My Big Fat Low-Fat Wedding

chapter 2



I’m on my way to Zumba class. Or as Callum likes to call it by saying the word twice: Zumba Zumba. Whenever I tell him it’s just plain Zumba he says he knows that. I’m okay with him calling it Zumba Zumba though because it makes him laugh hysterically, to my enjoyment.

Thinking about my fiancé’s silly laugh-face with crinkled eyes, I’m giggling to myself as I make my way into the gym.

“What’s funny?”

I stop short, the smile wiped immediately off my face. The Zumba instructor is grinning widely at me. She’s a bleached blonde nineteen year old American girl with overly tanned skin that looks as orange as the ripest clementine. Her huge straight teeth are bleached so white I always feel as though she’s beaming a torch at me whenever she smiles. And she’s always smiling. Kirsten —or Kirsten Zumba Zumba as Callum likes to refer to her, causing even more fits of hysterical laughter— is an exchange student studying abroad here in Malvern. She teaches the Zumba class on a part time basis and she’s the skinniest, most flat chested (lucky girl) and energetic person I’ve ever met in my entire life. If I had half her energy levels magically transported into my fat cells I’d lose a stone in a week.

“Um…” I mumble now, shifting my gym bag higher on my shoulder. “I was just remembering something is all.”

“Ooh! Was it a joke?” Kirsten squeals. So far we’re the only two in the workout room so her voice echoes, piercing my eardrums unpleasantly. “Tell me the joke please, Emily!” Kirsten claps her twiggy fingered hands together excitedly, making me aware of the fact that it’s close to my time of the month. My fingers are a bit bloated and I can’t currently wear my engagement ring due to slightly chubby finger syndrome. “I love British jokes!” Kirsten squeals again. “You cynical Europeans are so funny!”

I nearly shake my head in frustration. Why do bloody Americans always lump us English in with the entire European species? I’ve never even been to France, by choice, even though my cousin Nicola begs me to holiday with her in Paris every time she feels her fashion wardrobe needs updating, which is often, I might add.

“No, no.” Dropping my gym bag on the hard floor, I kick it into the corner. “I wasn’t laughing at a joke, Kirsten, trust me. You don’t want me to tell you a joke. I can never remember them right and I always make a horrible mess of the punch line.”

“Ooh my gaaaaawwd.” Kirsten drawls. “So do I. I’m awful at telling jokes. I’m so bad at it that it’s embarrassing!”

I’m wondering why she’s insisting so vehemently about her inability to tell jokes, when a man walks into the workout room. For some reason the presence of this newcomer shuts Kirsten right up. I’d say I was grateful to him for that if it weren’t for the fact that I know this man and there’s always been something about him I just don’t like.

“Emily.” Oliver nods briefly at me, but even his tiny head movement is long enough to cause the harsh gym lights to glint off his completely bald head. When he glances at me again I’m put off by the strange look in his overly bulging eyes that are placed way too far apart on his face. Oliver sniffs his super slender and pointy nose, causing his stiff upper lip to curl into a brief snarl that reveals brownish buck teeth that stick out further due to his receding chin.

I’m not usually put off by a person’s appearance, apart from my own fat when I grab at it in disgust while peering into the mirror. There’s just something about Oliver’s personality that’s always made his outward features appear enhanced, as though something inside him has etched the permanent sneer upon his face.

When he barks at Kirsten sharply, I snap out of my judgmental state. Bad, Emily. I mentally berate myself. Oliver is a perfectly upstanding resident of this town. He works with Callum at CoTechnic and he’s contributed so much to the community with his devices. I really need to stop being such a judgemental bitch sometimes, but I just can’t seem to help feeling strangely defensive whenever Oliver is present.

“A word, Kirsten.” Oliver grunts and the girl peeps a quiet response that’s so unlike her personality when he’s not around.

The two of them go off to the far side of the room as more Zumba class members arrive. When Oliver finally leaves I notice Kirsten’s spirits lift immediately. “Okay everybody!” She starts squeal talking again. “Let’s get started!”

