My Big Fat Low-Fat Wedding (18 page)

“You told Creepy Kid that you were coming to see me on the hills today?” I ask Brenda before scraping a hand down my face in frustration.

She doesn’t answer me. Instead, she continues to shout at Stalker Boy. “Thomas, you’ll have to do this gully cleaning elsewhere. Emily and I are using this path!”

He doesn’t answer either of us. He just clangs the lid of the bot shut after ducking back down inside.

“How rude.” Brenda huffs.

I can’t help thinking that Thomas’s manners far extend that of mere rudeness. As of now this boy has fully creeped me out. I dread to think of the effort he must have gone through to enable himself to be up here on the hillside in such a contraption. I also dread to think his reasons for doing so were because he knew I’d be up here.

Chapter 12

On this new morning that is free of stalkers I awake to full on cramps. Not stomach cramps due to diarrheal problems. Proper cramps due to the fucking period. Or as I like to call it: THE MONTHLY CURSE.

I hate the period. I especially hate seeing tampon and sanitary pads adverts on the telly when it’s my time of the month. Once, when I was changing my pad last year, as I sat there upon the toilet peeling of the paper bits, there was a surprise to be had that was written upon the sticky surface. ‘Have a happy period,’ it said, mocking me.

Have a happy period? A happy period?

At the time of reading I was incensed with rage. Luckily I hadn’t taken my phone with me into the bathroom —as I am often want to do for pee-tweeting purposes— if I’d had my phone with me at the time of sitting there on the pot, I would have called up the stupid and idiotic feminine products company immediately. I also would have promptly embarrassed myself with an irate phone call asking why. Just why would you think it sensible to tell women to have a happy period?

I’ve never for the life of me been able to figure out who could have possibly created the world’s worst ever sanitary pad ad. There is no such thing as a happy period. In my opinion, there isn’t even a period that’s mediocre, in terms of emotional levels during this abysmal time of the month. As far as I’m concerned, the day medical scientists create a safe way of not ever, ever having a period will be the one and true happy day for me.

Such is my life being a woman though, I’ve no choice but to deal with my period coming on today. I roll over in bed, stuff my hand into the bedside cabinet and come up with menstruation medication. I may have no choice in the amount of blood that oozes out disgustingly from between my legs, but I’ll be damned if I’m just going to lie here and let cramps over run my life. I’ve got to get to the salon. I’m trying out different bridal hair styles for the big day.

After swallowing two pain killers I drag my phone off the bedside table. I’m going to lie here and wait for the medication to kick in, so I might as well check my Facebook and Twitter feeds. Also, I’m feeling quite lonesome having awoken after Callum already left the house, so I send him a text message consisting of a single icon. No words, just a little picture of a spewing lava volcano.

My fiancé texts back promptly:

Poor you on your period. X

He understood my picture message perfectly. I text him back an icon of a frowny face and I get many hugs and heart pictures in reply. Who needs actual words in this day and age of technology? Mini icons speak volumes in text message format. Although, virtual hugs don’t make up for lonely feelings, so I FaceTime my fiancé.

Callum’s face comes on the screen. “Oh yes you’re definitely on the period.”

That’s his greeting? “Charming.” I grumble, but I must admit I probably do look like shit.

He laughs. “Sorry, babe. You know you’re always gorgeous to me at any time of the month.”

“Good save.” I wink at him from my prone position in bed. “I just wanted to tell you that you’re going to have to hire me a solicitor.”

Callum’s face, on my small phone screen, has turned very frowny. “A solicitor?”

“Yes, I’m being stalked.”

“Stalked?”

“Is this phone working properly? Can you hear me, or are you just repeating everything I say to be annoying?”

“Okay little miss period with attitude, that’s enough from you.”

Sticking out my lower lip, I pout like a child. “I’m serious, Cal. This kid from the Meli Spa is following me around town!”

“Oh really?”

“Yes really. I’m worried he’s going to murder me in my sleep soon. I need a person of the law to help me file a restraining order.”

My fiancé, who isn’t taking me seriously enough, pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m going to get back to work now, my love. Give my best to your stalker and I’ll see you tonight.”

“What?” I jerk upright. “You can’t just ignore this, Cal.” I whinge into the screen of the phone. “Thomas is so irritating!”

“Good bye, darling.” My similarly irritating fiancé waves to me from inside my phone. Then he blows me a kiss and ends the call.”

I harrumph out loud. “So much for chivalry.” Honestly, Callum isn’t nearly as jealous of other men as I think he should be. Not that I consider a spotty teenager to be a grown up man in the slightest.

Sliding out of bed, my feet hit the carpeted floor depressingly. Is it possible to have depressed feet? I’m certain that today sad feet are indeed entirely possible. So I shuffle sluggishly towards the bathroom. Once I’m on the bare tiled floor, I stop and stare at the scales.

Should I step on it? I don’t know if I want to weigh myself after eating wrong so recently. There is much trepidation in my heart. It’s just a set of bathroom scales I’m looking at. I should get over myself and just check my weight. I mean really, I know I’ll probably have gained a few pounds. It’s not like I’ll step on the scales and they’ll reveal an entire stone in weight gain. I’m just being silly.

Either that or I’m properly afraid.

I’m a bride to be. I wonder if all soon-to-be-brides develop eating disorders. It’s definitely not normal for me to be standing here for ages like this, just staring and staring at the scales. It’s probably going to take some kind of mental miracle to push me onto the glass platform. I don’t know how I’m going to convince my brain to get over the fear of flab.

