Big Beautiful Dreamer
ridiculously contented
~BBW, ~BHM, ~~WG - A loving boyfriend makes a deal with his self-concious girlfriend.
PART ONE
Megan and I met in a bookstore. Not an online dating service, not a sports bar, not an uptown young singles group mixer, a bookstore which tells you a lot. Our relationship took off slowly very slowly for Meg was breathtakingly intelligent, dryly funny, and deeply compassionate, but all her attributes (of which those were just a few) did not imbue her with any sense of self-worth, possibly because at 5 foot zip Meg also carried close to two hundred and fifty pounds.
I thought her impossibly beautiful. I loved the cheerful bounty of her full face, those rich dark eyebrows arched above sparkling green eyes nestled in little cushions of alabaster flesh; the full, soft cheeks that flushed rose whenever she laughed, which was often she was easily delighted and took great pleasure in losing herself in helpless merriment the pert nose breaking the crest of her face; the soft, full lips pressed invitingly into the swell of that tempting hammock of her double chin, spilling down to soft creamy shoulders, irresistibly squeezable shoulders and arms, her embrace pillowy, dovelike, coming home, softening my own intractable knobbles and sinew.
I loved her generously flowing bosom, wrapped teasingly in drapes of crimson, azure, gold, the cream-spill of flesh pointing toward the delights she concealed within. I loved to embrace her from behind and nuzzle and fondle the rolls of her belly, fold upon fold draping ever so gently onto her substantial hips, her generously cushioned backside, the plump hearts-curve of thigh and calf.
I thought her the most beautiful thing I had ever seen anywhere, anytime, but Meg disparaged her looks offhandedly, almost reflexively, and over time I had given up my attempts to reassure her, because she deflected them deftly and with a hint of regret. So it was something of a surprise when one evening she was leaning against me on the sofa and quietly started to cry. I started up in surprise at the feel of something dampening my chest.
Megan! What in the world, I said, staring at her with concern. This was really unlike her.
I dont want you to leave me. Um, what?
Im not going to, I said helplessly.
But you have to, she wailed. Was I missing a couple of pages of the script? Had I gone to the bathroom and missed a crucial plot twist?
Meg. Sweetness. Youre not talking sense.
Sniffling, Meg fumbled upright so she could look at me. She shifted a quarter turn, as did I, and we were facing each other. The look on her damp face was heartbreaking.
I dont think Ill ever be able to be thin, she snuffled. And look at you, youre slender and handsome, you deserve a wife as beautiful as you are. Were both nearing 30 and its time you were married ... I need to let you go so you can find a wife.
I stared at her open-mouthed. The words seemed to be in English but were not making any sense.
Im not slender or handsome, I spluttered. Im bony and plain-looking. And as for beauty, youre the most beautiful woman I have ever encountered, as I have told you over and over again. Even if I were ... handsome ... youre more than my match in looks. I would never marry anyone if I couldnt marry you.
I wouldnt have called that a proposal all I was trying to do was scramble out of the sudden hole that Id found myself in but then Megan was in my arms.
Do you really?
Uh, do I really what? I said, absently stroking her thick dark hair.
Do you really want to marry me?
I took a deep breath. I do. In saying those words I found them to be true. Gently I pushed her off me so I could look her in the eye. Will you?
Then her mouth, her gorgeously soft lips, quivered again and her double chin started to tremble. I cant.
A dull throbbing started up in my left temple. Were all women like this? Well, why not? I asked, trying hard not to sound exasperated.
I cant get thin. A fat bride is embarrassing with a thin groom.
I tried to follow the convolutions of her logic. So a lusciously bounteous bride with a ... a fat groom, that would be okay.
Yes. Sniffle.
I was groping blindly in this tunnel, I was whacked upside the head, I had no idea which end was up. Um, shall I get fat? I thought it a lame proposition, almost as lame as the proposal I had apparently just made, but Megs eyes widened as though the thought had blossomed in the evening air as radiant and rare as a night-blooming cereus.
Then she wrinkled her face into a pout. Joseph, you cant. Look at you. All elbows and knees, right? And those rugby muscles.
I cant, you wont let me, or I cant, Im incapable?
