Читать книгу The Whitney Chronicles - Judy Baer - Страница 8

September 14

spin•ster: 1. A woman who spins. Alfred the Great in his will, called the female part of his family the spindle side. In Saxon times, it was believed that a woman wasn’t ready to marry until she’d spun her own table, bed and body linens. Any maiden or any unmarried woman was considered a spinner, or spinster. 2. An unmarried woman; an old maid.

My name is Whitney Blake and not only is today my birthday, but it’s also the day I outgrew my fat pants. My friend Kim Easton told me the most depressing day of her life was the day she realized she’d outgrown her maternity clothes and she wasn’t even pregnant. I feel her pain.

Kim told me—and she had it from a good source, Oprah, maybe—that keeping a journal is an important part of knowing oneself. She says it will be especially good for me because, at thirty, I’m unmarried and currently stuck somewhere between death and puberty. It is also proof that I’m actually learning and maturing over the course of my life. I’m starting my journal today because I need proof that by this time next year I’ll have learned or accomplished something. My goal is not to be a useless leech on the crust of the earth.

Turning the big three-oh was more of a shock than I’d expected. Last year I was in total denial about the inevitability of this birthday. I didn’t reach a single goal I’d set for myself. “Lose ten pounds” turned into “lose fifteen.” “Exercise daily” became “exercise monthly.” And “meet a nice Christian man” should have been “meet a breathing one.”

Kim gave me this journal as a birthday gift. She had the words The Whitney Chronicles printed in gold on the cover. She hopes that will intimidate me into using it.

Well, here goes.

Goals for my thirtieth year:

Today: Begin a journal in which I will give a daily account of my life and how I am improving mentally, spiritually and physically and progressing toward my year-end goals. (That’s pompous-sounding… Oh, well.)

This week: Give check to children’s ministry so as not to be tempted to spend it like I did last month. (Note—give double this month.) Wax my legs. Bleach my teeth. Floss daily. Return black blouse (unneeded, as I already have three). Put myself on a budget. Follow it for a change. Be the perfect employee no matter what my boss, Harry, throws at me. Continue practice of adding words to my vocabulary, e.g., “spinster.”

My mother is sure that if I don’t get in gear soon, I’m in dire jeopardy of becoming one. Although I’m not worried about spending the rest of my life making tablecloths and bedding, I don’t want to end up alone in a high-rise condominium brushing a crotchety Pekinese and wondering if, when my Prince Charming does come, I’ll be able to find my bifocals and upper plate.

This month: Lose six…no, four…no, two…no, four…okay, five pounds sensibly. Then, in three months, I can wear all the clothes in my closet again. Exercise. Do not let my mother drive me crazy (a particularly difficult project). Get organized. Start by cleaning closets. Quit falling for every organizing gadget on the market. No more hanging shoe racks, drawer dividers or file cabinets. And, under no circumstances, another set of plastic drawers on wheels. Have friends over for dinner. Read my Bible more. Pray more, obsess less.

This year: Lose fifteen pounds, make a career step (preferably upward). Learn how to change a tire. Find a new hairstyle. Quit thinking of self as chubby. Become less of a couch potato and more of a social butterfly. Give up being an introvert. Become a raging extrovert. Meet and date a nice Christian man….

Clarification! Meet but do not date a nice Christian man—I do not need a man to make my life complete or to feel whole. Besides, Kim says diffidence is the best way to catch a guy anyway.

And, like my monthly goal, ditto on Bible reading and prayer.

This decade: See above, plus get married, have a baby and/or become a marketing consultant genius and get rich and famous. (If so, I can always marry after.) It might be fun to be a philanthropist instead of a parent for a few years. Besides, I am in no rush to meet a man (note yearly goals).

I weighed myself this morning and couldn’t believe what I saw—even when I stood on the scale with my palms on the bathroom counter. Unless I learn to levitate, it is very clear that I have to go on a diet. I’ve heard the body clings harder to excess weight the older one gets. I just didn’t think it would cling so hard so fast….

