Who’s That Girl? by Celia Hayes (1)

Me in the Middle

“Come on, damn you – fit!”

If there were a world championship for clothing contortionists, I’d win it – hands down!

“Come on… we’re nearly there…”

It’s half past seven. I have only thirty minutes to get ready, and I still haven’t been able to do up these damn jeans. It’s always the same with jeans: when you try them on for the first time in the shop, they fit perfectly and so, obviously, you buy them. Then you wear them once and, of course, you wash them. And that’s the end of your jeans: once they’ve seen the inside of a washing machine they wouldn’t fit you again even if you covered yourself with Vaseline.

“Come on, you stupid jeans! Fit!”

I end up rolling around on my bed, desperately trying to make the button go into its buttonhole, but somehow the damn thing manages to stay out. Maybe the button and the buttonhole have decided to divorce and share joint custody of the zipper, I think, snorting in amusement at my own stupid joke.

“Sam, it’s almost eight,” my mother shouts up from the stairs.

“I know… I’m almost ready,” I shout back breathlessly. I decide to gather my energies and give myself a little motivational talk. “Girl, you passed your exam in corporate marketing so you are not going to give in to a stupid pair of denim pants even if they are low-waisted!”

“Sam, you’re going to be late!” Mom shouts up, as though I didn’t already know.

“I’m almost ready,” I lie. I know very well that I won’t be able to leave my room until I get these jeans on. For one thing, they’re the only clean pair I have at the moment and the alternative is my tracksuit bottoms, and something tells me that the world might not be ready for the sight of me clad in those just yet.

“Come on, you dumb jeans, come on… Why won’t you give a little? Just… a… little… Ha!” I shout in relief. I really don’t know how I did it, but I’ve managed to do up my jeans. I feel like I deserve to celebrate my victory.

Unbelievable, right? Even today, I’m actually going to be able to go to work. All I need now is a dark, baggy and not overly casual top to go with my jeans, and that’ll be a cinch, given what’s in my closet. Since I was a teenager, practically all the clothes I’ve bought have been dark, baggy and not overly casual. ‘Middle Earth off the rack’ is what I call it.

That’s what happens when you’re not plump enough for people to find you automatically funny but you’re still not skinny enough for pretty much everything else. You end up in a sort of limbo and become either the connection between other, much cooler people, the safety net for friends who’ve been stood up on a Saturday night and found themselves at a loose end or an opportunity for aunties who are looking to get their sons married off. Have you ever noticed that there’s no place for the square pegs in this world? If you’re really overweight, society feeds you mottos like ‘believe in yourself’, ‘because you’re worth it’, ‘you’re special’ and ‘that’s not what really counts in life’. But what if you’re like me? What if you’re just… cuddly? What if you’re just… a bit soft? I mean, what if you’re not a skinny model with your bones sticking out all over? In that case, you’re classed as one of the ones who don’t want to pick a side – the undecided ones. And does that have any serious consequences? You bet it does, and they’re all catastrophic. Nobody has enough time to appreciate difference any more. You can be either one or the other. If you don’t adapt to fit that rule, you’re out of luck. I guess it’s a question of practicalities: life is easier when you can categorise everything by a set of origins, contents, functions and weights that everyone has to comply with. Special offer, two emotions for the price of one, hurry while stocks last. It’s a bit sad, but on the other hand it does save you a lot of time.

And what do I think about all this? Erm… Let’s say I try and live a quiet life, that’s my philosophy. And to be honest, I’d happily go along with all of it if it weren’t for the fact that my metabolism is an anarchist who insists on fighting against the impositions of a society whose unhealthy rules are dictated by the fashion companies. And so here I am – a woman who is well aware that she was born in the wrong decade and who is resigned to spending the rest of her life eating diet bars. I’ve given up the idea of constantly trying to change my weight to stay in line with whatever the ideal of the day is, so I just wear oversized pullovers. All I can hope for is a miracle. Or alternatively, a GQ model who desperately needs affection.

“Phew…” I sigh.

Then I look at myself in the mirror, and that makes me sigh again.

No, it’s a disaster. This isn’t going to work.

“Smile. Come on, Sam, smile a little,” I say to try and encourage myself. “Cheeeeeese…”

Jeez, that looks more like something from a horror movie than a smile. But it’ll do for now.

“Sam, will you hurry up, please?”

“I’m coming!” I mumble, grabbing my keys from my dressing table just before rushing down the stairs. And at that moment I just let the daily routine take over, get a kiss on my cheek from my mom, pet my cat, Samson, for a moment and then run out of the house, desperately hoping I’m still in time to catch the cable car to Union Square.

My stop on the Powell-Hyde line is just two blocks from my house, and there’s a car every twenty minutes or so. When I see Market Street on the horizon, I’m already late for the quarter past eight car, but luckily it’s been stuck at the traffic lights, so I’m fortunate enough to be able to jump aboard before the driver can start the motor again.

Once inside, I make my way past a group of young boys holding onto the straps and look for a quiet corner where I can get my thoughts in order.

Today’s schedule:

I doubt that I’ll actually be able to avoid that, though, because he is…

“Free?”

“I wish…” I sigh.

“I mean, is this seat free?” a woman of about fifty asks me, gesturing to a seat next to where I’m standing.

“Err… Oh, sure, of course it’s free,” I stammer. “Please, go ahead.” I move out of her way so she can take what is, I realise too late, the last free seat on the car.

Then the traffic light turns green and the journey resumes, all the passengers with their noses buried in their freshly printed newspapers. Looks like I’ll just have to stand for the whole trip – that’ll teach me to have my head in the clouds. The road outside flows past as we travel, and a jazz song starts to emerge from the car’s speakers.

“It’s 8:00 a.m. and this is Love Attitude 89.9 FM, the radio station that speaks directly to your heart. Another rainy day in San Francisco. The cable cars are packed and the traffic on Powell Street is at a standstill. The city has woken up and so the Love Attitude gang here at Fisherman’s Wharf studios is here to keep you company with the unforgettable voice of Nina Simone in that classic from the fifties. It’s still dawn on the West Coast – way too early to get up, so stay in bed for a little while, turn the volume up and stay with us on 89.9 FM, Love Attitude, the radio that reaches you across the airwaves of love.”