How To Eat Your Heart: Part 2

CONTENT WARNINGS

Disordered Eating

Negative Self Body Talk

Use of the word fat as a negative descriptor (towards the main character)

Disordered relationship with exercise

Binge eating

Talk of weight loss and the desire to lose weight

Descriptions of bodies in relation to size

I finish my day at three o’ clock, pulling up under the carport of my tiny ranch style home.  I’m sweaty as a motherfucker, but, damn, it feels good to be home so early.

A few years ago, when I hit thirty, I entered into crisis mode.  I was miserable at a desk job at a consulting firm, counting down the nano-seconds until the end of every long, drawn out, mind numbing day.  I used to fidget with the itchy collars and hems of my gray and taupe Banana Republic business casual.  I wanted to die.  Felt almost like I had no will left to live.  Ate nothing but Snickers and pink Starbursts out of the top drawer of my desk for weeks on end.  Drank coffee just to feel alive.

My therapist was rightfully concerned.  She diagnosed me with adult ADHD, depression, and anxiety.  She asked me if there was anything else I could do for a living. 

A memory, from when I was a kid, of my apricot colored Cockapoo Princess washed over me.  It was the only thing that stuck in my head at the time. 

Dog walking?  Is that such a crazy idea?  Well, why not?  I needed to get out more; I have always been a homebody with a penchant for, staying still, shall we say.  And the idea of exercising for a living was intoxicating.  No more belly flab! I pondered with glee.

Also, it would give me an excuse to hang around with some cute animals.  At my desk, I was already spending obsessive hours scouring dog rescue sites, reading sad biographies of old, family pets discarded and tossed away into lonely, doggy jail cells.  Families who didn’t want their dogs who were too slow to housetrain or growled at the five year old.  Tears burned the corners of my eyes for them.

So, dog walking!  Why not?  And besides, I could finally, praise the lord, FINALLY make time for my precious, precious, sure to be ground breaking, sure to be perfectly inspired writing. Or, at least, this was the story I told myself.  It’s okay to blow through your savings while building a carefree dog walking business, as long as you’re following your dreams too, right?

Right?

And thus, Good Intentions Dog Walking was born.  And here I am, five years later, thousands of dogs in and exactly zero words down.

My phone vibrates steadily in my fanny pack as I make my way into my house.  Gremlin greets me at the door, and I am reminded, with the wispy touch of a dog's nose, that I don’t have to be alone tonight.  Twenty pounds of comfort.  Thank God.

I glance at the screen of my phone as I strip down for the shower, leaving a trail of bug spray drenched workout clothes in my wake.  There are seven messages from a number I’ve never seen before.

Hey April, this is Jason Saison.  I’m returning early from Paris to take care of Gremlin.  Can you send me your address?   Trying for the earliest flight out of here.

Hi April, Jason Saison again.  Do you think you could text me back soon? I just want to make sure you’ve gotten this message before I hop on a plane. 

Hello April, Jason Saison here.  Sorry to keep bothering you, I know you have your hands full during the day, but could you please text me back ASAP?  I’m worried sick about Gremlin and am heading to the airport now.  

I scroll past the other messages absently while flipping on the handle of the shower, testing the temperature with my free hand.

Hmmm…wonder what’s got him rushing home?

No matter how much I wish Gremlin could stay, I know it isn’t fair to keep Jason waiting for my response while his eldery dog is sick.  I tap the text box, typing out my address for him but the moisture on my fingers makes my screen go wonky again.  Goddammit, I finish out my address but then the wet screen fritzes, open my front facing camera.  I wipe the screen with my hand, but it only rubs the water around making it wetter and less manageable. 

Click, before I know it, I’ve snapped a picture squarely of my naked tits.

Oh fuck, talk about dangerous scenarios.  

Wouldn’t it be such a mortifying experience to accidentally send an almost stranger who you only know in a professional capacity a naked picture of your anatomy?  I mean, I have to admit, it ain’t a bad picture, especially not bad for an accidental, but could you even imagine the embarrassment?

My heart flutters in terror at the thought as I work in haste to delete the picture out of the text box.  But... before the Good Lord Above can stop it, I’ve tapped the tiny, blue send arrow instead of the neighboring tiny red delete x on the corner of my picture.

I suck in a sharp breath as I watch the picture materialize on the other side of the chat screen, delivered, and I almost drop like a bag of bricks, dizzy with the realization of what I’ve just done.

To review: I’ve effectively sexted my out of the country, enfianced, lawyer-client who is likely in a state of great distress worrying over his sick family pet, a picture of my absolutely bare naked tits in the shower for no reason at all with my home address typed out on the top.

I almost throw my phone, would have welcomed the sound of it shattering if it could undo what I’ve just done.  Instead, I gently place it on the padded rug outside the shower curtain before letting my body hulk back against the wet tile of the shower, the stream of warm water plastering my dirty hair across my face.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

I gulp in the hot air around me.

