Threads Through the Universe

Threads Through

the

Universe

Copyright 2014 Beth Reason

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be copied or resold in whole or in part, either for commercial or non-commercial use. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author!

Table of Contents:

Stop Sign

The Relative Color of Grass

Redneck Christmas

Unexpected Hero

The Formula for Happy Days

Planned Futures Never Come

The Dance

Lottery

Road to Riches

About the Author

More Great Books by Beth Reason

Stop Sign

The stop sign seems so far away.

Walking there sounded like such a great idea after I watched Oprah. I usually don't watch her show, but they were airing old episodes and it was the only thing on the tv I either hadn't seen yet or could stomach. So I flicked it on and sat there expecting to hate it.

The episode was about weight loss. Another ugh. I don't know why I bothered, but I sat there and listened to three women telling stories of their weight loss that made me feel both connected and uncomfortable at the same time. Of course they were peppy, which I hate. Of course they were uber positive, another mark against them. But I suppose that I sat and watched because after I got past all that happy empowerment crap, we had too much in common for me to change the channel.

I'll just admit it. I was riveted.

They brought the women out in segments, three, with a weight loss doctor doing the last section of the show. Two sections, actually, when you factored in all of the damn commercial breaks. Two minutes of show, then three minutes of commercial. No wonder Oprah's loaded.

The women came out in order of how much weight they lost. The first woman only lost a hundred pounds. I bet she was pissed to work so hard and find out she only got the bronze. They had a poster of her before weight, and she burst through and put her arms up and the audience applauded. She was about half the size she used to be. And she wore a red dress, short. The kind of dress I would kill to be able to wear myself. She got the bronze, but you know what? I liked her the best.

The second lost about a buck fifty. Impressive, but she didn't seem like she was impressed. She was one of those people that could complain about the weather right after they found out they won the lottery. And she wore red, too, but it was a very ill-fitting dress. It was probably the dress she always had in her head, but still didn't fit her body. She looked flabby and silly and I really think she screwed Bronze out of the silver.

The top winner was the last lady. She went from three hundred seventy pounds all the way down to one-forty. I couldn't believe it. She didn't look real, like she stepped out of the other version of her. That's what it was. Like she just decided to shed the big fat blob and walk away.

I guess I can see why she got the gold.

Still, Bronze lady spoke to me. I kept watching her, and I don't think it was just because she started out at about my weight. Maybe it was. But, she was also the only one there with a real smile. Maybe it was because she stopped losing weight when she was comfortable with herself and didn't keep pushing and pushing just because someone told her the scale should read a lower number.

That's what I've always wanted. I just want to be comfortable with myself.

Some famous guy once said that when you are comfortable in your own skin, you can be at ease anywhere. Or something like that. Or maybe it was a lady who said it. Whoever, the sentiment rings true. That is my desire. That's always been my deepest wish. I just want to get up in the morning and be happy about it. I just want to walk down the street without losing my breath. I just want to stop feeling like there's another me locked inside that I just can't figure out how to let loose. One who smiles. One who laughs for real, not just to fit in. One who can look in a mirror or make a simple mistake without thinking she's a worthless sack of shit.

I shut that tv off when the episode was over. I don't know if that tv has been off during the day the entire time I've had it. I even do my work with it on in the background. I don't like silence. I don't like knowing I'm alone, even though I am. I just need to feel like someone's there.

I did all my work for the day. Doing data entry from home for the local hospital doesn't take much of my time, even though they pay me like I worked all day. I don't feel bad taking that money. I need that money. Besides, if the slow ass people who set the pace in the first place get paid for doing the same amount of work I can whip out in a couple hours, so what? It's the same amount of work.

I shut that damn tv off and sat there staring at my reflection in the old domed screen. I haven't bothered to upgrade to a flat screen. I don't see the point. This one works fine. It's not like I actually have the set on to watch, not usually. It's just my companion. And I've had that old gal for about ten years now. We've been through so much together.

