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.