About fifteen women have turned up for tonight’s Zumba lesson. We all spread out lined up in three rows of five. I’m at the back because I don’t want anyone in front of me to go psychologically blind when they see my fat giggling everywhere as I dancersize. I absolutely despise it when we do turning moves, because then I end up in the front row for at least five Zumba moves.

Stretching my legs, I notice Kirsten speaking into the large device to her right. Actually, it’s more than just a device. It’s a robot and it’s the reason Oliver was just here. I assume he wanted to speak to Kirsten about it as it’s one of his products. The reason everyone seems to admire Oliver so much in this town is because he’s the top scientist at CoTechnic and his robot inventions have transformed small businesses in our little community.

I’ve been thinking about getting a robot myself to help around at the cafe, but I just can’t seem to work up the courage to meet with Oliver. He just puts me off for some unknown reason.

Kirsten’s Zumba robot sits at the front of the workout room. We’re surrounded by mirrors on all three walls while the entrance wall is one big window. Her robot, courtesy of Oliver, is a chrome model. A square three foot lump of a thing with ten inch speakers embedded into all four sides. When Kirsten starts up her Zumba jams the whole gym knows it due to the excruciating volume levels that she repeatedly has to be asked to turn down.

Thankfully, after Kirsten’s verbal instructions, the robot whirs on at a respectable volume. The music starts pumping out of the little device with glowing neon lights that pulse to the beat of the rhythm.

My own head starts to bob up and down a bit too. I’m jutting my chin forward and back to the beat of the music. Yeah! Here we go, I’m getting into the tunes now. Wow! I love Zumba Zumba class so much. If only Callum could see me now. I’m really working the dance steps as Kirsten shouts instructions from the font of the room.

“Woo! Yeah!” Some of the other class members are really joining in on the rhythm with hoots and yelps.

This is great! If the fat could visibly fly off my body it would because I’m definitely burning the lard.

“Higher, ladies!” Kirsten practically screams. “Get those knees pumping higher! That’s it, Emily! You’re doing great!”

I really am doing great, aren’t I? I feel like I’ve got endless amounts of energy tonight. Perhaps it’s because I decided to stay on a low carb diet this morning. Or maybe I’m feeling terrific because of this wonderful new sports bra I got at Evans; the plus size clothing shop. It really keeps my knockers in place. I find I’m able to do all the jumping Zumba moves that I usually avoid, due to my breasts normally bouncing right out of my bra.

I’m on a roll. I’m getting so good at this Zumba thing I honestly think I could become a certified instructor.

Bump, grind. Kick, jump. Bounce, turn and twist—

“Yeow!” I scream as my chest explodes with pain. On no! What’s happening? “My heart!” I shout. Sweat pours off my forehead and into my eyes as I lean over and press my hand to my bosom. “Someone help me! I’m having a heart attack! I’m only twenty-six years old, for f*ck sake! I don’t want to die!”

***

“My chest, my chest, my chest!” I stare down the doctor. I’ve been brought to hospital but no one is helping me correctly. “I’m having a heart attack! Why haven’t you started open heart surgery on me yet?”

“Please, Miss Gillam.” The female doctor patronises me by speaking so calmly. “You’re not having a heart attack and you certainly don’t need emergency surgery.”

Grinding my teeth together I clutch harder at my squashed cleavage with my hand. I try to lean back onto the raised hospital bed, but that only makes the chest pain worse, so I sit straight up again. “Well what’s happening to me then?” I whisper pathetically.

“Your blood pressure is fine, Emily. A heart attack doesn’t last this long. Now, if you’ll let me check you over I’m sure we’ll find it’s simply trapped wind that’s bothering you a bit.”

Bothering me a bit? I’m about to explode with rage at this exotic, skinny, black-haired beauty of a doctor when Callum comes shuffling hurriedly into the hospital ward.

