It was a perfect, delectable evening. We were housed in a secret garden, fed on china by an extraordinary chef and dear friends surrounding each table. It was all nearly too beautiful to be believed.
Unless you are the fat girl.
I was caught up in the moment and the evening and the fun until I caught sight of our sweet and prettily decorated tables. With tiny white chairs.
The kind of chairs made for dolls and munchkins and gorgeously arrayed women to sit on in elegant, outdoor dinner parties. The kind of chairs that snap in two when heaving under the weight of a fat girl. This fat girl.
This fat girl who terrified took her place last at the table and sat gingerly on the edge of a chair that barely sustained her. This fat girl who tensed every muscle in her body hoping against hope that the chair would outlast her weight and that her leg muscles would survive the two-hour, seven-course meal. This fat girl who took every excuse to arise from said chair to give it a break. Who wandered the garden with a neighbor's baby to relieve her aching thigh muscles. Who wished against wish and hoped against hope that she wouldn't have to return to the little white chair that was ruining the magic of this lovely, lovely party.
The chair survived. So did I.
But I don't want to live the rest of my life fearing tiny white chairs at beautiful garden parties. Because either I will quit going to parties or I will have to have every such party's loveliness marred by my desperate attempts to keep my excessive poundage from eclipsing the joy of the evening.
And that is not the life I want to be living.
I'm sure the tiny white chair can appreciate my resolution.
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