I look up and glance into the mirror that’s on the wall.

“Look at that, brain!” I’m talking out loud to myself. Oh well, I figure I lost the plot long ago when I took my first steps into this bathroom today. Not being able to step on the scales has done my head in and I’m going to have to take special measures to knock some sense into my mind. “See how angular my jaw line looks?” Again, I’m speaking to my own reflection. I drag a finger along my chin. “No more double chin disaster area for me!”

Closing my eyes I count to three out loud.

“One.” I back away slowly.

“Two.” I lift my right foot and place it onto the cold glass surface of the bathroom scales.

“Three!” I step onto said scales and…

And nothing. I don’t dare open my eyes to look down at the digital read out that will tell me how much of a big fat cow I truly am.

I suppose it’s time for another countdown then.

This time, I reel the numbers off in my head as I’m too busy squeezing my whole face tight in order to keep my eyes shut. It’s as though I have to work against my own facial muscles just to get my eyes to open. I have no idea how I’m going to control my neck in attempts at getting my head to face downwards. This is internal insanity. I’ve gone completely bonkers and I’ll need checking into a mental institution soon!

“Right. This is it. Emily Clare Gillam.” I scream at myself. “Open your stupid eyes and look at the scales this instant!”

Well, I certainly can’t disobey my own vehemence in the matter. I overcome whatever’s holding me back. I strike mentally against the fear of fat gain. Whipping open my eyes I crane my neck down and peer at the scales.

What I see on the readout is nothing short of a complete and total anti-climax after all the idiot mental insanity I’ve just put myself through.

I’ve actually lost half a stone in weight.

***

I am a woman renewed. Again. Because I seem to feel exuberance quite often, depending on my mood. Oh well! At least I’m happier now than I was upon first waking this morning. Losing weight during the period will do that to a woman. There’s nothing better than seeing that the pounds have fallen off when stepping on the scales. Okay so it had taken me some critical thinking skills to get myself to initially step on those scales in the first place, but once I’d actually stood on them and having seen my weight loss, I’d definitely stepped on them repeatedly after that!

I’m on my way to Tina’s salon for bridal hair testing now, and I’m headed there with a spring in my step. Lighter steps, because obviously I’m a person who weighs half a stone less than she did the at the last weigh-in. Therefore, my boingy footfalls of happiness truly are lighter in mass and pounding-the-pavementus-impacticus!

Swinging the salon door open wide, I rush indoors. “I’m here, Tina!” I exude confidence. “Make my hair as beautiful as the readout on my scales.”

The receptionist looks at me funny as I swish grandly towards the high countertop. Obviously she doesn’t know what I’m talking about, but it doesn’t matter, Tina will sort out my hair to match my weight loss happiness.

“Have a seat,” the receptionist says. She’s got a small bob haircut that’s dyed a hue of bright red the likes of which I see a lot more often lately. “Would you like a hot drink?”

A hot drink on a warm sunny day? I think not. “I’ll just have some water please.” I plonk myself down onto the sofa in the waiting area. Smoothing down my light chiffon trousers, I sit at the edge of the couch with my shoulders back and down. Normally I tend to sink inwards in attempts at squashing down the honest size of my boobs. Today though, I’m positive they’ve already begun to shrink, so jutting my chest forward isn’t likely to poke anyone’s eyes out from breastal impact when I enter a room.

“Oh, Emily, you’re here.”

Standing, I greet Tina merrily with a big grin as she’s just entered the waiting area.

Bbbzzzzzz. A grinding sound emanates from the back of the salon and I glance past Tina’s shoulder.

Oh for fuck sake. My good mood has just been completely ruined because the salon trolley shaped robot is zooming towards me at high speed.

“Shoo!” Tina turns and waves the thing off. “I told you to stay in the office, you crazy little thing.”

I guess her robotic model from Oliver is a voice command unit, like Kirsten’s boombox bot.

“That little bugger giving you trouble?” I ask Tina.

She straightens and leans against the trolley-bot who seems to be pressing at the back of her legs. “No, no. This thing is fine. It’s just…” Tina’s talking trails off and she frowns deeply. “Never mind, Emily. You need your bridal hair examples done today, right?”

I nod, but I too am frowning immensely at the buzzing bot behind her. She’s pushing it back while walking in reverse. “Umm… Stacy will be doing your updos today, Emily.” Tina looks nervous, then, she turns and places her hands onto the persistent robot. “I just (grunt) have some work to do in the (grunt, push, strain against the machine) office!”

She finally gets her last word out before managing to shove herself and the bot away.

Well, this is a bummer. I don’t know why Tina can’t just admit to me that her trolley-bot is a walking disaster area of a machine. Or should I say a floating disaster area? Because that’s what these robots are and I just wish everyone who’s been duped into having one off Oliver would get a clue. Returning the crazy devices to their inventor really would be the best thing to do for everyone involved. Mainly me, as they seem to malfunction around my personage most of the time.

I really wanted it to be Tina doing my sample wedding hairdos. I’d gone through bridal magazine after bridal magazine with her last month. She’s the only one who knows which styles I want for my blonde hair.

“Hhuuuuhhhh,” sighing loudly in exasperation I plonk back down onto the sofa. I have to stand right back up again when Stacy enters the waiting area of the salon.

“Hello, Emily,” she says, pulling her own blonde hair into a ponytail and securing it with a scrunchy. “Tina showed me the magazine pics you chose for your bridal hair. Shall we get this on you?”