Anyway, I was already late for work by the time I discovered the waist-expansion issue (my euphemism for disgusting fat). Although being marketing coordinator at Innova Computer Solutions—ICS—allows me to dress casually, I doubt belly bloat oozing out of my zipper is allowed.

Rather than search my closet for a larger pair of pants (impossible anyway, because I refuse to buy a pair), I hooked the waistband together by looping a ponytail holder through the buttonhole and stretching it over the button (a trick I learned from Kim in the early days of her pregnancy). With a long shirt, tails out, and a jacket, I hoped no one would notice the bulge. I did, however, suddenly begin to wonder about the quality of the rubber used in hair bands. A few deep knee bends loosened the fabric, which had obviously shrunk in the wash, and I was on my way. I spent most of the day treading the fine line between mandatory shallow breathing and hyperventilation.

If only solving problems at work (work—is there a way to indicate a shudder on paper?) were so easy!

My boss, Harry Harrison, went mental on us today. He discovered an upcoming trade show at which it was imperative that Innova be represented with a booth and marketing people. Unfortunately the show is next week, and I usually need a lead time of two months to prepare. Harry didn’t seem to care that he was the one who forgot to inform the marketing department of this vital trade show. Harry is a computer genius, but not the most organized man in the world. Frustrated, too, probably. I’d hate to be a balding man named Harry Harrison. But I digress….

The good news at work today was that I calculated that banging one’s head against a wall uses at least 125 calories an hour. That meant I earned 500 extra calories for my birthday dinner.

In spite of my newfound caloric knowledge, I had to go to my parents’ house for dinner. Mother’s pork chops and onion gravy should be applied directly to my thighs, because that where they’ll end up anyway. The mashed potatoes with a life raft of butter floating in the center settled directly on the flubber keeping my pants open. (I’m going to write a thank-you note to the rubber-band manufacturer tomorrow.) And the minimal calories in the “I-realize-angel-food-cake-isn’t-your-favorite-but-I-know-you-are-dieting” birthday cake balanced the mounds of whipping cream covering it.

Mother, at a hundred and one pounds and a metabolism that won’t quit, has never gotten the hang of dieting. A cruel trick of nature if ever there was one. No matter how thin I am, at five-eight, with broad shoulders, a potentially slim waist and size nine shoes, I’m always referred to in the family as “the big one.” It’s a wonder I’m as sane as I am.

I knew it was going to be a bad evening when Mom opened the door with her shirttails tied in a knot over her belly button and a tiny battery-operated fan in her hand. It wouldn’t be so traumatic if menopause had crept up on her slowly, so Dad and I could grow accustomed to it over time. Instead, it was like a door flying open and quickly slamming shut—one moment she was on one side of the door and the next she was on the other. If she’d had a choice, she would have picked the prize behind any other door. She has a good attitude toward this new phase of her life, however. She says the hair on her legs grows much more slowly now, and she doesn’t have to shave so often.

“Come in, darling,” she said, scraping damp hair away from her forehead. “Daddy is in the kitchen opening the windows. How can you stand to have those heavy clothes on in this weather?” She reached for my lightweight sweater, but I crossed my arms and hung on. The air conditioner was running full blast.

“Hi, Pumpkin.” Daddy crossed the room to give me a hug. No matter how old I get, I’ll always be his little girl.

“How are you?”

“Getting along, despite the fact my back has started going out more than I do.”

“Quit with the old-age jokes, Frank. You’re in the prime of life!” Mom gave him a glare that should have melted steel.

Daddy winked at me and headed for the table. He was, as he always said, “being a duck.” That’s how he and Mom had managed to be married all these years and still be happy. When I was growing up, every time my feelings were hurt, he’d tell me, “Be a duck, Whitney, let it roll off you like water rolls off a duck’s back. Ducks have oil in their top feathers that keeps their under-feathers dry. You need to grow a few oily feathers. Don’t let mean words or insensitive comments make you uncomfortable. Let them roll right off.”

If I ever marry, I think that’s one piece of advice that will come in very handy.