“Emily!” He exclaims and comes round to the side of my bed. “Are you all right?”

My lips purse. I’m trying not to cry. Finally someone shows me they’re concerned and now I feel like bursting into tears?

Feeling stupid stops the tears from flowing. Now that Callum is here I really do feel like such a pleb. My chest still hurts to the beat of my heart, but why have I been acting like such a drama queen?

“She’s fine, mister…?” The gorgeous, slender doctor woman looks at Callum.

“Callum. I’m Callum,” my equally as gorgeous fiancé (in a masculine way) doesn’t take his eyes off me. “What’s happened to you, Em?”

I look up at him, sheepishly, still clutching my chest. “I thought… I mean.” Pausing, I stiffen as a particularly painful stab wracks my inner bosom.

“Is it your chest?” Callum looks anxious and his words become frantic. “I knew it, Em! You’ve been stressing about the wedding too much. What’s happened?” Finally, he looks at the doctor. “Has she had a heart attack? Does she need open heart surgery? Why isn’t anyone helping my fiancé?”

“Sir, please calm down.”

While I’m glad to see my betrothed is ever so concerned for my well-being, he’s starting to come across just as drama-queen as I was earlier on.

“I’m fine, Callum. Really, it’s just—”

Again my words are cut off by an increased stab of pain in my chest.

“Hang on.” Callum’s concerned eyes are squinty at me. “What are you wearing, Emily?”

“I was at the Zumba Zumba tonight, honey, remember?” Strangely, he doesn’t even crack the smallest of smiles when I try to lighten the tension of the situation by saying Zumba twice. Now I know my fiancé is truly worried for me. He’s also not exactly roaming his eyes over my tight exercise top in a lusty manner, like he normally does when I wear my bosom hugging wrap shirt. “I got this new sports bra and—”

“Oh, Emily!” I’m startled when Callum leans in and shoves his hand up the back of my sweaty top.

“Callum!” I yelp. “What are you doing?” Maybe I was wrong about his roaming eyes. I hardly think this is the time for him to be groping me so wantonly though! “Oh!” I gasp with immense relief as Callum undoes the back of my sports bra. “Ooooooooh…” A longer sigh of relief follows from my released lungs.

There’s no more chest pain. I’m wonderfully free of agony inside my upper torso.

“What size sports bra have you…?” Callum pauses and I feel him messing around inside the back of my shirt. I figure he’s looking for the bra label. “Why on earth have you put on a size thirty four B cup, Em?”

Oops.

I look guiltily up at the doctor, and then at Callum when he finally pulls his hand out of my top.

Well, at least the good news is that I wasn’t having a heart attack. The chest pain was from my too small bra that was squishing the life out of my overly large breasts and poor lungs. The bad news is that I might have to pay out of pocket for wasting valuable health carer time, simply out of desperation to wear an inconceivably inappropriately sized bra in attempts at feeling smaller.

Shame on stupid me for the second time today.

***



An hour later Callum has driven me home from the hospital. Clambering out of the car, I’m surprised when my fiancé hurries round to my aid. “Let me carry you inside, honey darling,” he gushes.

Honey darling? What’s got into my lovely beau lately? “If you carry me inside at my current weight you’ll do your back in, my love.”

“Are you saying I’m not strong enough to lift you?” Callum stops me from moving forward by standing in my way. He rolls up the sleeve of his white shirt and starts flexing his —as he calls them— guns. His biceps.

I can’t help but giggle. “No, darling. I’m not saying you’re aren’t strong as ever. It’s just… I think you should wait until after the wedding to carry me across the threshold.” By then I’ll be down to a more sensible dress size. I’m not dieting and exercising my heart out for nothing these days.

“If you insist.” Callum takes my arm and guides me away from the car. I feel a bit dizzy and my footstep falters causing me to lean further into him. “I knew it. That damn sports bra is still cutting off your blood circulation, Em.”

