I walk into the living room and pull at the short orange skirt barely covering my bum. Unfortunately, as I tug at it, the orange fabric around my cleavage drops lower and more of me spills out for everyone to see. I blow out a breath. My mom is five foot three and still as thin as a toothpick. Leah takes after her. Apparently, when she bought this outfit she forgot I’m not built like them.
I somehow picked up all the curves that my mom and sister never acquired and plastered them onto my hips and my chest. I’ve had double-Ds since I was twelve. And unlike popular opinion that big breasts are great, all they’ve done for me is give me back aches, make it hard to run, and cause men to speak to my boobs instead of my face.
I wrap an arm over my chest and take little mincing steps into the living room so that the skirt doesn’t ride too high.
The party is in full swing. Holiday jazz music plays over the stereo system. There are at least three dozen neighbors, friends, and relatives milling in the living room, dining room and adjoining family room. The white carpet is covered in plastic runners and the furniture has clear plastic wrap over it. My mom covers everything in plastic for the party, so every wine, barbecue, or processed cheese spill can be wiped up and away. The plastic scent lingers for weeks and is a reminder of a party well hosted. In fact, the plastic scent is one of my first childhood memories. That, and Josh Lewenthal’s kiss. Speaking of…
I look around for Josh but don’t see him in the crowd. No problem. I’ll grab some wine and wieners and work my way through the rooms.
I inch to the buffet table and try to scoop some wieners onto a paper plate. It’s awkward since I’m still using one hand to keep my breasts inside my orange top, but I manage. I grab some red wine and take a long gulp.
My mom swans over. Her face is flushed and she gives me a wide, encouraging smile. “Gemma. Sweetie. You look beautiful.” She’s talking in an overly loud fake voice which makes me realize that she’s actually talking for someone else’s benefit.
I look to the man she’s pulling along. He’s at least two inches shorter than me, his toupee is like a bright yellow scouring pad, and the buttons on his silk shirt are stretched tight over his sagging waist.
“This is Mort, he recently moved to town from Arizona. He manages golf courses,” my mom says triumphantly. She turns and smiles at him. “Mort, this is my daughter Gemma.”
The wine that I just swallowed goes to my head and I flush from my cheeks down to my chest.
“Enchanté,” Mort says in a fake French accent. He looks down at my chest and doesn’t look back up.
“Oh dear. The pimento olives on toothpicks have run low. I’ll just grab more,” my mom says. She scuttles off to the kitchen.
I clear my throat awkwardly. Mort still doesn’t look up. I try to cover more of my chest with the plate full of wieners. It doesn’t really work.
“So. How are you enjoying the party?” I ask awkwardly.
Mort shoves a pickle in his mouth and manages to mumble around his crunching. “Mm. S’okay. Food’s decent, heh?”
I take another swallow of wine and desperately glance around the room. There’s my sister rushing after a seemingly hyper Maemie and Mary. Sorry, sis. My dad is on the other end of the room talking with Father Gibbly, the local priest. My dad sees me looking, catches who I’m talking to, and gives me a sympathetic wince.
“Are you ready for the resolution roundup?” I ask. I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel for a topic of conversation so I can escape quickly and tell my mom I did my due diligence with her set-up.
The resolution roundup is at the end of the party where everyone writes their New Year’s resolutions on a piece of paper, folds them up and anonymously puts them in a bowl. Then my dad reads them all aloud. It usually gets some good laughs, but other years it results in marriage proposals or baby announcements. So. It’s kind of a big deal.
I inch away from the table and move a step back from Mort. I continue, “I was thinking of writing something safe like, exercise more, lose weight, or cut down on drinking, you know? The usual.”
Mort looks at the near-empty glass of wine in my hand and at the pile of mini wieners on my plate. “Heh. I read it takes two weeks to fail at resolutions, not one day, heh? Some kind of record.” He chuckles at his joke.
Oh. The flush on my chest deepens. I remember what my mom said. No one wants a desperate, chubby divorcee.
“Right. Well, I am exceptional in every way.” I let out a small laugh, so I don’t feel like an utter twit.