy top colored like blueberry yogurt. Rehearsing and recording had taken a morning's work. Now, for her it was time for lunch; for award-winning Herk Herkowitz, the first chance to check the results.
Pretty good, he thought as the images sped by. Pretty damn good, in fact. But then something bothered him. He pressed the pause button and peered.
“What the hell is that?” he cried. “Jeez!”
The small audience of assistants and Christina's manager, Mitch Mitchelson, produced a sound like the rustling of leaves.
“I think it's Christina's stomach, Herk,” the first assistant ventured.
“I know it's that, but where did it come from? She's bulging like a balloon! .”
The freeze frame had caught a midriff close-up, the bared fat clearly hanging over her pants in a roll, the belly-button sunk an inch inside soft, golden flesh. “What's she been doing this year, camping out at Wendy's?”
Mitch felt he had to mount a defense. “It's just puppy fat, Herk. Don't worry about it.”
“That's not puppy fat! That's fat fat. There's a difference.” He pressed the pause button again and the video resumed. Christina gyrated:
“Toast, the toast, get the toast!” The backing group jiggled from side to side. Christina, caught half in profile, began leaning forward.
“There it is again! Crap. I thought she looked rounder when she got here for rehearsal, but I never thought it would show like that. Look, the fat's bouncing! She's really putting on weight!”
Once again Mitch went up to bat. “It's an age thing, Herk. Metabolism. Don't be hard on the girl.”
“I wouldn't have shot so many damn close-ups if I'd known they would come out like this. Mitch, you've got to have a word with her. I'm not sure if I can let this go.”
The video was running on.
“And my love's a-burning too,” Christina sang.
“And hey,” said Herk, “look, there's a double chin!”
“OK, OK, I'll have a word. Maybe she could curb her appetite a bit.”
“Yeah,” Herk sneered, “have a word right now, before she eats lunch.”
It was too late. Christina had ordered. She'd passed on the catered lunch -- she always did. Lentil soup, spinach ravioli and roasted vegetables just didn't cut it for her. When Mitch entered her inner sanctum at the studio, her special menu was spread out before her. Triple burger with cheese. French fries. And an extra large vanilla milkshake. Mitch's eyes widened.
Christina beamed. She liked Mitch.
“Hi, how's the video looking? Thought it went well.” She took a big bite of her burger.
Mitch seemed uneasy. “It looks great. We're very happy with it.”
“That's good!” She scooped up some chips. “Excuse me for eating, I'm really hungry.”
“The thing is, though, Christina, I don't like to say this, but -- ”. He started to shift uneasily in his shoes. “I don't know if you realize, but you've gained a bit of weight, and in some shots the director thinks it doesn't look very good.”
Christina felt herself coloring. No-one had told her she'd put on weight to her face before, and she found it embarrassing. She bristled in self-defense. “I can't suddenly get thinner for a retake, Mitch. I know I've gained a little this year, but it's my metabolism. I can't do anything about it. It's just my body growing older.”
Mitch's eyes roamed over the feast before her, and began to take in the extra weight in Christina's face, her breasts' new tendency to loom large, and the tummy fat spilling out over pants which -- he noticed with a shudder -- had the top button undone. “Sure. I know. But it might help, Christina, if you didn't eat so much fast food.”
A chip with ketchup was poised to enter her mouth. “But I've always eaten fast food. It's my favorite cuisine!”
“I know. But it's starting to make you chubby. You have to think of your fans! That's all I'll say for now.” He edged towards the door to leave, hoping he hadn't been too blunt.
He cleared his throat and waved a hand: “Well, enjoy your meal!”
Alone, Christine finished the burger, chewing more slowly than before. She felt disoriented. Asking her to cut down on fast food, she felt, was like asking her to stop breathing air. And he'd said she was chubby.
“Am I chubby?” she thought as she sucked on the milkshake straw. “Am I really chubby?”
Putting the milkshake down, she took both hands to her midriff and began to squeeze it, feeling the fat, soft and yielding, between her fingers. Then she ran a hand over the curve of her stomach towards her right hip where the bulge of a love handle lay in wait just above the hip bone. She took the other hand and ran towards her left hip. There was another love handle there. Before, she'd thought of the weight she'd put on as a natural phenomenon, something that made her look more womanly, more sexy. The fact that it might ever be seen as just fat, and something bothersome, hadn't occurred to her.
