As we were making our way through the party, people began to stop me to ask for pictures, and I got separated from my group pretty quickly. Eventually, I got really hot and sweaty. While my hair wasn’t a problem, my heels and huge dress were quite cumbersome to maneuver while posing for pictures. I went into a room and saw a sofa to sit on so I could blot away the sweat and reapply makeup. Just then, a woman came over to me, and said, “I work for the president of the United States and the first lady. They want to invite you to a private reception before the dinner starts.” Holy shit. I was going to meet President Barack Obama and First Lady Michelle Obama! I began to sweat even more. The woman led me to the entrance to the reception room, where I had to walk through a metal detector. No biggie. I’ve been to high school. I know my way around a metal detector. Now I was in the room where many people were standing in line to meet POTUS and FLOTUS. I wasn’t ready. I rushed to the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror blotting the sweat from my face. A few women in ball gowns came in. I blurted out that I was about to meet the president and that I couldn’t stop sweating. The ladies assured me that everything would be fine and that I should take as much time as I needed. I listened to them and waited until I was calm. By the time I joined the line, though, I was sweating profusely again. Luckily, the line was long and ran along a bar. I just kept asking for ice water. I must’ve drunk a bathtub full of ice water to try to calm down, but it wasn’t working.
Somehow in that crowded room and confusing line, I ended up standing next to this beautiful black woman. I could tell she was African. Her hair was in a beautiful Senegalese twist like mine. We introduced ourselves and she asked for a picture. I took it and asked where she was from. She told me she was from the Congo. I blurted out that I loved her hair and that I was always struggling with what to do with my own hair and that I was proud and so happy to be meeting the president while wearing a hairstyle that was representative of my culture, my father’s country, and the birthplace of civilization. I blurted out that I was so happy to be both African and American while meeting our nation’s first African American leader whose own African roots were so clearly displayed in his name. Like mine. Somewhere in my blurting out what must’ve sounded like high-pitched nonsense to this stranger, I forgot to be nervous. I forgot to sweat myself into a river. All of the rest had drifted away and all that was left was pride.
After just a few more minutes, I was next in line to greet the leader of the free world and the first lady. I had a slip of paper in my hand with my name printed on it that I’d been given at the metal detector line. The paper was to be given to a woman so she could announce my name to the president and first lady. When the woman began to say my name, President Obama cut her off, and said, “I know who she is! You’re the BOMB, girl!” He stretched his arms wide and embraced me with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Yeah . . . the president of the United States of America said that I was the “bomb”! That’s pretty much the end of the story. I mean, what else do you need to know? The president said I was the “BOMB”! Good night.
17
Will I Still Be Beautiful When I’m Not Fat?
True life: I can’t stop checking out my ass in the mirror . . . and the window . . . and in shiny cars I pass in the street.
—my Twitter
I HAD MOSTLY BEEN ASLEEP DURING my two-night hospital stay. I’ve always had trouble sleeping, but the anesthesia stayed in my body for so long after surgery that it was hard to keep my eyes open long enough for the nurses to check my vitals and force me to walk around the hospital floor every four hours. Right after one of my hospital strolls, I lay back in that weirdly comfortable hospital bed and scrolled through my phone to see what amazing shit on the Internet I had been missing during my slumber. My birthday was three days before the surgery, so my phone was filled with belated birthday texts, calls, and tweets. I scrolled down my Instagram and came across a comment.
“I don’t understand why you still fat. All that fame and money and you ain’t got no trainers or surgery? The fuck!”
I smiled. Then I laughed. I laughed so hard I was afraid I would pop my brand-new stomach. I held on to it as I continued to laugh, hoping I wouldn’t hurt myself. I clicked that little button the nurses kept telling me to click when I felt pain. They said it was morphine or something, but I’m sure it was just a placebo, like the walk button at pedestrian crosswalks. The button makes you think you can control something, but really, you ain’t got the juice like that. I pressed the “morphine” button anyway and continued laughing like it was my last laugh ever. The entire bed and even the IV bag stand that looked like a robotic coat hanger were vibrating. Maybe the little button did work and I was totally high, because I couldn’t stop laughing at that comment. All I could think was that in a few months when I’ve decided the time is right to start talking about my surgery that asshole is going to claim it was all his idea! He’ll probably tell his friends, “I TOLD her to do it! I wrote it on an Instagram picture of her as a bunny! I TOLD HER!” This guy and all the other Internet commenters who have tried to shame me into changing my body are going to think they finally got through to me, that they have some power over what I do with my body. But that’s the funny thing about Internet comments. They are the same as those walk buttons. Just placebos. They don’t really have any power over me. You ain’t got the juice like that!