And maybe she really is my friend. She certainly showed me the truth right then. I know I've gotten big. Bigger. I've always been big. Since the fourth grade, anyway, when my body decided to grow out instead of up. But I sat looking at the reflection in the tv screen and I looked like one of the before posters the skinny ladies all popped out of.

I wanted to see a skinny lady pop out of the blob on the couch that just stared back at me in the glass, but it didn't happen. It never happens. And then I thought, maybe that's just because I sit and wait. Maybe it's because I stare at the picture and wait for a girl who isn't even there to magically appear.

I know it's stupid. That's why I'm standing here about a half mile from my house panting, out of breath, with sweat pooling in my bra. I can see the stop sign now. The doctor who was on for a hot minute between the commercials said that I should visualize a goal, an attainable goal, and make it happen. One little step.

I picked the stop sign because it just seemed to make sense. I live down a little side road. There are trees and grass and bushes and squirrels, but the first hint of civilization is the stop sign. Plus, it's red. It just popped into my head. I knew it was only about a mile away. Skinny lady number one said she walks five miles a week. I figured I could do one.

One mile is a really long way when you're walking.

I'm glaring at the tiny stop sign. Why the hell is it so far away? Why did I move to a place that was so far away from anything else? What the hell is wrong with me?

Positive outlook. All three ladies and the doctor said that's what I needed to have if I wanted that skinny woman to step out of the flab. Even the second woman said that, even though I've already utterly discounted her peppy demeanor as no more than a marketing ploy to get on tv in her sad sack of a dress.

I'm doing it again. I'm letting myself talk myself out of doing what my inner self knows I have to do. If that makes any sense at all.

It seemed so easy when I got up off the couch and grabbed a water bottle and stormed out the door and down the stairs. I couldn't remember the last time I'd actually left my yard under my own steam. I like to sit outside. I love the outside, in fact. I like to sit on my back lawn and feel like I'm soaking up the sun, like it's actually pouring through me to get to the ground. It's not being outside that's hard. It's moving. It's making myself do more than fade away into the background.

I can't stand here. My feet hurt, and I honestly can't tell if it hurts more to stand still and whine or to take another step. I turned and looked back at my house, but it's almost exactly the same distance as the stop sign.

Oh shit. I didn't even think about that part. If I actually get to the stop sign, then I'll have to turn around and go all the way back to the house. I'm not walking a mile. I'm walking two. See? I can't even think of simple things like that! Screw it. I knew this was stupid. I can't do two miles. Why the hell did I think I could?

I feel like throwing up. I always do this to myself. I always fight these wars inside and make them such a big deal that my stomach twists and turns and wrings itself into painful knots. And then when it finally stops, when the knots untie, it feels so damn good to not be on the verge of throwing up that I have to eat before it comes back. Because it will, you know. The twisting nerves always come back. And then I sit there and look at empty plates and wrappers and catch myself picking up crumbs and popping them into my mouth and I feel so much shame that I want to throw up.

When I was in the sixth grade, a doctor put me on a diet. He was sure that was my problem, that I was pigging out. I kind of was, but no more than my sisters or any other kid that age. They weren't skinny, but they never got fat, either. My mother ate whatever she wanted and never gained a pound. My father was heavy, but he was a guy. People accepted his weight. Sixth grade girls did not accept mine.

I was put on a diet, even though it was never explained to me why it was every other female in my life could eat what they wanted when I could not. It wasn't as if my sisters each ate one sandwich for lunch and I ate five. That didn't happen until much, much later in a frustrating life. He told me, You need to reduce snacking. You need to stop eating so much. You need to stick to this diet and I expect to see you lose twenty pounds in three months.

I stuck to the diet. I exercised. I followed the program. And I lost three pounds.