There was a full-length mirror in the dressing-room, a little cracked at the top corner -- the result, people said, of a missile thrown by Mariah Carey during the airing of artistic differences. Christina took a good look at herself. Having her pants undone didn't look good, she spotted that; so she breathed in and fixed the top button. The pants felt tight, but she reasoned this was only to be expected, as she'd just eaten. Above the pants she pressed into her midriff fat. Not too much, was there?
Then she turned herself to the side to check her profile. She knew her lower belly curved out now, but she found that appealing. Grown people have curves, don't they? And she had a curve! She was less convinced by the way the pants visibly dug into her flesh at the top. Maybe she'd put on more weight than she'd thought. Wasn't this metabolism thing something!
Then she turned to her chest. Another curve there, under her pink top. Her breasts, obviously, had grown bigger. They had a bounce they'd never had before; her bras always felt tight, and there was flesh oozing out around the straps.
“No longer a little girl, am I?” she murmured with pride as she hefted them gently in each hand. She took a deep breath, thrusting them even further outwards, feeling the strain on her brassiere even more. “Maybe it's time for a bigger cup size.”
All in all, Christina thought she looked pretty good. Rounder, definitely, and much softer in the middle. But did this make her chubby? Was that what she was? And what was the difference between being chubby and being fat?
As she swept the debris from her meal into the wastebin, she decided she'd look up “chubby” in the dictionary the moment she got home.
A "golden oldies" tale -
reposted to the WR story forums from the historic Dimensions Weight Room archives
CHRISTINA AGUILERA GROWS UP
By Swordfish
By Swordfish
Long ago Christina Aguilera had decided that she was a morning person. Waking up, finding the sun shining, thinking of the things she was going to do in the day ahead and then doing them -- she glowed at the very thought of it all.
Work could often be arduous if she was on tour or recording an album: the punishing schedule would scarcely leave her time to sleep, go to the bathroom, or linger over a meal. But at least she'd be singing, using the voice that had entranced her family, neighbors, her school, the New Mickey Mouse Club, and ultimately the whole world since she was six years old.
Over the years she'd watched the voice grow in strength and range until now, on a good day, on certain top notes, it had enough force to shatter light bulbs. Could that voice be coming out of the petite body God and adolescence had given her, the waist slim, the limbs equally slender, the breasts still no bigger than lemons? It seemed a miracle. She'd been told that it was.
For herself she knew at least that she was someone very lucky. How many other people only just into their twenties had enough Grammy Awards on the mantelpiece to use them as plates at a pizza party?
Lying in bed now, her favorite Little Mermaid figurine glinting on the bedside table, the fun of that giggly, happy party came into her mind. She should have another one, soon, she decided. This time with even more pizzas, even more toppings. And maybe fifty different kinds of milkshake. She closed her eyes briefly, recalling with pleasure how full she felt at the end of that day.
That reminded her. Breakfast! She was dying to try a brand-new cereal line -- the sugar-coated pieces were shaped like pop stars' heads, and she'd bought a packet of Elvis Presley. Eating Elvis, she decided, was probably going to be the day's highlight. But maturity told her that pleasure tasted even sweeter if it was approached through a little delay and anticipation.
So first she tripped off to the bathroom. The water jets cascaded down, the fog of moisture almost obliterating the Donald Duck shower tiles that Christina was beginning to wonder if she shouldn't replace.
As usual she started singing:
“Bop, bop, lollipop,” she crooned. It was a song from her new album, just recorded: even after all the grueling days nailing the takes in the studio, she could still sing for pleasure. She was that kind of girl.
“I'm gonna lick my lollipop!” She was onto the second verse now, soaping herself in her customary fashion, over the shoulders, down the arms, across the breasts, gently, gently. “I'm gonna lick -- ”
Suddenly the song and her soaping stopped. She had reached her stomach. It felt, she thought, a little different -- slightly softer than usual. She parked the soap in the soapdish and with both hands free began touching her body around her belly-button. No, it wasn't her imagination. Her belly was definitely softer.
“That's curious,” she said. Picking up the soap, she continued her journey downwards, soaping up more slowly as before. Over her thighs, she thought she felt a little more “give” in them than before; not quite so hard to the touch.
“Odd,” she murmured. Pocketing the thought just for the moment, she continued her ablutions. The song came rushing back into her throat. The water played over her body, washing away the suds. Tossing her head, she moved on to her hair and the shampoo. Christina loved to be clean.
The shower over, she began to towel herself dry, usually something she did without thinking. But today, like the soaping, she approached the process more deliberately, testing her body, its texture and contours, with each pat and rub. The more she probed with her towel, the more she sensed there was a little more flesh than usual to move about.
