it's a beautiful day here. sun's out, cool enough that i'm comfortable in my sweatshirt and jeans, warm enough that sitting in the sun with a book and my walkman was irresistible. so i treated myself to some nonfat frozen yogurt with granola sprinkles at the union and found a nice comfortable spot on a bench outside.
it felt like spring. i explained to a squirrel why it didn't want any of my yogurt, read a couple pages of my book, looked up and noticed an extremely fat woman walking toward me. since i've been dieting, i've been obsessed with other people's sizes, trying to gauge myself in terms of their bodies, and i thought as she approached, "wow, i remember being almost that big, years ago." i wondered what it was like for her, wondered how her reality differed from mine.
she said something; i switched off the tape. "do you have any notebook paper?" she asked, sitting on the bench. i carry a backpack these days, but it's full of books and tapes and magazines and essential living supplies like advil and a comb and scissors. no notebook today. i explained, and she started talking to me anyway. she was looking for an apartment, she said. it would be her first home in years.
this isn't going to turn into a goopy "how i talked to the homeless person and discovered she was a real human being after all" story. that would be too easy, and it wouldn't be true. yeah, i spent an hour talking to her, about life and men and weight and pot and the universe in general. she asked me if she could ask a personal question. sure, no sweat. "how much do you weigh?" yikes. she could hardly have picked a more sensitive area. so i said i'd tell her if she would explain why she wanted to know. "because i'm trying to figure something out. i want a man in my life and i dunno if it's because of the weight or my attitude or what. so i wondered." i'd already told her i didn't have a boyfriend. so anyway, i told her my weight. she didn't say what conclusion she was seeking or what she'd reached.
it turned out she used to work where i work now. she got fired back in 91. it's not really easy to get fired from that place, so i wondered. attendance, she said. ah. she thought i was 23. i thought she was at least 30, but she was only 26.
but we share some of the same problems. she's lonely. she wants a lover. she wants stability. she wants friends. she's a lot more comfortable with who she is than i am -- her attitude is "if they don't want me, fuck em, their loss." she listens well. so what's my problem? why was my encounter with her tinged with revulsion? i mean, i liked her okay, but there was an edge of something i don't want to examine too closely.
so what's the point? i don't know. i'm unsettled by the encounter anyway. some of it is that i could have been her, had it not been for some really lucky breaks. the sad part is that part of me wants to distance myself from this grossly obese woman who kept hawking and spitting, who had greasy short hair and dirty clothes. i want reassurance that i'd never let it get that far, never let myself slip that badly. i want to come up with lists of why she is her and i am me and the two couldn't be the same.
she's too close to my worst what-if nightmares for comfort. i think i'm scared, too, because she seems happy with her life. could i end up living on the streets, asking strangers for money, stoned in an alleyway at 3 am with nowhere to go except another alley and not mind? i shudder at the thought.
so when she asked for my number, i gave it to her, out of guilt, i guess. and maybe if she calls i'll get to know her. i don't know. i'm guilty of something here, just not sure what.
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sine | deb
"one part of me just wants to tell you everything. one part of me just needs
the quiet. and if i'm lonely here, i'm lonely here" -- toad the wet sprocket