I didn't understand about hormones. I didn't know anything about metabolism. I didn't know about thyroid fluctuations and water retention when you get your period and the roller coaster that is puberty. I didn't know that if I stuck with it, if I kept it up until my body grew up and stopped being an asshole, that the diet and exercise would do their trick. All I knew was that no matter how much I did in those months, while the rest of my family and friends went about their seemingly carefree lives, I failed.

The doctor said so. He told me I failed. He said I had to be sneaking snacks.

I wasn't.

My mother agreed with the doc. My father agreed, which he shouldn't have since, as I've said, he had the same weight problem. I wish I realized that back then. My sisters rolled their eyes at me as they ate their chips and drank their sodas. I failed. They all knew it.

Why bother, right? If you're just going to fail, why bother?

Fuck it. Eat the chips. Drink the soda. Have the second or third slice of cake. It's not like I could do anything about it, anyway. Everyone said so. Everyone thought I was a liar. Everyone thought I didn't work my hardest, so did it matter if I actually did?

That goddamn stop sign. I can feel it. I can feel it taunting me. If I close my eyes or turn around, it'll go away.

I did try. I did try my best when I was in the sixth grade. I tried so hard and failed. But I haven't been trying my hardest now. It's silly, because now I truly do understand what happened back then. I've had therapy. I've got a computer with Google. I get it. Adult me understands that it wasn't my fault, that I didn't fail back then. I know if I had stuck with it, if my folks didn't give up and stop buying me the fat free and sugar free options because I wasn't using them anyway, if I kept making a point to walk around the block twice every day, if I could have looked at the number three and been happy, not felt defeated, then I'd be a different person today.

I wouldn't be Gold Medal Lady. I wouldn't be Silver.

But I tell you what. I'd kill to be Bronze.

That's it. That's it! I'm half way to that stop sign and damn it, I'm going to make it! I just have to put one foot in front of the other, ignore the blister that I'm feeling, and remember to breathe. Look at the nature all around. I don't often get to see these bushes, just when I pass in the car after my weekly errands. Would you believe I actually had no idea they smelled so good? It smells like...lilac. That's it! It's lilac!

My grandmother loved lilacs. She had lilac bushes outside of her house and to me, that meant summer. To me, that meant Sundays. To me that meant we were going to have a fancy buffet lunch with thick slices of tomato slathered in Hellman's mayo, and Bugle crackers that I'd stick on my finger tips like a witch. Sundays meant we'd stay for a delicious dinner with the whole family later on. Steaks, or roast pork with mashed potatoes. And her gravy. My god, I'd kill for a bowl full of my grammie's gravy and a straw.

I loved those dinners. We'd all gather and laugh. Or yell. That didn't matter. Fight or joke, it was all the same. I wasn't alone. I was in a room full of people and I knew that the next Sunday, it would be the same. I'd be in a room full of people. I wouldn't be by myself. And it didn't matter there if I was fat. My uncle was enormous, and everyone put up with him. My gram would fill my plate. She wouldn't say Oh, I don't think you need that gravy. She'd say, You like that gravy? Have more!

It was acceptance. Delicious, fattening acceptance.

See how good I am at therapy? Shit, I should be. I've had enough. I understand my connection with food. I understand that I equate it with comfort and safety. And I get ashamed after because I hate myself. I hate this body. I hate the fact that it's taking every single thing I have to walk one fucking mile to make it to a sneering stop sign.

I was big when I was younger, but it wasn't until my grammie died that I got huge. Huge. I cannot stress that enough. I was bigger when I graduated high school than I am right now. I don't need to psychoanalyze why it was that I blew up after my gram died. That one's a no-brainer. The bigger I got, the worse I felt. So I'd fall back on happy time eating. Voila. That's what we in the psychiatric biz call a destructive cycle.