You cant, youre incapable, Meg replied crisply. Even apparently falling apart, she was still relentlessly quick on the uptake. She stood now, smoothed out her rumpled blue tunic, and rested her hands on her head, appraising me.
I dont think your waist has ever seen any larger than a size 30 jeans, she said thoughtfully. I mean, youve never even had a belly to speak of.
My temples were starting to throb again. I would follow Megan anywhere she wanted to go, but this way lay madness. Madness it would be, then, if it meant keeping my love.
I stood and embraced her, nuzzling her hair, feeling my large hands enfold the softness of her torso. We can certainly try. Okay? To my horror, I heard in my tone the voice used to calm lunatics. Soft, soothing, non-threatening. We can try, I repeated. I felt her nod against my shoulder.
All that had transpired the night before. Now I awoke, blinking drowsily, into Saturday morning wondering if Id been dreaming. A cool dent on the other side of the bed ... enticing scents coming from the kitchen ...
Megan padded in carrying a tray heaped with breakfast, enough for four or five people.
Good morning, Sweet Joe, she sang. Sweet Joe for my sweet Joe. I groggily took a swallow of the coffee and choked. It was heavily laced with sugar and cream.
Black coffee does not contribute to avoirdupois, Meg said suggestively.
Oh yeah. That. I took another slug, grimacing. I supposed I could get used to it. Meg perched in the deep velvet-upholstered club chair by the bed, having grabbed a large red apple from the tray.
Eat, eat, she said, making me smile.
Meg ... you really want me to ...
Not fat, she said judiciously. But a little meat on you, for heavens sake.
Half awake, I obediently tucked into sausage, fried bread, pancakes, strawberries, an apple, biscuits and jelly. By the time Id finally emptied the tray, despite Megan helping herself, it was nearly eleven oclock and I was groaningly stuffed. Meg lifted the tray and revealed my aching belly full to bursting, churning with digestive efforts and visibly bulging above my boxers. I laid a hand on it, wincing at its taut distention, and grunted, which turned into a jaw-cracking yawn.
Time for a nap, Megan announced.
Nap! Meg, I never even got up, I pointed out.
Well, lie back and help me with the crossword.
Lie back sounded awfully tempting. My gorged and bloated stomach weighed so heavily at the moment I wasnt altogether sure I could get up even if I really wanted to. I laid back on the pillows. By fourteen across, I was dozing.
I finally rose, stiff and stupid from too much sleep, and shuffled into the kitchen. Meg fed me two huge bowls of a thick creamy chowder and half a dozen large cheddar biscuits, then turned on the ball game. I had no idea if she watched it or not. All I watched was the insides of my eyelids. The last thing I needed was more rest, but after that stopper of a lunch, my eyes closed of their own accord, my brain shutting down so that all auxiliary power could be shuttled to the stomach, where a Defcon 1-level digestion was in progress.
By the time I roused, it was midafternoon and the dog was whining for a walk. Meg and I pulled ourselves together and leashed up Frankie, our mild-tempered golden retriever, for a stroll around the block. The way the neighborhood was laid out, going around the block constituted a one-mile lap, which I sorely needed. By the time we finished, Megan was visibly perspiring, which made her even prettier, and I was puffing. Being on the rugby team in college had translated to weekly pickup games post-college, but since tearing a knee ligament a year ago, lately it had translated to watching the games and cheering my buddies on. I worked out, but that hilly mile, at Frankies enthusiastic pace, had left me a little short of breath.
I flopped down on the sofa and heard Megan turn on the shower. What a terrific idea. I waited till she had her eyes closed and her back to the doorway of the shower before stepping in. Bingo. She jumped, squealed, flailed wetly against me so that I got clean almost by osmosis.
The shower went on for so long that we started to run out of hot water. I let Meg get out and dry off while I belatedly soaped myself, then padded to the kitchen wearing a T-shirt and jeans, my dark flop of hair still damp. Megan stood by the stove in a tank top, an unbuttoned bigshirt and cotton yoga pants, stirring a pan of gravy. A pot roast sat on the cutting board ready for slicing, the carrots, potatoes and onions having been offloaded into a bowl. Oh. So thats what shed been doing while I napped. I sliced the roast and Megan put on a big-band CD and poured iced tea for us.
