Cross the Line

Cross the Line - Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Saturday, October 27, 2007. 7 p.m. — Getting dressed. 

“Wow,” Grace said to her dressing mirror. “So this is how it’s gonna be?”

 She stood alone in her Marie Antoinette–styled bedroom, her jeans lingering at her ankles. She felt defeated. On the left side of the room, opposite the mirror, sat a yellow Louis XVI couch accented with reddish hardwood carvings. Ornate gold mirrors of various sizes decorated her pale blue walls. Grace had even nailed crown molding to the walls to mimic the 18th-century French style.

Emma, her 5-year-old Dalmatian, lay curled up in her baby blue, antique-patterned doggie bed underneath the window that was between the couch and the dressing mirror. The doggie bed was intentionally placed under the window, which was covered with a cream-colored lace drape. Emma had picked the spot herself — she liked to bathe in the sun when it shined through.

Grace felt she had succeeded in creating a very girly, cheap version of French opulence. Yet, what she hadn’t achieved was looking skinny in her jeans.

Grace braced herself for a second attempt.  

She heaved the jeans up. They made it over her thighs, but not over her butt.

She grunted. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Just get them over your ass already.”

Grace hunched over a little bit and slid her thumbs into the belt loops. Then in one swift motion, she stood and yanked.

She was shocked — the jeans were over her butt. However, she couldn’t celebrate, not quite yet.

She still hadn’t zipped the damn things.

 “Okay ... here goes.”

 Grace sucked in, pulled the jeans together, then zipped.

Success. The jeans were on. 

She didn’t feel successful though. She could barely breathe. Her right thigh felt like it was going to burst through the denim.

Grace turned around in the mirror to check out her butt.

“I am so fucking fat!”

Emma picked up her head at the yell, then laid it back down, realizing there was no emergency.

“All right. All right. Let’s try to find a fucking shirt.” Grace shook her head — she was losing it. She took a sip of her vodka and club soda. Club soda had no calories.

She entered the walk-in closet and started looking around.

Black spaghetti-strapped tank top? “No.”

White wife-beater tank top? “Maybe.” 

She put on the tank top and looked at herself in the mirror. It was okay. She could spruce it up with some cool jewelry.

She turned sideways.

“Goddamn it.” Grace put her hands to her stomach and tried pushing it in. “This just isn’t working.”  

She changed six more times, trying various tank tops, tube tops and push-up bra combos. Finally, in utter frustration, she gave up on the jeans. She momentarily eyed a tiny black dress but quickly dismissed the idea. She would never feel comfortable wearing something that skimpy. All night she’d feel like people were judging her.

She settled on an A-line black skirt that hid her saddlebags better than the jeans, along with a tight-fitted, cream T-shirt. She added some funky leather boots and gaudy jewelry.

 Grace went to the bathroom mirror and checked her hair and makeup. She’d done it earlier in the night. She knew her pathetic routine would undoubtedly cause her to run out of time otherwise. She tucked a piece of dark brown, loosely curled hair behind her ear. Her thick black mascara hadn’t smudged and light blue eye shadow was still on her eyelids. She thought the combo worked well with her pale complexion and steel blue eyes. Grace turned her face from side to side, checking to make sure her bright pink cream blush hadn’t worn off. Thankfully, it hadn’t. She was about to walk away when she hesitated, then went fishing into her makeup drawer. She hadn’t put on any lipstick. She always had to force herself to do that. It completed the look, sure, but she’d inevitably spend the next 15 minutes subconsciously rubbing it off.

Grace took one last look in the mirror.

She looked great, funky and stylish.

She felt fat, awkward and stupid.

In a serious state of misery and self-loathing, Grace reluctantly grabbed her keys and hurried out the door.

All 113 pounds of her.