1
MIRANDA
When I look in the mirror, I grimace when I see how the crisscross pattern of my teddy clings to my body.
The changing-room mirrors at the boutique store I popped into last month must be those flattering, you’ll-never-look-fat-in-our-store mirrors, because this ensemble looks nothing like the one I tried on weeks ago.
I’m meant to be spicing up my marriage, not giving Roy more reasons to whine.
This hot little number is supposed to complement my curves. It’s made them offensive.
Roy will complain that there’s too much skin showing. He’s such an ass he’ll probably say I look like a pork roll held together by a mesh cooking bag.
As much as this kills me to admit, his hurtful comments aren’t far from the truth. My tummy has more cellulite than a man seeking a trophy wife would find acceptable.
Furthermore, due to a hectic pre-Christmas work schedule, my thighs are chunky enough that they clap when I walk.
While getting ready, I scared my Jack Russell terrier, Tempy, more than the luminous clouds darkening my hometown’s sky hours earlier than usual did. She’s a chicken when it comes to storms. Her tummy has been a bundle of nerves all evening.
Mine hasn’t been much better. Although I’ve been married for fourteen years, my stomach still gets butterflies whenever I dress up for a special occasion.
They’re not good flutters.
I can’t recall the last time Roy and I had sex. I think it was Easter the previous year…
Actually, scrap that. His aunt had an emergency not long after we exchanged sugar-laden gifts. I ate his share of our treatsandmine.
My stomach hurt for days, and the scale was just as damning the following week, but it was the most satisfied I’veeverbeen.
My plump lips arch at one side when I twirl, taking in the entire package.
Not bad, Miranda. Not bad at all.
I have plenty of junk in the trunk to deviate even the most disinterested man’s eyes from my stomach, and a trip to the salon this afternoon did wonders for my hair.
My face isn’t half bad, either.
As my grandma always said, a couple of pounds on the scale will plump out any pesky wrinkles.
I appear closer to mid-twenties than mid-thirties and look put together. Possibly hot.
I doubt my husband will agree, though. He hasn’t issued a single compliment since we exchanged vows.
Ugh! Why do I put myself through the torment?
Roy is a dick. I should have left him years ago. It is just hard to remember a life without him in it. He swept me off my feet when I was young and dumb and when he could cover his flaws with a rigidly sharp jaw and a handsome face that concealed all his lies.
I married him too fast. We hadn’t even dated for six months.
It was fun at the start, but now that the shine has long worn off, I’m on the cusp of depression.
That’s what my outfit is about. It’s our anniversary, and as much as I wish I were in sweats, eating ice cream out of the tub and watching my favorite shows, I need to do something to re-spark our connection.
Roy promised our rut would only be temporary, so I must give him the chance to make true on his promise.
It is the most I can do since he’s not kept a single one in the past fourteen years.
I flop onto my bed, sending sprigs of curly brown hair bouncing against the sheets I wrangled into submission only thirty minutes ago. I’ve changed the sheets, cooked a feast fit for a king, and rid my body of almost every hair it owns.