My lips twitched as I heaped my plate. Im not going to be skinny for long, you keep feeding me like this.
She laughed. Is that an invitation or a challenge?
I dont know, I replied with my mouth full. You tell me.
She sobered and I saw her eyes glimmer with unshed tears. You dont really have to get fat, Joe. Its just ... I just...
Hey, I soothed. Ill try anything once. That brought a guaranteed smile, because it had been my accidental pickup line in the bookstore. We were browsing in Fiction and shed asked me did I like Faulkner. The answer got me a radiant smile the likes of which Id never seen; enchanted, Id invited its owner to coffee.
So here I was, shoveling in pot roast, and Megan fetching me a bowl of ice cream with chocolate syrup, my favorite.
Oof, Meg, slow down, I protested, raising my hands in surrender. Shed dished up four large scoops and poured what looked like half the bottle of chocolate syrup over it. I was already warmly full of pot roast and potatoes and carrots and crescent rolls, my overloaded stomach pushing at the waistband of my jeans, my sides heavy and aching.
Its ice cream, she replied, sitting down opposite me with her own bowl. Ice cream goes down easy.
She was right. I was stuffed to bursting, but each sweet, creamy mouthful, edged with the tang of chocolate, slid unprotestingly down my throat to coat my painfully stuffed tummy and send me into an overfed coma. Zoned out, I waddled from the table, sank onto the sofa, propped my feet up, watched 50 First Dates, let Meg nudge me to bed.
Sunday was much the same. A breakfast so huge and calorific that I nodded off during the sermon in church; a big Sunday dinner at Golden Corral, where by my own calculations I emptied five (count em) plates; nap; walk Frankie; then another huge Sunday dinner at home, roast chicken and stuffing, wild rice with carrots and asparagus tips; rolls; applesauce; and a moist apple cake a la mode for dessert. Considering Id already had one big Sunday dinner, I ate a disgraceful amount, and by the time I was spooning up apple cake Id had to undo my jeans.
Which factoid I showed Megan afterward. She squealed.
See? She was in my arms, her voice muffled, and I was finding myself severely aroused by the proximity to her inviting tummy, itself warmly full of dinner. As she pressed against me I could feel its taut distention meeting mine.
We let the cleanup wait a little.
Later, as we were drifting off to sleep, I thought to remind her that we both worked, and if she tried to feed me like that on weekdays, Id either fall asleep at the wheel and crash going to work, or Id fall asleep at my desk after lunch and get fired.
Dial back, I advised. At least a little, at least on weekdays.
Mmmm, was the response.
The next morning brought more coffee thick with cream and sugar, plus scrambled eggs, sausage and toast.
Meg, I protested. This is a lot more than I ever eat in the mornings.
You never eat breakfast, she pointed out. Which you should.
Ouch. I glanced at my watch and sat down with the sports section. To my surprise, with breakfast in my tummy, I had more energy and was in a better mood. Not that I would ever admit as much to Megan.
Instead of leaving half my lunch, the way Id tended to, I dutifully ate all of the pile of fries that came with my club sandwich, though it left me feeling logy and sated all afternoon. (Note to self: easy on the fried food.)
And Megan seemed to have somewhat heeded my plea to dial back on weekdays. She served up a plate of leftover roast, with new potatoes, baby carrots, and caramelized onions. Even if she did heap my plate. I cleaned it, and Megan brought out a reasonable slice of the apple cake, again a la mode. I was full, but the cake looked and smelled tempting. Shed warmed it, and the ice cream was melting, trickling down the moist sides and puddling on the dish. I dug in.
Afterward, though I was stuffed and drowsy, we walked Frankie. We forced her to a reasonable pace I really think I might have been sick if Id moved too fast and in spite of a few impressive belches, the movement aided my digestion somewhat.
I still thought Megans initial hysterics completely off base and wed discussed it, gradually, in small doses. Megan had calmed down, but her basic premise remained the same. It was high time that I found myself a wife, to which my response was that she was the one I wanted to marry. (She never framed it in terms of high time that she found herself a husband, but I strongly suspected ye olde biological clock had started ticking.) Nevertheless, she continued to insist, it would not do to have a fat bride and a thin groom. By age 27, Megan had been on every diet known to man and a few known only to Eurasian space monkeys, and it just wasnt going anywhere. Ergo, she said, if she couldnt get thin, I would have to fatten up.