“Tell me, Whitney, have you heard from that nice young man from church?” Mother asked as she held an ice cube to her temple and stirred the gravy. It had a quarter-inch of shimmering grease on top.

That “nice young man” is forty-five if he’s a day and very adept at evading eligible single women and their matchmaking mothers. If the church had a football team, he would be their halfback.

I performed my own punt, pass and kick maneuvers. “Cake looks great, Mom. So, Dad, how about those Vikings?”

My mother has a knack for entertaining. She once took a class on twenty ways to fold a napkin, and we’ve never had a flat napkin since. Tonight they were shaped into little hats with “Happy Birthday” stickers all over them. She’d made a centerpiece of chopsticks, ribbons and cutouts from egg cartons that looked amazingly like a bouquet of balloons. She uses her “good” china for every meal. My “good” china consisted of a collection of Rainbow Bright glasses and the wicker holders for paper plates.

We sat down at the table and began the same conversation we’ve had every year since I quit having little friends over to play on my birthday. It involves Mother recounting the entire day of my birth, from the saga of when her water broke, through the race to the hospital during which Dad’s car ran out of gas, right into the delivery room. These stories give me far more details than I ever wanted to know. I am deliriously grateful that Dad did not have the presence of mind to bring a video camera into the delivery room.

Then, as is their custom, they wandered into their own childhoods and reminisced about wax lips, Black Jack gum, drive-in movies and sodas that came in glass bottles. Sooner or later they would remember whose birthday it was and start regaling me with stories of my own life—usually the ones I’ve tried for years to forget. Like the time I wet my pants in Sunday school and tried to sneak the damply incriminating evidence home wrapped in a picture I’d colored of David and Goliath. Or the time I “borrowed” a trinket from the drugstore without paying for it and Mom made me take it back and apologize. And the Sunday school Christmas program when, in a fit of shyness, I tried to hide and got my head stuck between the spindles on the altar railing, bottom out toward the congregation. My only consolation is that I had ruffles on my panties.

My presents—always an exercise in surprise—were quite nice this year. I got a savings bond from Grandma (who hasn’t really accepted that I’m no longer in grade school), a new outfit from Mom and the traditional money folded in a card identical to the one I get every year. Mom purchased the box of cards several years ago when the local band was trying to earn enough money to go to Epcot Center. She says the cards are too ugly to give to anyone except family. No exercise equipment this year (apparently she’d found the Thighmaster I’d received for my twenty-eighth birthday unused in my garage). And thankfully there were no books by Martha Stewart on how to plan a wedding or notes indicating Mom would be willing to pay for a preliminary visit to a dating service and their introductory offer promising five dates or my money back.

I escaped with my birthday gifts in tow and more advice about how to meet a “nice single Christian man.” In my life experience—at least lately, “nice single Christian man” is an oxymoron. I don’t want to be cynical, but things are beginning to look bleak. Maybe God doesn’t have someone ready for me yet. Or perhaps I’m not ready for him. Even though I trust things will turn out right, Mother feels that I’m duty-bound to do my part in the search.

Unfortunately, she’s willing to help me. Tonight’s Bible verse:

The Lord doesn’t make decisions the way you do! People judge by outward appearance, but the Lord looks at a person’s thoughts and intentions.

—1 Samuel 16:7

And Samuel should know, being a prophet who wanted to keep his heart pure before God. God loves me for what’s inside me. I must organize my thoughts as well as my life, set my priorities and always put Him first. If our thoughts and intentions were as visible to others as our designer jeans, what would people see in me?

Must add kindly thoughts and good deeds to my goals ASAP.

September 15

blame•storm•ing: My officemates sitting in the coffee room discussing what’s going on in the office and whose fault it is.

Day two of diet. Felt as though small animals were clawing at my insides. Two slices of dry toast and an apple helped somewhat. Must make a note to myself never to drink coffee on an empty stomach again. Good thing I had Bible study after work. It’s something to look forward to while Harry has a nervous breakdown. The trouble is, he’s a carrier, the Typhoid Mary of insanity. When he’s cracking, it spreads through the office like wildfire.

