TITLE: TWENTY MILES IN
GENRE: New Adult Romance
Lindsay’s measurements were even more impressive than quite a number of A-list celebrities. Or so she said. Not the celebrities in the boring movies, she assured me. Her measurements were up there with the bimbos who’d started out in cheesy videos and then turn up as the romantic lead in adventure blockbusters starring craggy but weirdly youthful movies stars left over from the eighties.
Today Lindsay wasn’t quite so satisfied.
“I look like s*** in this crap,” she said.
She smoothed the expensive Patagonia top-layer shell coat over her waist, trying to create darts where no darts existed. “I look like the Michelin Man. This would fit, like, anyone.”
She was right that the gear did not exactly delineate her perfect hip-to-waist ratio, though it didn’t come any smaller.
I spent my adolescence listening to metal-mouthed middle school boys call me a whale or bark at me at my locker. Even after I’d reached real adulthood and ditched almost all that extra weight, I got nervous every time I glanced in the mirror. My own reflection still felt like a Halloween costume, like a Cinderella spell that surely would disappear at midnight. Or worse, in a dressing room, trying on swim suits.
And that made it a whole lot harder to listen yet again to skinny, perfect Lindsay complaining while she stared at herself in our apartment’s cheap full-length mirror.
“You should wear this coat, Emma. It’s probably big enough,” she said.