High school. If the need to educate developing brains wasn't so damn important, I would petition the government to make a law banning high schools. Estrogen and testosterone all swirling and whirling inside turn people who used to be lovely and kind, and who would one day resume their loving and kind personae, into raging bitches and insecure assholes. I can still hear the echoes of their mooing when I have to drive by that school. It's on the way to the grocery store, so there's no way to avoid passing those hallowed halls of torture.

Moooooo.

One boy in particular stands out. Every single day of tenth grade he mooed when I passed in the hall. Every. Day. You'd think he'd get sick of it, especially when it lost the hilarity to the other boys and became boring. It didn't strike them as mean, since none of them stopped it. They just got bored. I never said anything. Don't feed into it and they'll stop. Yeah. Right.

Moooooo.

He had blond hair and blue eyes. To this day, blond hair and blue eyes piss me off. He gave this smirk when he did it, too, a smirk that said, You can pretend all you want but I know it's getting to you.

Moooooo.

He lived near a farm, so it wasn't exactly mooooo, but a much more accurate cow noise. Every day. Rain or shine.

Moooooo.

I would skip lunches. I'd sit while people ate and wait the twenty-three minutes in hell. Pizza smelled good. The chicken nuggets smelled great. But if I ate, see, the mooing would be so much worse.

So much.

Moooooo.

It didn't matter. In the end, he was going to moo and I was just going to have to take it. I should have eaten lunches. Not eating is just as unhealthy as overeating. He was a dick head. I know that now. He was just a prick who was probably very self conscious. He probably hated himself nearly as much as I did. I know that. And yet, when I look up at that damn school, I can still hear him mooing.

I think the blister on my left foot popped. It's squishy in my sneaker. I should have worn better socks. But you know what? I'm past the lilacs and even though I'm breathing like Darth Vader, I'm getting close to the stop sign.

I can't cheer yet. If I cheer yet, something will happen and I'll fail. It's how it always goes. No celebrating until I am back in my house. If I make it back.

When I make it back.

Why does doing something as simple as walking to the end of the road bring up all this bullshit in my head? This is why I'm stuck. This is why I can't ever do anything. I talk myself out of it. I remember the moos and the other comments. I remember the snorts on prom night when no one would dance with me.

No one.

Even though I asked.

Not even the class geeks and nerds who sat in a cluster by themselves in the corner, ignored just as I was, but for different reasons. I got the courage to ask. I figured, what the hell? Might as well give it a go.

None of them wanted to dance with me, not even the kid who was caught playing with his boogers in seventh grade and never lived it down.

I remember all of that stuff. You need to let it go, said the wise therapist.

How? said I.

And silence was the only answer.

Let it go. I tried to let it go. I tried to bury it. And when that didn't work, I tried to lose weight.

Oh, what? Like I haven't tried before. I just said I tried when I was younger, and that didn't work. But then I tried again, when I was entering college and looked around and saw all the skinny people laughing and smiling and getting to dance. I was struck with a brilliant idea. I didn't eat. And when I caved, when I just couldn't take it, when I cracked and gave in and ate something, I'd grab my toothbrush right after and lean over the toilet. In a few minutes, everything would be gone again and I could flush the evidence of my weakness away.

And you know what? I liked the feeling. Sure, I caved. Sure, I put food in my body. But with a little bristle tickle on the edge of my tonsils, I could make it come right back up. I could win. I could conquer it. I could control it.

I could fix my failure.

A lot of years, a lot of therapy, and a lot of rotten teeth passed before I realized that was worse than being fat. I did lose weight, though. In that first year, I lost a staggering hundred and ten pounds. And I felt like shit. I still didn't laugh and dance.

For a whole year, I was the silver medal lady on Oprah. I think that's why I hate her. That, and for wearing the unforgivably ugly dress.

My chest hurts. I'm breathing so heavy now that I'm putting Vader to shame. I should stop and take a drink of my water.

But what if I don't get going again?

That's what happened, you know. I got thinner, and I still was miserable. In fact, I felt worse. I felt shame every single day. I knew I was doing