I’d kept the too tight bra on after leaving the hospital with the hooks undone. I had no choice. There was no way on earth I was going to walk around braless with my great big knockers jiggling about.

We’re nearly at the front door of our semi-detached terraced home. “Fine.” Stopping, I wiggle around under my shirt. “I’ll take it off.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” Callum growls like an animal and stares at my chest.

“Oh stop it.” Playfully, I bump his shoulder with my own, causing my now freed-from-bra boobs to jiggle like mad.

“Oh you’ve got to be kidding me.” Turning, Callum and I see Lara heading up our driveway. “Why do engaged people have to practically do it on the street? Seriously, Em? Stripping your clothes off in the middle of the day?”

I grin stupidly at my best friend forever. Apart from Callum, Lara really is my BFF. I’ve known her since the day she moved into the house next to mine at the age of six for us both…

I found her sitting outside in her front garden singing like a magical bird. At least, that’s how my six-year-old-self had perceived her lovely voice to sound like way back then. My six-year-old-self was also a jealous self, because Lara was a skinny, black haired girl, while I was a chubby blonde awkward child who sucked her thumb until the age of nine.

Sucking said thumb, I’d waddled my way over to a six year old Lara with her magical voice and I’d told her flat out that she couldn’t sing. Simply out of spite and jealousy. I’d even said to her that she sounded like a frog. After which, pretty little raven haired Lara had risen to her feet, gracefully pranced closer to me and punched me in the face.

As I was to later realise, that punch was much deserved. As deserved as all the punchings Lara inflicted on my enemies at school who bullied me over the years about my weight. That’s how Lara and I became inseparable mates. She always defended me when I was a chubby kid. Thankfully, Lara doesn’t have to punch anyone on my behalf these days. Not only for the reason that I did lose most of my baby fat, leaving me with curves, although in my opinion much too curvy curves. The fact of the matter is though, we’re adults now and my BFF can’t just go around punching people in the face willy-nilly.

“Oh for goodness sake, Lara.” I tisk at her now. “It’s not like we’re going to have sex right here out in the open.”

“Ha!” She barks a laugh. “The way you two have been acting all loved up lately, I wouldn’t be surprised if you did!”

“You do realise any public displays of affection are entirely your fault, Lara.” Callum pulls me close. “After all, you’re the one who introduced us.”

“What an awful mistake that was for the inner contents of my stomach.” Lara beams a big horrible grin.

It’s true though. Lara introduced me to Calum at college when we were all sixteen years of age. It was love at first sight. Well, who wouldn’t fall in instant love with the boy who every girl on campus desired? Callum works out. He’s always worked out and when he flexes his “guns” he means business. His biceps make me swoon, instantly activating my libido every time he shows them off.

“Come on now.” Lara looks at the time on her phone. “We’re going to be late for your fitting.”

Oh shit stains, I completely forgot I was supposed to try on bridal dresses at Lara’s shop tonight. I suppose that’s what happens when a certain sports bra squeezes the life out of your bosom and nearly gives one a heart attack.

“I think Emily needs to rest tonight, Lara.” Callum looks worriedly at me. “She just been to hospital because her chest—”

“And!” I blurt, cutting him off. “That’s not a big deal really!”

Lara frowns. “We’re you really at hospital, you daft cow?”

See, this is why I didn’t want Lara to know I was indeed at hospital. She’s always been quite over protective of me, but she’s also my harshest critic. She means well though, even if she blatantly calls me a hypochondriac at times.

“Let’s just go, I’ll be fine.” Pulling quickly out of Callum’s embrace, I move toward the pavement. My braless breasts start wobbling and I think better of it. “Right after I change.” Instead of walking away with Lara, I wrap my arms around my wayward bosoms and head into the house. If I’m going to be putting on another bra tonight I’m definitely going to make sure it’s a properly fitting one.

***



Lara has brought me to her bridal shop in the Greater Malvern shopping area up town. The moment we walk through the glass doors my vision is enveloped in pale gossamer.