The office manager, Betty Nobel, has worked at Innova since its inception seven years ago. She’s practically attached to Harry at the hip, and whatever he feels, she feels. That must be like riding a broken roller coaster in the carnival fun house in the dark after eating junk food all day. Wretched.

The amazing part is that she’s often more unreasonable than Harry. Betty’s the one who came up with the latest guidelines for employee absences. As far as Kim and I can figure out, we’re not allowed to go to any family member’s funeral except our own, and that, of course, with several weeks’ notice so Betty and Harry can hire a replacement and we can train them ourselves. My assistant, Bryan Kellund, once brought in an emergency-room bill to prove he’d really been ill. Betty didn’t buy that either. She said if he’d gotten as far as the hospital, the office was only a couple more blocks away, and if he’d really cared about his work…

Just thinking about office politics made me want to eat my lunch early—a nice tuna salad with low-fat mayo on endive and bibb lettuce. Also some insignificant hard candies and a few M&M’s I discovered under the tissue box in my top drawer. Must work on problematic issue of depending on food to comfort me—tomorrow.

Fortunately my friend and co-worker in marketing is always calm. When things get hairy (because of Harry?), Kim does the deep-breathing technique she learned in Lamaze class before she delivered her baby last year. We’re usually hyperventilating by the time Harry’s crisis is over.

Example: I turned in the cost estimates for new marketing materials that Harry had asked to see. I was hoping to have it ready for our next show, which would be in Lost Wages…er, Las Vegas. It even surprised me a little. I’d expected double the estimate on our old booth, but apparently paper, cardboard and pressed-wood prices are volatile, and it was nearly triple the original bid. When Harry came to me with that irate grizzly-bear expression on his face, cracking his (hairy!) knuckles, I knew I had a problem. Actually, knuckle cracking is just that—a bubble of gas bursting. And Harry was a whole bunch of gas about to blow up. Nasty.

I managed to circumvent the problem for the moment, but I was about to explode by the time he returned to his own office. Fortunately, I discovered the rest of my M&M’s—a two-pound bag, wedged at the back of my office drawer. Devouring it took the edge off my nerves.

Bryan has the best crisis-management solution. He simply leaves for the rest room at the first sign of trouble and doesn’t return until it’s over. He either has great hearing or an amazing sixth sense. I’ve also speculated about the seemingly minimal capacity of his bladder. Bryan is allergic to conflict and can smell it coming a mile away. I’m convinced he knows how to dematerialize and turn up again in the spot farthest from the action. He even has an ethereal look about him with his mushroom-colored hair, pale, pasty complexion and enormous gray eyes that never look straight at me.

Mitzi, who has no known use at all in the office as far as Kim and I can figure out, delights in conflict. It stirs up her juices. It also gives her something to do—rile Harry so he’ll explode. Usually when Mitzi opens her mouth, it’s to change feet. Mitzi came to work at Innova to see how the “other half” lives. Her husband is a very wealthy podiatrist. She says he owes it all to strapless high heels. I think flat, sensible Birkenstocks make him a little nervous. Mitzi could stay home and count her glass slippers, but no, she comes in every day—sometimes early—just to torment us.

One of her most evil schemes involves chocolate. Mitzi is the only woman I’ve ever met who doesn’t like chocolate. Therefore, she brings chocolate delicacies to the office at least three times a week just to see Kim and me salivate. Kim’s still trying to get rid of baby weight. I’m trying to prevent having someone ask me when my baby is due.

Today it was éclairs with frosting a half-inch thick. Be still, my heart.

Kim’s one-year-old, Wesley, got a new tooth today, a molar. You’d have thought he’d erupted an oil well in his mouth, the way she carried on. Other than her blow-by-blow reporting of Wesley’s every grin, burp and bowel movement, Kim is a great friend—the best, actually. We have the same rather skewed sense of humor and similar goals—getting a raise, for one. She doesn’t need a husband because she already has one—and a nice Christian one at that. Kurt is an over-the-road semitruck driver/late-in-life student who wants to be either an accountant or a pastor, no matter what it takes. Those two professions don’t seem to have much in common, but I know for sure he’d be a very trustworthy accountant. Right now, between classes and over-the-roaders, he’s fully occupied.