Through all this, I continued my ground the repeating bass-clef motif that I loved her and found her beautiful not in spite of her figure, but in part because of her figure. I ramped up the size-specific compliments and degraded both the self-centered attitudes and figure faults of average women and expounded until I was taxing my vocabulary on how appealing was her soft deluxe chin, her rosy, round cheeks, her creamy shoulders and comfortably squashy arms, her hillocks of sweet bosom, her delectable cleavage, her inviting rolls of tummy, her bountiful hips and backside, the soft swell of thigh and calf concealing treasure therein.
And meant every word. I was decent-looking, employed, and with not too many deplorable habits and had consequently had girlfriends before having met Megan a year or so earlier. Mostly I had dated women who were at least a little padded, one or two deluxe size, but it was Megans roses-and-cream avoirdupois that stopped my heart in its tracks. You could have thrown Megan Fox, Charlize Theron, Jennifer Garner and Sandra Bullock at me one after the other, topping off with Carrie Underwood and Taylor Swift, and I would have yawned. None of those bony beauties held the least appeal for me. My favorite movie was Shallow Hal.
Megan, meanwhile, was battling more than 20 years of demons, the well-remembered taunts of grade school, the pranks of junior high and the subtle digs of high school, the solo loneliness of college and the quirks of adulthood wherein she was everyones good-time fat-people-are-jolly pal but no ones sweetheart. I was, she claimed, only her third boyfriend.
I found that hard to believe, since I loved her on so many levels, but the knowledge that both of us had had quirky romantic backgrounds was almost beside the point. We had found each other, and we loved each other, and slowly, slowly, perhaps my darling was beginning to allow to take root and flourish the idea that I truly found her lovely as she was.
In truth, I thought her weight might be creeping up a tad. She didnt eat as hugely as she was encouraging me to eat, but she did eat. She also did those Frankie walks with me, but as spring inched in and clothing got lighter and less layered, I thought I saw a trifle of beautiful uptick around her face, midsection, and backside.
Certainly there was more than a trifle of uptick in mine.
What I do for Love
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
PART ONE
Megan and I met in a bookstore. Not an online dating service, not a sports bar, not an uptown young singles group mixer, a bookstore which tells you a lot. Our relationship took off slowly very slowly for Meg was breathtakingly intelligent, dryly funny, and deeply compassionate, but all her attributes (of which those were just a few) did not imbue her with any sense of self-worth, possibly because at 5 foot zip Meg also carried close to two hundred and fifty pounds.
I thought her impossibly beautiful. I loved the cheerful bounty of her full face, those rich dark eyebrows arched above sparkling green eyes nestled in little cushions of alabaster flesh; the full, soft cheeks that flushed rose whenever she laughed, which was often she was easily delighted and took great pleasure in losing herself in helpless merriment the pert nose breaking the crest of her face; the soft, full lips pressed invitingly into the swell of that tempting hammock of her double chin, spilling down to soft creamy shoulders, irresistibly squeezable shoulders and arms, her embrace pillowy, dovelike, coming home, softening my own intractable knobbles and sinew.
I loved her generously flowing bosom, wrapped teasingly in drapes of crimson, azure, gold, the cream-spill of flesh pointing toward the delights she concealed within. I loved to embrace her from behind and nuzzle and fondle the rolls of her belly, fold upon fold draping ever so gently onto her substantial hips, her generously cushioned backside, the plump hearts-curve of thigh and calf.
I thought her the most beautiful thing I had ever seen anywhere, anytime, but Meg disparaged her looks offhandedly, almost reflexively, and over time I had given up my attempts to reassure her, because she deflected them deftly and with a hint of regret. So it was something of a surprise when one evening she was leaning against me on the sofa and quietly started to cry. I started up in surprise at the feel of something dampening my chest.
Megan! What in the world, I said, staring at her with concern. This was really unlike her.
I dont want you to leave me. Um, what?
Im not going to, I said helplessly.
But you have to, she wailed. Was I missing a couple of pages of the script? Had I gone to the bathroom and missed a crucial plot twist?
