Issue #50  - May 2008

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From the Plus Side

with

Emily Smiltneck

     From the Plus side will be column dedicated to short stories that deal with all aspects of Plus size Life.  Emily Smiltneck was chosen for this position because of her dedication, and realistic writing style. She captures the emotional and mental rollercoaster those who are Plus Sized go through.

 

     Emily Susanne Smiltneck lives in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan (pretty much dead center in the middle of nowhere). She is a substitute teacher, and has recently started a tutoring business. Emily is currently working on several writing projects, including a historical fiction novel and several collections of poetry.

Emily Smiltneck receives recognition in Neighbors Daily Press - See article below

    

     It is a great joy when our fellow Plus Sized people receives recognition for their life's work.  Join me in this Joyous moment when one of our LargeInCharge writers is seen for her contribution and great dedication to her goals in life.  Click the images above to read the article about our dear Emily. When the page open click on the article to zoom in and read it.

"Invisible" The Holy Chronicles

by Emily Suzanne Smiltneck 

“Hey, wanna go to Marquette with me tonight?” she asks, over the phone.

            My first instinct is to decline, but I hesitate for some reason.  I know very well that “go to Marquette” is Holly-code for “go to Upfront & Company with me so I have someone to talk to when I’m not obscenely flirting with every man in sight, and so I have someone to drive me home when I’m so doped up on Vicodin and booze that I can hardly walk, much less drive.”

            I also know that Holly, at forty years old, is far beyond the age of such irresponsibility, and that she fully intends to leave her twelve-year-old daughter and her fourteen-year-old son to their own devices for at least the night, and possibly for the entire weekend.  And I know that Tom is probably sitting home alone right now, watching TV and trusting her when he has every reason not to.  But I do not decline.

            “Okay,” I say instead.

            I don’t know why I say okay.  I tell myself it is because I am afraid if I don’t go with her, she will drink too much, drive too fast, wind up dead.  But the truth is more than that, I think.  I, fat and overlooked and lonely and not at all wise to the ways of the world that exists in bars and clubs and bedrooms, crave excitement.  I am twenty-two years old and I feel like my life has not yet begun.  I crave late nights in smoky bars, house parties full of drunk people and fast music, early mornings on the beach watching the sunrise through an alcohol-induced haze.  I crave intimate conversations with, of all people, men!

            Holly, thin and fast and smooth and oozing sex, is my vehicle to that end.  I am using her just as much as she is using me, because she is somehow able to drag me out of myself and into her world, even if it is only as a casual observer.

            And so I dress my curves up as naked as I dare against the sultry AuTomt nighttime air and meet her at the coffee shop on Eighth and Main.  Tom, not home alone after all, is with her when she arrives, and I envision a repeat of nights out past, where he and I sit together at a table, nervously making small talk and pretending his girlfriend isn’t flittering around the bar and hitting on every other man in the place.  He doesn’t come with us, though.  Instead, he kisses her goodbye, thumps me on the shoulder, tells me to keep an eye on her, silently begs me not to let it happen again.  He watches through the window as we go outside and drive away in Holly’s car.

            Marquette is an hour away, but it’s worth it; we have to get out of town.  The smallness of our city is stifling us and we need excitement, new people, something new to look at.  This is what Holly tells me in a steady but rhythmless chatter that hardly lets me catch my breath as she drives, too fast, into the almost-sunset.  I think the real reason we are going to Marquette is that “we” have scared away most of the men in Escanaba with our desperate attempts to bed them so we can pretend that someone loves us (and by “we” I mean Holly, of course).  Whatever the reason, though, I don’t mind.  Marquette’s a little bigger, a little broader, a college town.  Maybe I will meet someone there who can ignore my fatness, discover my beauty, let me see, for just a moment, what it’s like to be Holly.  Without the pills and booze and immaturity, of course.