“You’ve got a lot of new stock in, Lolz.” I say, using the nickname she hates. She doesn’t complain about me saying Lolz anymore, but I’m still going to keep referring to her thusly. It’s funny mimicking text speak for lol. Especially because Lara is the opposite of lol with her occasional attitude problem.

“It’s not just stock,” Lara reprimands me. “Unlike aubergines and sacks of potatoes by the kilo, these are exquisite gowns made of the finest silk.”

Wandering past hanging dresses I run my hands along the fabric. “Or for chavs, made of cotton?” The dress I’m touching doesn’t feel soft as silk.

“Don’t be silly.” Lara smacks my hand away. “Now, let’s get you fitted into your gear first.”

“My gear?”

Lara leads me to the back dressing and changing area of the shop where she recently had faux cashmere wallpaper installed. Not only do I always feel the need to touch all the soft gowns in store, but now I just have to run my hands along the furry, pale walls. It’s so pretty back here. In such sharp contrast to Lara’s dark rocker chick style when she’s not at work.

Suddenly, I spot something that gives me the creeps.

There’s a robot standing off to the side of the two changing rooms.

“You got a device from Oliver?”

Lara’s reply is muffed as she’s turned away from me, going through shelves of strange strappy pieces of nude coloured fabrics. “Yes I did. That little guy is massively helpful.” Dropping her supplies she strides over to the robot.

This particular model is shaped like a large wedding bell. It’s pristine white and there are fancy lace swirls all over the beeping machine.

“Watch this.” Lara presses the screen of her phone. “I can control it starting up with an app.”

The robot comes to life. I don’t know where it fit all the sewing machines and surgers that come shifting out of large drawers and tables attached to the robot itself.

“Wow,” I gasp. “That is pretty amazing.”

“Yeah, it’s got every kind of sewing machine and tools I could ever need. And check this…” Lara slides her finger across the face of her phone and the bridal robot starts steaming. Yet another table like platform pops open on its face. “It makes tea!” Lara exclaims.

I’m dubious. “You got it from Oliver though.”

Lara doesn’t just ignore my statement, which is telling. I’m sure she doesn’t trust the guy either. She’s frowning deeply now. “Yeah well, it’s about the device, not the person who made it. I really couldn’t function without Bridey here.”

Bridey? “You named the robot?”

Lara shrugs her shoulders. “Sure I did, and why not?”

“I don’t know. Those things are as creepy as Oliver as far as I’m concerned.”

“Never mind.” Lara takes the steaming cup of tea from Bridey the robot’s extended tray and gives it to me. She punches her finger onto her phone a few times and all the sewing machines and kettle service disappear back into the robot until it once again resembles a large lace covered bell. “Let’s get you fitted into the dress of your dreams, shall we?”

“I take a sip of the robot made tea. “That’s fairly all right.”

Lara shuffles back to the shelves on the opposite wall. “Don’t drink too much of that. You don’t want an expanded belly if you’re going to fit into these.”

Turning, I look at the scraps of neutral fabric she’s holding. “I’m going to fit into a scarf?”

“These aren’t scarves, Em. They’re control underwear.”

“You’re having a laugh!”

But no. Despite my outburst Lara is being serious. I know this because she’s now wearing her serious face mask, which is a very scowling look indeed.

After much grunting, twisting and sucking in of gut, I’ve finally managed to squeeze myself into what Lara calls ‘control underwear’, or as I like to call them ‘torture devices’. I’m positively gasping being squashed into these tight nude coloured pieces of fabric. When I turn and look into the mirror of the changing room I’m not reassured in any way whatsoever.

“Oh for f*ck sake.”

“Something the matter?” Lara knocks on the door. “I’m coming in to adjust you now.”

I don’t respond immediately as Lara comes inside the large dressing room. I really don’t know what to do or say at this point because I’m gobsmacked by my reflection in the mirror.

“I look like a sock that’s been stuffed with wonky potatoes.”