Meg. Sweetness. Youre not talking sense.
Sniffling, Meg fumbled upright so she could look at me. She shifted a quarter turn, as did I, and we were facing each other. The look on her damp face was heartbreaking.
I dont think Ill ever be able to be thin, she snuffled. And look at you, youre slender and handsome, you deserve a wife as beautiful as you are. Were both nearing 30 and its time you were married ... I need to let you go so you can find a wife.
I stared at her open-mouthed. The words seemed to be in English but were not making any sense.
Im not slender or handsome, I spluttered. Im bony and plain-looking. And as for beauty, youre the most beautiful woman I have ever encountered, as I have told you over and over again. Even if I were ... handsome ... youre more than my match in looks. I would never marry anyone if I couldnt marry you.
I wouldnt have called that a proposal all I was trying to do was scramble out of the sudden hole that Id found myself in but then Megan was in my arms.
Do you really?
Uh, do I really what? I said, absently stroking her thick dark hair.
Do you really want to marry me?
I took a deep breath. I do. In saying those words I found them to be true. Gently I pushed her off me so I could look her in the eye. Will you?
Then her mouth, her gorgeously soft lips, quivered again and her double chin started to tremble. I cant.
A dull throbbing started up in my left temple. Were all women like this? Well, why not? I asked, trying hard not to sound exasperated.
I cant get thin. A fat bride is embarrassing with a thin groom.
I tried to follow the convolutions of her logic. So a lusciously bounteous bride with a ... a fat groom, that would be okay.
Yes. Sniffle.
I was groping blindly in this tunnel, I was whacked upside the head, I had no idea which end was up. Um, shall I get fat? I thought it a lame proposition, almost as lame as the proposal I had apparently just made, but Megs eyes widened as though the thought had blossomed in the evening air as radiant and rare as a night-blooming cereus.
Then she wrinkled her face into a pout. Joseph, you cant. Look at you. All elbows and knees, right? And those rugby muscles.
I cant, you wont let me, or I cant, Im incapable?
You cant, youre incapable, Meg replied crisply. Even apparently falling apart, she was still relentlessly quick on the uptake. She stood now, smoothed out her rumpled blue tunic, and rested her hands on her head, appraising me.
I dont think your waist has ever seen any larger than a size 30 jeans, she said thoughtfully. I mean, youve never even had a belly to speak of.
My temples were starting to throb again. I would follow Megan anywhere she wanted to go, but this way lay madness. Madness it would be, then, if it meant keeping my love.
I stood and embraced her, nuzzling her hair, feeling my large hands enfold the softness of her torso. We can certainly try. Okay? To my horror, I heard in my tone the voice used to calm lunatics. Soft, soothing, non-threatening. We can try, I repeated. I felt her nod against my shoulder.
All that had transpired the night before. Now I awoke, blinking drowsily, into Saturday morning wondering if Id been dreaming. A cool dent on the other side of the bed ... enticing scents coming from the kitchen ...
Megan padded in carrying a tray heaped with breakfast, enough for four or five people.
Good morning, Sweet Joe, she sang. Sweet Joe for my sweet Joe. I groggily took a swallow of the coffee and choked. It was heavily laced with sugar and cream.
Black coffee does not contribute to avoirdupois, Meg said suggestively.
Oh yeah. That. I took another slug, grimacing. I supposed I could get used to it. Meg perched in the deep velvet-upholstered club chair by the bed, having grabbed a large red apple from the tray.
Eat, eat, she said, making me smile.
Meg ... you really want me to ...
Not fat, she said judiciously. But a little meat on you, for heavens sake.
Half awake, I obediently tucked into sausage, fried bread, pancakes, strawberries, an apple, biscuits and jelly. By the time Id finally emptied the tray, despite Megan helping herself, it was nearly eleven oclock and I was groaningly stuffed. Meg lifted the tray and revealed my aching belly full to bursting, churning with digestive efforts and visibly bulging above my boxers. I laid a hand on it, wincing at its taut distention, and grunted, which turned into a jaw-cracking yawn.
Time for a nap, Megan announced.
Nap! Meg, I never even got up, I pointed out.
Well, lie back and help me with the crossword.
