Part V: Snakes – Lady Troddenhill #2 (Chapter 98)

 

I’m 50 years, two months, and 20 days old today.

Perhaps that’s why I’m so morose. I should feel warm and happy – my husband, after all, has just blasted me into orbit – but I’m tired and worn, like an old woman whose trip to the doctor requires a three-hour nap afterward.

The leap from 50 to old age doesn’t seem so far – a tiny step into Elderland – not the chasm it seemed just one year ago.

Forty-nine still felt okay, but 50 is undeniable.

The epilogue grows shorter every minute. Soon enough, I will experience that awful, sinking feeling when my life will be measured in months, days, minutes, seconds.

Of course, one never knows when Death will come sneaking into the bedroom to snatch away life.



It happened to Jessica Smithers, just 47, last month.

Dropped dead of a heart attack. Can you imagine that? A skinny 47-year-old woman who goes from absolute vitality to stone-slab dead within seconds.

Three years younger than me.

Is that even possible?

God, I hear echoes of Nana’s voice, and it’s no longer just in my head.

Her voice begins in the pit of my stomach and bursts out of my mouth. My Nana’s voice superimposed on my 50-year-old voice, an old cranky voice who obsesses about its mortality, whines about aches and pains.



I swore this would never happen to me, but it’s happening, and I’m powerless to stop my body rot from spreading, like a cancer.

I weighed myself last week.

Well, the nurse at the doctor’s office weighed me – I had no choice but to step onto the scale and listen for its groan of protest.

I swore I wouldn’t look at the number, and I didn’t, but the nurse muttered “225” as she entered the number into my record.



225.

God, no matter how I look at that number, I can’t fathom it; that can’t be my body tipping the scale like that.

It must be another body, Mrs. Niles reincarnated into my 225-pound body and going up, up, up, the same 500-pound lady who had been buried in the piano crate way back when I was still groping for my voice.

Samantha Anne Mallory, don’t expect any sympathy or respect from a society that places so much emphasis on thinness, youth, and vitality.

People who haven’t seen me in quite a while are shocked when they run into me.



They don’t say anything, but I can read the cues.

First, the slightly raised brow, then the subtle shudder.

Maybe they’ll stumble around a bit, trying to find a positive spin or even just a neutral comment.

Make small talk.

Avoid eye contact.

Talk about the weather – anything but what’s really on their minds:

God, what happened? How did you get so fat? How can you live with yourself like that?

You know they’re dying to know the whole story.

You just want to blurt out,

“Yeah, I’m fat, I’ve gained weight, I eat like a horse, I sit around on my ass, and my exercise program consists of frequent treks to the refrigerator, so what’s it to you?”

But you don’t.

You bite your lip, pretend you’re in a hurry, which you are, in a hurry to escape the scrutiny of the thin or even of the not-so-fat who are obviously relieved that at least they’re thinner than you, so you say, “Look, I gotta dash, gotta run,” which is not quite accurate because you’re not about to run or dash much of anywhere these days.

You lumber off, feeling their eyes burning into the back of your caboose, chugging away.



You hear their voices all too clearly:

God, Donna, guess who I saw today? You wouldn’t believe how huge Sam is! How could she let herself go that way? I’d rather die than be that fat...

They’ll need a derrick to carry you around, and when you die, they’ll have to find a piano crate...

I’m 275 pounds from being buried in a piano crate.

Five hundred pounds doesn’t seem all that unreachable.


Copyright Notice

Unless otherwise specified, all works posted on The Fat Lady Sings are © 1991 - present, by Jennifer Semple Siegel, the author, webmaster, and owner of TheFatLadySings.comMost of the art artwork has been AI generated specifically for The Fat Lady Sings. Occasionally, combinations (layering) of two or more AI generations have been created for special effects. The prompts used for AI are generic and avoid referring to specific artists, dead or alive. Her works may not be reprinted or reposted without her express permission.

Privacy Notice

Although TheFatLadySings.com does not use third-party ads, this privacy notice is included so that visitors can make informed decisions regarding their internet privacy. Third-party advertisers serve ads when you visit some websites, and these companies may use information (not including your name, address, email address, or telephone number) about your visits to this and other websites in order to provide advertisements about goods and services of interest to you. If you would like more information about this practice and to know your choices about not having such information used by these companies, click here.