            When we get to Upfront, the streets are full of parked cars, taxis, beautiful people with sun-bronzed skin.  We are forced to park in the city parking lot two blocks away, at the bottom of a hill.  I am afraid that I won’t make it, walking up the hill.  I am not in good shape and I can’t walk as fast as Holly, and even if I do manage to keep up, I don’t want to walk into the bar all sweaty and red-faced and breathless.  But it’s okay, because I always forget that a steady diet of cheap beer and Vicodin, not to mention the beginning stages of anorexia, can take a toll on a person.  Holly is just as slow as I am in the damp heavy air.  I square my shoulders and stand tall, determined to appear as though I think I’m hot stuff, the sexiest woman around.  My tank top is cut low and tight, and if I can meet everyone’s eye, they might miss seeing the rest of me.  If all they notice is my chest and my eyes, I might be all right.

            There is a bouncer just inside the door.  He’s a big man, massive and muscled, but just a little soft, too.  And his eyes are sparkling even in the darkness of the crowded bar.  I don’t know exactly why, but I find myself smiling, pulling back my shoulders, thrusting out my chest.

            “Hey, there,” I say as I flash him my ID, hand him five bucks, and hold my hand out, palm down, to be marked so I’ll be allowed to order drinks that I won’t order anyway.  “Don’t just ex my hand,” I tell him.  I tip my chin downwards, look up into his eyes through my bangs, smile.  “I want somethin’ fun.  How ‘bout the Mona Lisa?”  I wink.  Am I flirting?  Is this how it’s done?  Maybe, maybe not, but I’m having a good time.

            “I can try,” he says, grinning.  “But the marker only shows up under black light.  Can’t really see what I’m doing.”

            “Go ahead.”  I wink again.  “I have faith in you.”  And so he does.  He could be drawing random lines on my hand, for all I know, because without a black light I can’t see his artwork any more than he can.  I make a mental note to ask a bartender, later, to flash a black light my way.  Holly asks for the Mona Lisa, too, but I was first, and the bouncer rewards me, not her, with an amused smile.  Tonight feels good, so far.  Better than I expected it to.

            We push our way through the bar and find an empty table near the dance floor.  I sit down to save it for us while Holly goes to get us drinks: a rum and diet Coke each, minus the rum in mine.  She’s gone for a long time and I suspect that she is chatting up some unsuspecting man and that she won’t be paying for our drinks herself.  Suits me just fine.  I sure can’t get a guy to buy me a drink, so I may as well take advantage.  After all, I’m the one who’s sitting at this table all alone, watching everyone around me dancing and laughing and chattering while I pretend, with a smile that feels too broad and bright, that I’m having fun, too.

            It’s easier when Holly finally returns, because even though the music is too loud for us to talk and I can’t think of much to say to her anyway, at least there’s someone across the table from me, and my drink gives me something to do with my hands.  The music is smooth and the atmosphere is cool and I begin to lose myself again.  Which is good.  I’m at my best when I’m lost.

            Then the band goes on break.  Pre-recorded music, much quieter than the real stuff, begins to play, and the dancers abandon the dance floor.  Holly gets up and wanders away without saying anything, presumably to get herself another drink.  With the band and Holly both gone, there’s nothing to focus my attention on.  My face starts to burn as I look around the room, trying not to seem lonely.  I toy with the idea of getting up to get myself a drink, but I haven’t finished the first one yet.  Besides, if I get up, we might lose our table, and then I’ll have nowhere to hide when Holly goes on the prowl.  I sit alone, bending my straw in a thousand places to keep myself busy, until it splits open at one of the creases.  I finish my drink, strawlessly.  I chew on the ice that is melting in the bottom of my glass.  I look at the people around me, people who fit in here, who know what to say and who to say it to and how to be a part of the crowd.  I am careful not to let them know I am studying them, though.  If they catch me, they’ll think I’m crazy, sitting alone in a bar and staring at everyone.  Or they will see me and know that I am fat and therefore alone and therefore lonely, and they will pity me.  I would rather they think I’m crazy.

........To be Continued Next Month 

 
 

Thanks for reading

From the Plus Side with Emily Smiltneck

articles@largeincharge.com

 

Emily's Cool Links

www.myspace.com/heartsoulspirit

 

 

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