“Have I put on a little weight?” she wondered. She didn't know whether this was good or bad; all she knew was that when she touched her body, especially round her middle, she was experiencing something new.
To dry her legs properly she needed to balance herself on the bathroom stool. With an outstretched hand she felt the circumference of one her thighs. Definitely a little bigger, she decided. It was then, sitting down, that she noticed her stomach -- always so trim and flat before, but now with sufficient flesh to form itself into a roll across the waist. There was enough fat for her to squeeze. She squeezed it. She prodded it with a finger. On her face was an expression of awe and wonder, as though she were looking at the eighth wonder of the world.
“My God,” she cried, “where did this little stomach come from?”
It didn't stop her enjoying her day. Elvis, she found, was delicious.
****
The next few weeks passed in a blur. This was the calm before the storm, which would hit with tropical force when the promotion for her new album, “Christina: It's Your Planet”, began. Then she'd be working round the clock. For the moment she told everyone she was “chilling out”: This was Christina-speak for lounging around at home in her favorite attire -- t-shirt and men's briefs -- watching afternoon soaps, with a little something, maybe McNuggets, by her side.
At other times she went shopping, or painted her fingernails green. Some work crept in here and there -- schedules to OK, songs to try out for future use, like “Leelah, Have Some Tequila.” The song wasn't in her usual style; learning it was difficult. But there was nothing like a fast food fix to soothe and replenish.
For awhile, as the days went on, she continued to notice the little swell on her stomach, but the novelty eventually wore off and it largely passed from her mind. If she thought of it at all, it was as a new fact of life, nothing to bother about, even a vague source of delight. Kind of cute, wasn't it, her tummy?
But nothing lasts forever. The lull stopped. The storm arrived, the first sign being an abrupt summons to the rehearsal and recording of a TV spot. Her entourage came bright and early in a white stretch limo to whisk her off, along with the clothes she wanted to wear - cream patent leather trousers (always her “lucky” pants), a black belt with studs, a pink crop-top. Sweeping along the backstage corridor, she greeted her music director with a kiss and a hug.
“You're looking radiant!” he said, hands round her waist. “Ready for work?”
“You bet!”
“Mm,” he said to himself as they went their ways, “I think Christina's gained a little weight!”
First things first. Alone in her dressing room, Christina fetched out her favorite Barney dinosaur and propped it up at the foot of the mirror -- the purple soft toy travelled everywhere with her, offering emotional support. Then she turned to her performance clothes. She eased herself into her patent leather pants, not worn for months. Before they had always buttoned at the top with ease; now, she discovered, the recent softening of her waist had made that close to impossible. She prodded the fat on her tummy, hanging slightly over the waistband.
“Oops!” she said.
She reached immediately for her mobile phone, in the shape of a Coke bottle, and called for Donna -- stylist, seamstress, all-round aide de camp. Within twenty seconds, Donna was at her employer's side.
“Hiya, Christina,” she said, “how you doing?”
Suddenly, the surreptitious pleasure Christina had felt sensing her body soften and grow vanished. She felt embarrassed. Vagueness, she decided, was the best policy. “There seems to be a problem with these pants! And they used to be such a good fit.”
She stood looking down at the problem area, thumbs tucked into the pants' waistband.
Donna immediately noticed the layer of fat on her stomach and the hint of love handles aorund the sides. She had a reputation for calling a spade a spade, but the mother instinct kicked in, and she decided not to be brutal. “Maybe they've shrunk, honey. Or it could be that you've put on a few pounds. It happens.”
“Actually,” said Christina, deciding to risk it, “I have noticed I'm a little bit rounder down there. But I'm eating the same as usual. It's odd!”
Donna smiled sympathetically, and took a closer look at the songbird. It wasn't just her waist, she now realized. Christina had also filled out a little in her face; and did her upper arms have that well-rounded look before? She thought not. But she kept her observations to herself. “Well, let's see if we can make an adjustment.”
“Thanks, Donna. You know these are my lucky pants!” As Christina bent to pull them down over her thighs, her midriff flesh started to bulge.
“My, my,” Donna thought, “little Christina is putting on weight!”
Something, she decided, would have to be said, and said out loud. She ventured forth. “It could be your metabolism. It always slows down with age.”
“Metabolism? What does that mean?”
Donna was mystified. Shouldn't her biology teacher have told her this? Or her mother? Doesn't this girl know anything? “It affects the rate at which you burn up calories. When you get older the rate slows down.”
Looking at her figure again, she estimated that Christina had probably gained about ten pounds.
Christina looked baffled. Grasping this was almost as difficult as learning “Leelah, Have Some Tequila”.