Kim’s also a Christian. That makes all the difference.

Mitzi was lying in wait for me as I left the office. She always does that on Tuesdays, when she knows I leave promptly at five. Otherwise she’s gone so fast that her desk chair is still spinning when we hear the door slam.

“There are sooo many éclairs left that you’ll have to take them home.” She waved the open box holding five fat beauties, chocolate frosting glistening. Like she’d ever offer me anything useful, like help around the office. Oh, no, Mitzi was only generous when it served her depraved purposes, one of which is to make me weigh more than she does.

“Thanks a lot, but I’m on a diet.”

“No wonder there were so many left today. Then take them for your neighbors. You do have neighbors, don’t you?” She smiled sweetly.

“Thankfully, yes. They did not all move away when they discovered I was living nearby.” Sarcasm is wasted on Mitzi, but it made me feel better. What on earth goes through that perfectly groomed brunette head of hers?

“Well, I’m sure they’ll love these.” Somehow she managed to transport the box into my hands, pick up her purse and escape before I could argue. At least I’d have goodies to share at Bible study.

As so often happens on the freeway, the drive to the church brought up the subject of Christian ethics. I’m a Christian. What does that mean in my everyday life? If I believe it, I have to live it. Every choice I make, every word I speak, needs to be done through that filter of faith. So here’s my question. What is it with rude drivers?

As I left the parking lot, a woman shot up behind me and stuck the nose of her SUV into my back bumper. Even though the street was practically empty, she followed me as closely as she could without driving into my trunk.

I’m a fanatic about being polite in traffic. It seems to me that’s where most people lose track of walking the Christian walk—or, in this case, driving the Christian drive. I’m no saint, but I usually don’t expose my sinful nature when I’m driving two tons of rolling metal.

Anyway, this woman (definitely not a “lady”) honked at me when I didn’t turn fast enough for her. She had her nose in the air as she sailed around me without even a wave. I had several uncharitable thoughts but guiltily dropped back as if I’d been the one speeding and followed her to…the church parking lot.

Now, what I want to know is this—if you profess to be a Christian, if you want to let God’s light shine through you—where do you get off being rude behind the wheel? Isn’t part of the Christian life about behaving as Christ would behave? Would He have run the light, tailgated until the person ahead of Him was a wreck, honked His horn and broken the speed limit—all to get to Bible study on time?

I don’t think so.

I’m going to buy a bumper sticker I saw last week for my rear bumper: Are You Following Jesus This Closely?

That’s one thing I’ve learned since I found God and He found me. It’s easy to talk Christianity, but not so easy to walk it. Fortunately, I lost track of Ms. Speedy in the church. By the time Bible study was over, I even felt like praying for her. (“Oh, Lord, keep that nutcase off the streets….” Just kidding!!!)

Ironically, I know lots of people who will spend hours at the gym so they can live longer—and then drive thirty miles an hour over the speed limit to make up for all the time they wasted doing it.

Thoughtlessly, I ate one of the éclairs to soothe my nerves.

I had four calls on my answering machine when I got home. Three from my mother—“Whitney, you forgot the dishrags I knitted for you out of scrap yarn.” (Now how did that happen?) “Whitney, do you want me to invite that nice young man from church and his mother over for dinner?” (As if she could even catch him!) And, “Whitney, I don’t know where my mind is these days. I’m so forgetful. Did I tell you that you forgot your dishrags at my house?”

Menopause can be brutal. I know now why women over fifty shouldn’t have babies. They’d lay them down and forget where they put them.