Lie back sounded awfully tempting. My gorged and bloated stomach weighed so heavily at the moment I wasnt altogether sure I could get up even if I really wanted to. I laid back on the pillows. By fourteen across, I was dozing.
I finally rose, stiff and stupid from too much sleep, and shuffled into the kitchen. Meg fed me two huge bowls of a thick creamy chowder and half a dozen large cheddar biscuits, then turned on the ball game. I had no idea if she watched it or not. All I watched was the insides of my eyelids. The last thing I needed was more rest, but after that stopper of a lunch, my eyes closed of their own accord, my brain shutting down so that all auxiliary power could be shuttled to the stomach, where a Defcon 1-level digestion was in progress.
By the time I roused, it was midafternoon and the dog was whining for a walk. Meg and I pulled ourselves together and leashed up Frankie, our mild-tempered golden retriever, for a stroll around the block. The way the neighborhood was laid out, going around the block constituted a one-mile lap, which I sorely needed. By the time we finished, Megan was visibly perspiring, which made her even prettier, and I was puffing. Being on the rugby team in college had translated to weekly pickup games post-college, but since tearing a knee ligament a year ago, lately it had translated to watching the games and cheering my buddies on. I worked out, but that hilly mile, at Frankies enthusiastic pace, had left me a little short of breath.
I flopped down on the sofa and heard Megan turn on the shower. What a terrific idea. I waited till she had her eyes closed and her back to the doorway of the shower before stepping in. Bingo. She jumped, squealed, flailed wetly against me so that I got clean almost by osmosis.
The shower went on for so long that we started to run out of hot water. I let Meg get out and dry off while I belatedly soaped myself, then padded to the kitchen wearing a T-shirt and jeans, my dark flop of hair still damp. Megan stood by the stove in a tank top, an unbuttoned bigshirt and cotton yoga pants, stirring a pan of gravy. A pot roast sat on the cutting board ready for slicing, the carrots, potatoes and onions having been offloaded into a bowl. Oh. So thats what shed been doing while I napped. I sliced the roast and Megan put on a big-band CD and poured iced tea for us.
My lips twitched as I heaped my plate. Im not going to be skinny for long, you keep feeding me like this.
She laughed. Is that an invitation or a challenge?
I dont know, I replied with my mouth full. You tell me.
She sobered and I saw her eyes glimmer with unshed tears. You dont really have to get fat, Joe. Its just ... I just...
Hey, I soothed. Ill try anything once. That brought a guaranteed smile, because it had been my accidental pickup line in the bookstore. We were browsing in Fiction and shed asked me did I like Faulkner. The answer got me a radiant smile the likes of which Id never seen; enchanted, Id invited its owner to coffee.
So here I was, shoveling in pot roast, and Megan fetching me a bowl of ice cream with chocolate syrup, my favorite.
Oof, Meg, slow down, I protested, raising my hands in surrender. Shed dished up four large scoops and poured what looked like half the bottle of chocolate syrup over it. I was already warmly full of pot roast and potatoes and carrots and crescent rolls, my overloaded stomach pushing at the waistband of my jeans, my sides heavy and aching.
Its ice cream, she replied, sitting down opposite me with her own bowl. Ice cream goes down easy.
She was right. I was stuffed to bursting, but each sweet, creamy mouthful, edged with the tang of chocolate, slid unprotestingly down my throat to coat my painfully stuffed tummy and send me into an overfed coma. Zoned out, I waddled from the table, sank onto the sofa, propped my feet up, watched 50 First Dates, let Meg nudge me to bed.
Sunday was much the same. A breakfast so huge and calorific that I nodded off during the sermon in church; a big Sunday dinner at Golden Corral, where by my own calculations I emptied five (count em) plates; nap; walk Frankie; then another huge Sunday dinner at home, roast chicken and stuffing, wild rice with carrots and asparagus tips; rolls; applesauce; and a moist apple cake a la mode for dessert. Considering Id already had one big Sunday dinner, I ate a disgraceful amount, and by the time I was spooning up apple cake Id had to undo my jeans.
Which factoid I showed Megan afterward. She squealed.
See? She was in my arms, her voice muffled, and I was finding myself severely aroused by the proximity to her inviting tummy, itself warmly full of dinner. As she pressed against me I could feel its taut distention meeting mine.
