Melody
Family reunions are the worst.
They’re literally, absolutely, completely the worst.
I didn’t even want to go to mine, but my mother offered me a free guilt-trip, and I accepted. That’s the problem with me: guilt wins me over. Every time. It’s like a sickness or a disease. I always say I’m going to stand up for myself, but in the end, I’m weak. In the end, I’d rather not rock the boat, especially when it comes to family. I don’t know why I still think this way, why I’m still stuck in this mode of thinking because they’ve never been there for me.
I’ve always been on my own and somehow, I’ve managed to do all right for myself. I have a decent job and I make decent money. I have an apartment and a car. My student loans are paid off. Somehow, none of that matters when you enter the world of a family reunion, though.
Somehow, what matte
rs then is when I’m going to have a baby or when I’m going to get married or when I’m going to buy a house. Somehow, what matters is that I’m still a little overweight and not nearly as thin as my younger sister, Mandy. What matters at family reunions is that I have too many piercings and not enough modesty.
What matters is that I don’t fit in.
And I never have.
“It’s not that I’m telling you to lose weight,” my mother says, picking up a carrot and waving it around. “It’s just that I think you’ll be happier.”
“I’m happy the way I am, Mom,” I insist. She glares at me when I reach for the cookie on my plate, and I don’t pick it up. Instead, I act like I was reaching for a piece of celery, and she nods in approval as I start to munch on that, instead. Inside, I hate the way I’m giving in to her. I might talk a big game, but I’m avoiding things I want to eat because I don’t want her to complain or fuss at me.
“She’ll never get a man looking like that,” Uncle Henry says, walking by the picnic table where I’m sitting with my mother. He shakes his head as he makes his way over to Aunt Eloise, who is much too thin for her height.
My entire family is much too thin, I’ve decided. I’m the only normal one. That must be it. They all have body issues and self-esteem issues and they definitely all have eating disorders. Why else would they all be so gangly and scrawny?
It’s not me.
There’s nothing wrong with me.
I repeat this silently to myself, over and over. There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m fine the way I am. I don’t know if I really believe this anymore, though. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m starting to question whether I really am fine.
Maybe they’re right.
Maybe there is something wrong with me.
Maybe there’s a reason all of my friends are getting married and I, at 29 years old, am not. Maybe there’s a reason the rest of the world really has settled down and I seem to be content with my same old job, with my same old life. Maybe there’s a reason for all of it. I don’t know.
I can’t think straight anymore.
Suddenly, I realize I’m close to tears and if there’s one thing I promised myself I would never do, it’s let my family know just how deeply their words really affect me.
“Excuse me,” I say, getting up from the table.
“It’s almost time for games,” my mother says, wrinkling her nose, as if the idea of me missing a game is just too much for her to handle.
“I need to use the restroom,” I say. I need to be polite right now, proper. I need to have good manners even though no one else seems to have them.
My mother presses her lips tightly together in a thin line and glares at me. Usually, she gives me this look and I cave. We don’t live together. I don’t even see her that often: maybe just twice a month. It doesn’t matter, though. She glares and I obey. It’s what I’ve always done. I’ve always been this huge pushover, but right now, I don’t want to be.
I stand and climb back over the attached bench, then head toward the restrooms.
“Well, I never! That ungrateful-” I block out the sound of my mother’s voice and make my way toward the bathrooms. I just need a few minutes to get myself together, a few minutes to calm down and unwind, and then I can go back to being the daughter. Then I can go back to being the well-mannered overweight dork nobody likes. Yeah.
What a life, right?
The tears are already streaming down my cheeks when I reach the bathrooms. I push open the door and go into a stall to cry. Somehow, I manage to do this silently. Good. I don’t want to draw any more attention to myself than I already have. The last thing I need is for someone to judge me further. The last thing I need is for someone to know how much their words really hurt me.
Suddenly, the door to the bathroom squeaks open and I hear giggling and laughter.