The fourth call was from Eric Van Horne. He’s a very special man in my life. We’ve been friends for years, and I don’t know if a more good-natured man exists. We dated for a while, and I really thought Eric might be the one for me. He’s brilliant, but impulsive and completely undependable. I spent many nights wondering if he had actually asked me out and, if so, where was he? I knew from the outset that no matter whom Eric dated, she’d have to agree to take second place to his love for airplanes. News of an air show in a neighboring state would drive everything else from his mind. He’d jump into his car, sniff the air and head in the direction of jet fuel. And on Monday he’d remember we’d had plans for the weekend.

Ardor fades quickly after sitting by the phone for a few weeks waiting for a call. Actually, we came to the decision together that until either I learned to love madcap spontaneity or he learned to be dependable and predictable, we’d just be friends. So far we’ve managed to navigate the bumpy waters of remaining friends and seeing each other socially.

“Hi, Whit! Sorry I didn’t call sooner. Wanted to tell you about the great air show I attended. You should see my photos!”

“I don’t know if I can stand being dumped for a crop duster again, Eric.”

“What a kidder you are, Whit. I took a picture of a woman and the plane she uses for acrobatics. She reminded me of you.”

“At least you thought of me.” I can’t be too hard on him. Eric is darling, but has what Kim calls “zero mac.” He enjoys life too much to be cool and is way too exuberant to be macho.

Actually, that may be his best quality.

The Bible verse that comes to mind when I think of Eric is Proverbs 18:24: “Some friends may ruin you. But a real friend will be more loyal than a brother.”

Mitzi may be in the first category. Kim and Eric are in the second. While Mitzi spends the day making snide remarks about my age (as if she’ll ever see thirty-five again!), Eric called a second time to apologize for standing me up. He says he just “lost track of time.”

Somehow, I believe him. I’ve known from the start that Eric has the attention span of a flea, a heart of gold and a bloodhound’s nose for airplanes, and I wasn’t going to change him no matter what I did. I’ve never gone into a relationship with that rehab-attitude. I take a guy for what he is, not for what I think he could become.

Eric is actually a much better friend than he is a date. A girl could get old waiting around for a guy like him.

I was too exhausted to cook supper, so I just heated a family-size ready-made lasagna in the oven. It was so big, I figured it would last me for days. Tasty, too. Then I started thinking about work. Ate a little more lasagna. As I put away the pan, I realized I’d eaten quite a little more. Now there’s just one measly portion left for lunch tomorrow.

Tomorrow! I’ll restart my diet, seriously this time. I’ll count calories. To make sure I didn’t forget, I dug out my old calorie counter from previous diets.

I can’t believe a measly portion of lasagna has 230 calories. That would mean the rest of my frozen dinner would have…1840 calories! Feeling a little sick, but driven to find out exactly what kind of havoc I’d wreaked, I did today’s math.

Breakfast:	two slices dry toast—140 calories 1 apple—81 calories
Lunch:	tuna salad with low-fat mayo on bibb and endive lettuce—150 calories 6 hard candies—125 calories 1 ounce M&M’s—140 calories
Snack:	other 31 ounces of M&M’s—4,340 calories
Accident:	1 éclair—500 calories
Dinner:	7 portions of an 8-portion heat-and-serve lasagna—1840 calories
Snack:	Tums—0 calories (medicinal, don’t count)

Seven thousand three hundred and sixteen calories?

I have to stay calm. Running screaming into the street would not help. I ran by it again…. I’m on a 1200-calorie-a-day diet; 7316 divided by 1200 equals…six days. That means I can’t eat again until September 21!

Stay calm. Start over. Tomorrow will be a clean slate. I’ll utilize all I’ve learned so that I don’t make those mistakes again. Can rubber bands stretch enough to compensate for today?

My prayers for tonight: For a successful trip to Las Vegas, for my boss and officemates (as undeserving as they may be—just kidding!), Mom’s hot flashes, Dad’s sanity, Eric’s memory and my life as a thirty-something. Where do You want me in this new decade of my life, Lord? And gratitude—for all of the above and for Your Son, Who loved me more than I can ever imagine.

Humbly,

Whitney