We let the cleanup wait a little.
Later, as we were drifting off to sleep, I thought to remind her that we both worked, and if she tried to feed me like that on weekdays, Id either fall asleep at the wheel and crash going to work, or Id fall asleep at my desk after lunch and get fired.
Dial back, I advised. At least a little, at least on weekdays.
Mmmm, was the response.
The next morning brought more coffee thick with cream and sugar, plus scrambled eggs, sausage and toast.
Meg, I protested. This is a lot more than I ever eat in the mornings.
You never eat breakfast, she pointed out. Which you should.
Ouch. I glanced at my watch and sat down with the sports section. To my surprise, with breakfast in my tummy, I had more energy and was in a better mood. Not that I would ever admit as much to Megan.
Instead of leaving half my lunch, the way Id tended to, I dutifully ate all of the pile of fries that came with my club sandwich, though it left me feeling logy and sated all afternoon. (Note to self: easy on the fried food.)
And Megan seemed to have somewhat heeded my plea to dial back on weekdays. She served up a plate of leftover roast, with new potatoes, baby carrots, and caramelized onions. Even if she did heap my plate. I cleaned it, and Megan brought out a reasonable slice of the apple cake, again a la mode. I was full, but the cake looked and smelled tempting. Shed warmed it, and the ice cream was melting, trickling down the moist sides and puddling on the dish. I dug in.
Afterward, though I was stuffed and drowsy, we walked Frankie. We forced her to a reasonable pace I really think I might have been sick if Id moved too fast and in spite of a few impressive belches, the movement aided my digestion somewhat.
I still thought Megans initial hysterics completely off base and wed discussed it, gradually, in small doses. Megan had calmed down, but her basic premise remained the same. It was high time that I found myself a wife, to which my response was that she was the one I wanted to marry. (She never framed it in terms of high time that she found herself a husband, but I strongly suspected ye olde biological clock had started ticking.) Nevertheless, she continued to insist, it would not do to have a fat bride and a thin groom. By age 27, Megan had been on every diet known to man and a few known only to Eurasian space monkeys, and it just wasnt going anywhere. Ergo, she said, if she couldnt get thin, I would have to fatten up.
Through all this, I continued my ground the repeating bass-clef motif that I loved her and found her beautiful not in spite of her figure, but in part because of her figure. I ramped up the size-specific compliments and degraded both the self-centered attitudes and figure faults of average women and expounded until I was taxing my vocabulary on how appealing was her soft deluxe chin, her rosy, round cheeks, her creamy shoulders and comfortably squashy arms, her hillocks of sweet bosom, her delectable cleavage, her inviting rolls of tummy, her bountiful hips and backside, the soft swell of thigh and calf concealing treasure therein.
And meant every word. I was decent-looking, employed, and with not too many deplorable habits and had consequently had girlfriends before having met Megan a year or so earlier. Mostly I had dated women who were at least a little padded, one or two deluxe size, but it was Megans roses-and-cream avoirdupois that stopped my heart in its tracks. You could have thrown Megan Fox, Charlize Theron, Jennifer Garner and Sandra Bullock at me one after the other, topping off with Carrie Underwood and Taylor Swift, and I would have yawned. None of those bony beauties held the least appeal for me. My favorite movie was Shallow Hal.
Megan, meanwhile, was battling more than 20 years of demons, the well-remembered taunts of grade school, the pranks of junior high and the subtle digs of high school, the solo loneliness of college and the quirks of adulthood wherein she was everyones good-time fat-people-are-jolly pal but no ones sweetheart. I was, she claimed, only her third boyfriend.
I found that hard to believe, since I loved her on so many levels, but the knowledge that both of us had had quirky romantic backgrounds was almost beside the point. We had found each other, and we loved each other, and slowly, slowly, perhaps my darling was beginning to allow to take root and flourish the idea that I truly found her lovely as she was.
In truth, I thought her weight might be creeping up a tad. She didnt eat as hugely as she was encouraging me to eat, but she did eat. She also did those Frankie walks with me, but as spring inched in and clothing got lighter and less layered, I thought I saw a trifle of beautiful uptick around her face, midsection, and backside.
Certainly there was more than a trifle of uptick in mine.
