I once dated a pathological liar and for years after we broke up, I was pissed at the time I wasted with a guy who claimed to be a quasi-famous Northwest artist, a college graduate and also promised me a website (which never came into fruition). But maybe I should have focused my energies on learning about lying instead of wishing I had burned his Magic the Gathering card collection.
I have never been a good liar. When I do try to embellish or fabricate scenes to make myself look fabulous, the words feel heavy in my mouth, like I’m spitting out marbles. Yesterday at the gym, Nathan and I were in the women’s locker room. We had finished our swimming for the day. The very svelte brunette next to me had an infant carrier at her feet, her baby girl nestled inside.
“Oh you have a new baby!” I said. Any baby who can still fit into an infant carrier and is not an seasoned 27-lb enormity like Nathan is to me still new.
“Yeah…” her voice trailed off. “She’s four months now.”
“Four months?” This woman looked like she could be my “after” picture. Her legs were so small, in my “Mona was such a fatty” campaign, I’d imagine she would stand in my jeans, her whole body fitting into one of my pant legs and she’d stretch the blanket of denim out to her right.
“You look great!” I added.
“Yeah, it’s really hard to lose weight.”
“You’re telling me.” She didn’t have to tell me really. I was still standing in my one-piece Costco bathing suit, my flubs weren’t exactly incognito.
“It’s especially hard when you have two kids. I have another girl at home.” She then looked at Nathan and said, “Do you only have one?”
And this was the moment I should have used the year with Mr. Pants on Fire to generate something other than, “Yeah, he’s my only one.” After she left, all the right answers came to mind like, “Yeah, but he was 27 pounds when he was born,” or “No, I have six more at home.” Because I tell you, I have an okay body for the mother of one, but a banging set of legs for a mother of seven.