“You mean,” she said, glancing down at her tummy, “if I just keep on eating the amount I normally eat I will now keep putting on weight?”
“Well, not necessarily, but there could be a tendency.”
“And there's nothing I could do about it?” Her eyes were widening at the thought. She felt like an astronaut taking the first steps on the moon. This was a whole new world. No-one had told her about this. Barney certainly hadn't.
“Wow!” she said. She had brief visions of her body expanding before her eyes, popping the buttons off blouses. “And it's natural? A natural process?”
“Entirely natural. God's gift to women.” Donna smiled -- she was a woman of some substance herself -- and busied herself inspecting the pants' seams, trying to estimate how much extra material she could find. “You like carrying a few more pounds, then?”
By now Christina's embarrassment was tapering off. She felt Donna was a friend.
“Well, it still feels a bit strange, or it did. I've always been so slim. But it's OK, isn't it? It makes me more of a woman -- doesn't it?” She looked at Donna with spaniel eyes, begging for approval.
Donna nodded. “It certainly does.”
After looking at her figure again, and then at the seams, she sighed.
“Honey,” she said, “you don't have any other lucky pants, do you?”
***
The storm continued. After the album came Christina's new single, “Jack, the Toast Is Burning!” and, right alongside, the new music video: one followed the other as night follows day. At times like these she felt like a puppet, performing to order, singing, dancing, posing for publicity shots, always some new demand on her energy and time. At the end of each day she'd be exhilarated but drained, and ready for all the delights her fridge could offer. And then, immediately after, bed: every drop of sleep was needed to fuel her up for the next 24 hours.
Donna's needle and thread had worked what wonders they could, but by now the cream pants were unofficially retired, replaced in Christina's affections by a new purchase in midnight blue, scattered with sequins. These lucky pants were a size larger. The fit was snug, snugger than she had been accustomed to, but there was a certain thrill, she found, in moving about in tight clothes.
Accustomed by now to her softened tummy, she scarcely noticed as it grew softer still, building into a sweet swathe of fat filling out her midriff. Unconsciously, she'd fallen into the habit of wearing pants low on the hips to allow her belly more freedom to move. There were other new habits, all signs of someone carrying more weight than before.
Her stomach became a magnet, drawing her hands constantly towards it. Sometimes they patted it, sometimes they traced the outline as she concluded a meal or finished putting on her clothes; sometimes they fingered it absently as she tugged down a t-shirt. Was she reassuring herself that the tummy was still there? Was she hoping she'd find it bigger, or smaller? Christina was the last person to know, yet by feeling her stomach she seemed reassured of something.
Word by now was leaking out that Christina was no longer quite the stick insect of the past. Comments about her extra pounds appeared on website chatrooms and shrines, tummy sightings tabulated. Remarks were couched with some surprise and an occasional juvenile burst of scorn, but the general mood was calm acceptance that here was someone adjusted enough to let her appetite and body take her wherever they chose. And besides, didn't each pound make her more beautiful?
If only Christina's video director Herk Herkowitz thought that way. Christina liked performing for the camera. There was no stage fright to worry about; so long as she had the choreography memorized, she could sink herself into doing what she liked best, gyrating, pouting, acting cute, acting sexy, and setting the mike on fire with her voice.
She'd come to the session wearing her new lucky pants and a skimpy top colored like blueberry yogurt. Rehearsing and recording had taken a morning's work. Now, for her it was time for lunch; for award-winning Herk Herkowitz, the first chance to check the results.
Pretty good, he thought as the images sped by. Pretty damn good, in fact. But then something bothered him. He pressed the pause button and peered.
“What the hell is that?” he cried. “Jeez!”
The small audience of assistants and Christina's manager, Mitch Mitchelson, produced a sound like the rustling of leaves.
“I think it's Christina's stomach, Herk,” the first assistant ventured.
“I know it's that, but where did it come from? She's bulging like a balloon! .”
The freeze frame had caught a midriff close-up, the bared fat clearly hanging over her pants in a roll, the belly-button sunk an inch inside soft, golden flesh. “What's she been doing this year, camping out at Wendy's?”
Mitch felt he had to mount a defense. “It's just puppy fat, Herk. Don't worry about it.”
“That's not puppy fat! That's fat fat. There's a difference.” He pressed the pause button again and the video resumed. Christina gyrated:
“Toast, the toast, get the toast!” The backing group jiggled from side to side. Christina, caught half in profile, began leaning forward.
