I have a nice Greek mother.  Mom’s only wish in life was to have good children who could get along in public and avoid shaming the Andreadis family name. 

Her wish wasn’t granted.  Not even close.

She has one daughter who’s gorgeous on the outside but is pretty much scorched earth on the inside. 

In my senior year of college, I was home for a visit and a date stood me up.  I dressed up, took particular care with my makeup, and even shaved my legs. 

A waste of fucking time.

Feeling sorry for myself, I threw on pajamas and parked myself on the couch to watch a documentary about famine. 

Ava interrupted to ask me if I stole her eyeliner.

Without looking at her, I replied, “No, bitch.” 

Stepping in front of the television, she pressed her point.  “I spent thirty bucks on that eyeliner…” 

“I care about your irresponsible spending habits, why?” 

Ava has this thing she does where she puts her arms straight at her sides and screams with her mouth closed when she’s mad. 

Shit always made me laugh. 

“My belongings matter, Petra!  My life is just as important as those starving kids from whatever country!  Stop laughing at me!”  Storming away, she screamed, “Mom!”

My little sister.  Spoiled and petulant.  Convinced since birth that the universe revolves around her and we’re all subjects breathless to do her bidding.

Then there’s me. 

“Koukla, you are a whole different kettle of fish,” my grandmother always says.  It’s quickly followed by, “When are you going to get married?  You’re not getting any younger.” 

“I know, Yiayia.  I know.” 

She doesn’t like that I own my own business, hates when I curse, and thinks I’m still a virgin. 

To be fair, she isn’t happy with a lot of my mother’s decisions either.  We don’t fit the Old Country mold for women. 

I’ve been known, once or twice, to drop atom bombs of sarcasm on certain situations. 

I’m honest.  I tell the truth no matter how much you don’t want to hear it or how mean you think I am. 

If you don’t want me to give it to you real, it’s best if you don’t choose me as a sounding board. 

You’ll only get one warning if you come at me with the phrase, “What do you think?”

I’m more than happy to tell you.  In detail.  With graphics and charts and a few reference materials to back up my point of view. 

I can take it as good as I give it. 

Over the years, I’ve lost a ton of friends for telling them real shit without the honey drizzle.  The ones who stuck around are awesome and the ones who didn’t I should have realized sooner were more trouble than they were worth. 

If you’re not under the age of seven, over the age of seventy, or recovering from a medical procedure, don’t expect me to hold your hand literally or metaphorically. 

Let’s keep it tight and keep it moving, people.  Life’s too short.

I mentioned my sister is gorgeous on the outside.  Ava got the few skinny genes we have in our curvy family and good for her.  God knows she uses that gift like a blunt instrument to get her way in every area of her life. 

On the flip-side, society is bursting with a lot more ladies who look like me.  Strangely, we’re still overlooked. 

Women who happen to be the perfect size look at me and think, “Hmm, she has such a pretty face.  If she lost weight, she’d be dazzling.  I should talk to her about this latest diet (pill, exercise, etcetera) that totally works.” 

If you’re one of those, know we won’t be friends.

Pretty but chubby (they’re mutually exclusive, yo) women are on every corner.  We outnumber the pretty and skinny women (which is so the same thing) like three to one. 

I’m five-six and a size sixteen.  I sometimes require an eighteen or a twenty if the cut doesn’t account for my boob and ass abundance.  That’s my reality and has been since high school. 

Before you ask…I’m healthy, oh concerned citizen. 

I don’t smoke and keep alcohol to a minimum.  Meaning I need a minimum of one glass of wine a day but will occasionally down a whole bottle on a Friday night while binge-watching House of Cards. 

Apparently, all us fatties look alike.  I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard, “You look so much like my sister, aunt, cousin, first grade teacher…” 

Think about that for a moment.  Creepy, right? 

Moving on. 

If you see my plus-size face eating a burger as I race from one meeting to the next or sipping on the milkshake my assistant grabbed when she picked up the print order, don’t assume that’s all I eat. 

I don’t care to discuss my food choices with you so don’t take it as your cue to talk to me about joining a gym or how I need to ditch carbs to control my weight. 

Seriously.  You don’t know me. 

I eat healthy more often than not but I run my own business and I’m busy as fuck.  Unless I’m with my mom, food isn’t my top priority.  I’m on deadlines and it’s none of your business. 

Do I make faces at your disgusting kale smoothie or judge when you make the choice to go gluten-free?  No.  I do not. 

Stay in your lane and I’ll stay in mine. 

Besides, my body appears to like things exactly the way they are.  My boobs and ass enter and exit rooms separate from the rest of me.  They look good, I’m not gonna lie.  I can rock a wrap dress better than any skinny girl out there.

I was born with them and could have been Mae West’s body double back in the day if they gave me a blonde wig. 

I’m used to them now so try not to stare.

My assistant eats about eight thousand calories a day and thinks McDonald’s is a food group. 

Her idea of exercise is doing a fist pump after leveling up in Call of Duty or having to reach over really far to grab her cell phone.  She’s a twig without trying. 

I’m plump, also without trying. 

She wishes for my tits and I wish I could wear skinny jeans and not look like an upside-down traffic cone. 

The Stones were so right.  You can’t always get what you want. 

I digress. 

Admittedly, I wander off topic sometimes.  I’ll try to keep my shit together long enough to tell you how I pretended to be someone I’m not, for someone I dislike (for many more reasons now than at the time of the eyeliner fiasco), on a day that shall go down in infamy. 

My mother wished for good Greek daughters. 

Between the gossip, the drama, the yelling (the preferred form of communication in our house), and competitiveness, we gave her fits all our lives. 

Through it all, we managed to pretend we cared about each other in front of company.

Until the day my sister announced she was getting married.