I am not the weight on my driver’s license. The thing is, when I got my driver’s license, I wasn’t that weight either. I had postponed the whole name-change ordeal until I was about fairly pregnant-looking and the Korean woman at the Department of Licensing shot me a very obvious furrowed-brow of doubt when I instructed her what digits to type.
“But I’m pregnant!” I pleaded, rubbing my belly and giving the international sign for pregnancy. “I used to be that weight and I won’t be at this weight forever!”
When I got my temporary license, I realized the woman tacked on five pounds to the number specified. What a skank.
I was at my skinniest about three years ago when I worked front desk at a gym. (Note: I went to work in space pants. Why space pants? Because my ass was out of this world! HA! Hook, line, and you know the rest.) I flew home to Saipan during that time and people gasped at my weight loss as if they had witnessed Chriss Angel’s Mindfreak levitation. And when they would remark at how skinny I had become, my mom would chime in with, “She works at a gym!” and the naysayers would reply, “Oh…that’s why.”
That was probably the most irritating part–their demeaning conclusion that I had dropped the pounds because I was around machines and treadmills and not that I had put any real effort into it. I battled the urge to shake them and say, “No, that’s not why. The elliptical trainer is why and the Lean Cusines are why and my fear of developing type 2 diabetes and having my right leg amputated and going to rosaries in a wheel chair and being nicknamed ‘Wheels’ for the rest of my life is why.”
I have about ten pairs of Express jeans sitting in my closet, mocking me from the dusty shelves. They stare at me collectively, like the Ghost of Asses Past.
I hope my son has my brain and not my metabolism.