“There it is again! Crap. I thought she looked rounder when she got here for rehearsal, but I never thought it would show like that. Look, the fat's bouncing! She's really putting on weight!”
Once again Mitch went up to bat. “It's an age thing, Herk. Metabolism. Don't be hard on the girl.”
“I wouldn't have shot so many damn close-ups if I'd known they would come out like this. Mitch, you've got to have a word with her. I'm not sure if I can let this go.”
The video was running on.
“And my love's a-burning too,” Christina sang.
“And hey,” said Herk, “look, there's a double chin!”
“OK, OK, I'll have a word. Maybe she could curb her appetite a bit.”
“Yeah,” Herk sneered, “have a word right now, before she eats lunch.”
It was too late. Christina had ordered. She'd passed on the catered lunch -- she always did. Lentil soup, spinach ravioli and roasted vegetables just didn't cut it for her. When Mitch entered her inner sanctum at the studio, her special menu was spread out before her. Triple burger with cheese. French fries. And an extra large vanilla milkshake. Mitch's eyes widened.
Christina beamed. She liked Mitch.
“Hi, how's the video looking? Thought it went well.” She took a big bite of her burger.
Mitch seemed uneasy. “It looks great. We're very happy with it.”
“That's good!” She scooped up some chips. “Excuse me for eating, I'm really hungry.”
“The thing is, though, Christina, I don't like to say this, but -- ”. He started to shift uneasily in his shoes. “I don't know if you realize, but you've gained a bit of weight, and in some shots the director thinks it doesn't look very good.”
Christina felt herself coloring. No-one had told her she'd put on weight to her face before, and she found it embarrassing. She bristled in self-defense. “I can't suddenly get thinner for a retake, Mitch. I know I've gained a little this year, but it's my metabolism. I can't do anything about it. It's just my body growing older.”
Mitch's eyes roamed over the feast before her, and began to take in the extra weight in Christina's face, her breasts' new tendency to loom large, and the tummy fat spilling out over pants which -- he noticed with a shudder -- had the top button undone. “Sure. I know. But it might help, Christina, if you didn't eat so much fast food.”
A chip with ketchup was poised to enter her mouth. “But I've always eaten fast food. It's my favorite cuisine!”
“I know. But it's starting to make you chubby. You have to think of your fans! That's all I'll say for now.” He edged towards the door to leave, hoping he hadn't been too blunt.
He cleared his throat and waved a hand: “Well, enjoy your meal!”
Alone, Christine finished the burger, chewing more slowly than before. She felt disoriented. Asking her to cut down on fast food, she felt, was like asking her to stop breathing air. And he'd said she was chubby.
“Am I chubby?” she thought as she sucked on the milkshake straw. “Am I really chubby?”
Putting the milkshake down, she took both hands to her midriff and began to squeeze it, feeling the fat, soft and yielding, between her fingers. Then she ran a hand over the curve of her stomach towards her right hip where the bulge of a love handle lay in wait just above the hip bone. She took the other hand and ran towards her left hip. There was another love handle there. Before, she'd thought of the weight she'd put on as a natural phenomenon, something that made her look more womanly, more sexy. The fact that it might ever be seen as just fat, and something bothersome, hadn't occurred to her.
There was a full-length mirror in the dressing-room, a little cracked at the top corner -- the result, people said, of a missile thrown by Mariah Carey during the airing of artistic differences. Christina took a good look at herself. Having her pants undone didn't look good, she spotted that; so she breathed in and fixed the top button. The pants felt tight, but she reasoned this was only to be expected, as she'd just eaten. Above the pants she pressed into her midriff fat. Not too much, was there?
Then she turned herself to the side to check her profile. She knew her lower belly curved out now, but she found that appealing. Grown people have curves, don't they? And she had a curve! She was less convinced by the way the pants visibly dug into her flesh at the top. Maybe she'd put on more weight than she'd thought. Wasn't this metabolism thing something!
Then she turned to her chest. Another curve there, under her pink top. Her breasts, obviously, had grown bigger. They had a bounce they'd never had before; her bras always felt tight, and there was flesh oozing out around the straps.
“No longer a little girl, am I?” she murmured with pride as she hefted them gently in each hand. She took a deep breath, thrusting them even further outwards, feeling the strain on her brassiere even more. “Maybe it's time for a bigger cup size.”
All in all, Christina thought she looked pretty good. Rounder, definitely, and much softer in the middle. But did this make her chubby? Was that what she was? And what was the difference between being chubby and being fat?
As she swept the debris from her meal into the wastebin, she decided she'd look up “chubby” in the dictionary the moment she got home.