Lara purses her lips as though she’s irritated. “Don’t be daft, you look smoothed out.”

Glancing over my shoulder at her in the mirror, my face turns as scowling as her’s. “Smoothed out and squashed. I’ve already had my ribs nearly broken by a sports bra, Lolz, I really don’t need to end up…”

Oops. Almost just admitted that I went to hospital today. I definitely don’t want to be revealing such an error to Lara. If I did so I’d never hear the end of it. She’d tease me about my false heart attack for the rest of my life.

“… I’m just feeling strangled.” I finish my sentence. A statement that is very true. My boobs are being thrust upwards by whatever this body sock is that I seem to be wearing. It’s giving me a cleavage that nearly reaches my chin. I’m positively gagging on my breasts, even if it is in an external manner!

And the rest of me is indeed smoothed out like Lara said. Only it’s all wrong. My curves have gone to be replaced by a streamlined torso that does nothing but exacerbate the problems of my fat arms and legs. Before squeezing myself into these control underwear I really thought my arm shapes were okay. I could see a bit of muscle on the outer sides of my shoulders that would lie under a reasonable layer of chub. Now though, I’ve got chicken wings poking out under my armpits and I shudder to think what I’d see if I turned around and looked into the mirror.

I’m pretty sure there would be back-boobs. Okay so they’d be flattened out back boobs under incredible pressure from these control underwear, but I’d know they were there, and knowing is a slippery slope into madness…

“Hello? Emily?” I snap back into reality, and tear my eyes away from my horrible reflection, when Lara starts clicking her fingers in front of my face. “You do realise that being a bride means being uncomfortable for one day.”

“But I don’t want to.”

If it’s possible, Lara’s scowling face goes even scowlier when she squints her eyes. “You know what they say, Em. No pain no gain.”

Pain? I’m supposed to endure being in pain on my wedding day, just so I can look good? I don’t even think I look that great to be honest, quite the opposite. But I suppose if it’s Lara telling me what’s necessary for a bride to be wearing under her wedding dress, she’d be the one who knows.

Deflating with a loud sigh I’m surprised when I’m unable to slump my shoulders in relenting despair. These control underwear won’t let me slouch even an inch.

I follow Lara out of the dressing room feeling stiff as a robot. No wonder bride’s all walk so bolt upright down the aisle, they don’t have sticks shoved up their arses, oh no, they’re held upright by something far worse…

I’ve decided control underwear are now the bane of my existence, the most horrible things invented for women since the corset.

“Now,” Lara says, nearing me with arms full of tulle that’s otherwise known as a bridal gown. “Let’s get this corseted gown on you, shall we.”

Oh dear me please no.

For the next hour Lara continues to shove my physical form into tight wedding dress after tight wedding dress. She expertly laces me up the back of each gown and by the time I get home I’m feeling positively bruised and abused.

Sniffing loudly, I crawl into bed with an already sleeping Callum. I don’t want to wake him up really, but if my bed bouncing tactics should accidentally wake him I won’t be feeling guilty. I could use a bit of sympathy right now.

“Who knew being a bride at my weight would be such a painful experience.” I meant to whisper, but my outburst sounds more like a whinging sob.

“Poor you.” Callum rolls over.

“Oh sorry, hun. Did I wake you?” Cuddling into my fiancé’s arms I feel a pang of guilt at actually having woken him.

“Don’t worry about it, my darling.” Callum coos into my neck. “You’ve had a hard day and you’ll need your rest for tomorrow.”

I suppose my beloved is right, the cafe needs opening up for breakfast goers in the morning anyway. I do feel very tired right now as well. My body is probably capable of going into a prompt coma after today’s squashing fiascos.

As I drift off to sleep I think I hear Callum utter something inexplicable. “Mum wants to help with the wedding plans.”

So tired… falling asleep.

He couldn’t have just said what I think he did, because as far as I’m concerned, Callum’s mum isn’t even invited to our wedding.