Fuuuck, fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck, fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.  FUCK!

Okay.

I straighten myself out.  I’m a grown woman.  I own my own business.  Lots of people have boobs.  And lots of people send pictures of said boobs.  I’m not the first person ever in the annals of text message history to send a picture of boobs to the wrong person.

I hold onto these platitudes as I step out of the shower, sure to dry off my hands and arms before facing my phone screen again.

What to say...what to say.

Sorry, that was meant for someone else.  

I send it.  Then I quickly type some more.

But the address is right.

Then I type again.

I’ll be here tonight if you need me.

Oh shit, that sounds sexual.  I type again.

I mean, Gremlin will be here.  You can come

Shit! I sent it too soon.  I tap to finish.

You can come get it at any time.

REALLY autocorrect, is that how you’re going to play me?

HIM! You can come get HIM at any time.

I let out a breath.  That wasn’t what one might describe as a ‘save’.   I gotta get this phone the hell away from me!

And that, my fine friends, is how you turn an average, normal, totally inoffensive kind of day into an absolute fucking treacherous shit show.  It’s as easy as the tap of a screen and a pic of your tits.

It’s at this very moment when typing bubbles appear below my messages; it feels like they percolate for eternity.  I go still as a mouse when the words appear.  

Show me your face.

I stare at the screen, jaw hanging.

And I don’t know what it is, if it’s the fact that I know Jason looks like a 1980s James Spader bad boy understudy or if its because I’m all hot and bothered from the tumultuous run in with the hot veterinarian this morning or if it’s that I’m already naked and wet from the shower anyway or maybe because I have absolutely nothing better to do with my time than snap a selfie...but, for whatever reason, I feel half way tempted to do it.

I need some sense talked into me.  I screenshot the whole damned thing to Aisha.  She’ll get me good and right.  Bubbles pop up under the message I’ve sent her.  She sends two words back:

Do it.

I type frantically.

Are you for real???

Why not? He’s fine af.  It’s not like you have to marry the guy.  Fill ‘er up, April! You live in a rut! 

I know she’s right about the last part, but this is spectacularly unprofessional not to mention insanely risky advice. 

On the other hand, we’ve already gone this far down the path...

And I am...in what some might refer to as a very...very...very long dry spell.

I find myself running back to the shower, shaking hands squirt shampoo onto my scalp, rubbing like I’m trying to start a fire on my head.  I condition, soap up, rinse off, and whip open the shower curtain with a flourish, preparing to face my face with my own face.

I brush out my long hair, ripping at it with too much force.  I need to chill, but I don’t want to think too much and lose my momentum.  Once I’m done, I mess around with it, attempting to achieve that sexy just out of the shower look.

What am I talking about, I am just out of the shower.

And then....and then…

I just do it.  I wrap myself up tight in a white towel, hold the phone up to the mirror in front of me and boom goes the dynamite, snap the damned thing.  It’s as good a selfie as I’ve ever taken.

I send it to him with baited breath then lock my screen in alarm.

When it vibrates in my hand, I click it back on, and lower my eyes in slow motion.

There’s a picture of Jason in a hotel bathroom, entire chiseled torso on display, white towel slung around his hips, hip dips directing my eyes to look in all the wrong (right?) places if the picture weren’t cut off just a touch below the waistline of the towel.  His hair is wet too, dark and thick, combed back against his head but wavy and a little unruly.  His face is clean shaven.

Now we’re even.  It reads beneath the photo.

Damn.  My insides flutter.

And then I remember with a rush: Jill.  How could I have forgotten about Jill?  Brain damage?  Temporary amnesia?  Stupidity?

Or maybe, I just wanted to forget about her.  Shame washes over me. 

Not cool, April.  Not cool.

I force myself to message him, trying not to ogle his picture like a neanderthal.

OH GOD THIS WAS SO WRONG.  I truly, really, honestly did not mean to send that first picture. The second picture I have no excuse for. I respect your relationship with Jill.  I shouldn’t have engaged, this is on me.

Not entirely true...it’s on him too...but I’m the professional here, and my guilt overwhelms me.

A reply comes in a flash:

Jill and I broke up and that’s why I’m coming back early.  Guess I might be acting a little out of character too.  Look, I’ll consider it forgotten if you can.  Hope I haven’t crossed a line.  I’m really not that kind of guy, I’m just going through it right now. I’ll be by to get Gremlin as soon as I can make it back to the states.

They broke up?  Why do I even care?  Am I disappointed?  Relieved?  I stand there for a few minutes doing absolutely nothing but staring at my screen like an utter dummy when one more message arrives.  

If it’s okay to say so, you’re gorgeous, by the way.  How have we never met before?

It takes every cell of willpower inside of me not to respond.

I need a fucking donut.