CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The hot pellets of water bounced from Diana's face and shoulders, slithering down the numerous curves of her body to the warm sudsy pool on the shower floor. Had showers always felt this good? Diana could not remember the last time a shower had been anything more than going through the motions of proper hygiene. Life had been about nothing more than going through the motions of existence. But that was all changed now. As she reached for the shampoo, her eyes were drawn to the cubic zirconia stone on her left hand. Her mother was right—it did look like an engagement ring. Not that it wasn't lovely, but how would she woo the men if they all thought she was engaged? Diana made a mental note: Return ring. And then, as the warm water continued to glide over her body like an endless stream of healing aphrodisiac, her thoughts returned to the sensual and soothing powers of the almighty shower, and she couldn't help but feel lust. But it was more than sexual lust. It was a lust for experience, for living with bright eyes fixated on a future that included more than self-loathing and strawberry shortcake. This was the first shower she'd taken since her rebirth in the living room with Mrs. Bartle. She would let it be her baptism: washing away all prenatal sin, most especially the sin of hating herself for twenty-six years, she would emerge from the bathroom with a spirit cleansed for a life renewed. She felt thinner already.
Diana got out of the shower, and as she stood there towel-drying the beads of holy water that still clung to her baby-fresh skin, she heard her mother's voice blaring from the answering machine, desperately trying to slither its way underneath the bathroom door. Mrs. Christopher was explaining, rather frantically, that she'd thought it over and that after the cancer scare and everything, she'd realized that nothing was more important than mother-daughter bonding, so even though she was tired from her new aerobic schedule, she was still willing to make the time for their weekly routine and really hoped that Diana had not made other plans, like with that sweet old lady what's-her-name from upstairs (or was it down?), but if she had, was there any way she could cancel them? In other words, she wanted to know if Diana could meet her at Ping's at 12:30.
On her way to the restaurant, Diana stopped at the post office to mail the controversial "engagement" ring back to EasyShop. It hadn't even been two weeks since she'd received it, and the host on the air had promised a thirty-day money-back guarantee. Before pulling out of the parking lot, Diana made a promise of her own and wrote it in her diary, which she'd decided to keep in her glove compartment whenever she left home so that she'd never really be without it. After all, it was important to record every success, every goal, every wish, and all occurrences worthy of entry as soon as they happened. In this case, she'd been struck with an excellent motivation for weight loss—a promise to save the $36.95 refund from the ring for a pair of size-ten jeans. And as a PS to that promise, Diana vowed not to buy them until she really was a size ten.
Now a size sixteen, she could still vividly remember the high school horror of being a twelve and stuffing herself into a ten every morning: the sigh of relief she'd breathe after completing the first hurdle, which was actually getting the pants over what she then viewed as her abnormally gigantic rear end (although now she'd thank her lucky stars for a size-twelve ass), before flopping backward onto her bed to fight with the zipper, which generally got stuck midway and had to either be cursed at (Fucking piece of crap zipper!), coaxed along with baby talk (Come on, we're almost there . . . There you go . . . Atta zipper!), or begged (PLEASE don't do this to me! I'm going to be late for home-room!). And then it would be off to school for a day of physical anguish with the denim inseams of her jeans chafing her thighs when she walked, and the waistband clawing at her stomach whenever she sat down.
She could still recall the wonderfully liberating feeling of coming home to peel that torture-cast off of her body each afternoon. But looking back, the reward—that is, the luxurious appreciation of being able to breathe at the end of the day—was not rewarding enough for Diana to even consider partaking of that lifestyle again. Sure, sometimes her size sixteens got a little tight in the stomach after a large meal, which is why she often unbuttoned them under the table when she went out to eat. But for the most part, she knew she was a true size sixteen. And these painful memories of her size-twelve-denial days made her realize that she'd rather stay a true sixteen than be a mock ten that spent at least half of her waking hours trying to learn how to breathe without busting out of her clothes. But something told Diana that in time she'd be able to fit all of her life-lusting vitality into a size ten without wishing an attached respirator were the "must have" accessory piece of the season. And that vision alone was more to live for than any azalea-adorned tumor blimp in the clouds.