Chapter 4: Wednesday Night

There’s a glass of wine at my elbow tonight, a pink zinfandel, and a formerly frozen oven pizza which, in my opinion, are in direct contrast with each other; though the latter fits in perfectly with the game I’m playing this evening: World of Warcraft.

Yes, I know.

Speaking for introverts everywhere, sometimes you just gotta tune out the world and tune into the only thing that makes sense. My character, a Pandaren, which is essentially an upright panda with an attitude, is currently wandering around the plains of the digital world when I feel warmth between my legs.

From my position on the couch, I take my eyes off the wall mounted television (to which I’ve connected my PC) and look down. I see that Oliver has made his presence known by leaning his entire body against my calves like it’s his job. Other job titles include alarm clock, heater and knocker-over of his cat house.

“Hey buddy, not now. Give me a few more minutes.” I resume playing with my wireless keyboard and mouse on a tray specifically designed for couch-gaming sloths like myself (thanks, Amazon).

But he will not be deterred and leans into me still more firmly. “Meowrrrrr.”

Those long, drawn out cries that every cat owner recognizes may as well be a klaxon and a warning.

Pet me, or die.

“Alright, alright.”

Begrudgingly, I log out of the game, slide the gaming tray to the side and reaching for the tv remote, swap screens. I was beginning to feel that tonight’s digital campaign was beginning to feel like work, anyway. I blink my eyes rapidly, feeling just how strained they had become after hours of playing as they adjust from my video game to live television. I think those blue-blocker lens people just might be on to something. I pick up my phone, open my Amazon app and quickly add a pair into my cart, completing the order. Two-day shipping. Bam.

God, when did shopping get so easy?

HGTV is on and is the perfect palate cleanser. Chip and Joanna Gaines are beautifying a house on an unrealistic budget, in minutes.

Phone still in hand, Oliver, now sensing he’s getting my attention, leaps onto my lap. He settles into his favorite position, his tail furling and unfurling around the paunch of my distended belly, made more so by this evening’s dinner.

“Love the kitchen remodel for this house.” I send off a quick text and reach for my wine taking a sip, and replace it on my coaster. My fingers fumble against the stem of the glass, but do not knock the prized liquid over. I may have had more than one this evening.

Within seconds, I get a reply. Then Replies.
Danielle, true to form, one building complex over and three floors higher, responds. I look through my walls in the direction of where I know she will be, and it makes me smile.

Ping. Ping. Ping. Text after text comes in.

She’s one of those multi-texters. You know the type. The ones who fire off SEND every few seconds instead of containing everything in one message like, I dunno, a normal person. Just a little pet peeve of mine, but between friends, you always let it slide.

“I know!”

“The high hats in the ceiling are to die for”

“And the choice of wood against the black and white theme of the cabinets is spot on”

“I love these goof balls”

“Chip’s gotten fat again, I wonder if Joanna is pregnant again?”

To emphasize her point, she’s followed up by sending an eggplant, peach and pregnant woman emoji. She must be drinking also, which makes me smile that I’m not imbibing alone.

This last text gets a snort of laughter out of me, and I reply with a smiley face and wineglass emoji.

She responds with a wineglass emoji, too.

For those who don’t watch (and I don’t blame you if you don’t, seriously), these house shows are shot over the course of several months, though it’s rolled into a single, hour-long episode. That said, Chip and Joanna (husband and wife) have like 400 children and she’s either stick-thin or gravid with their next child, over the course of an episode. Chip, her wise-cracking energetic co-host of a husband, can be clean-shaven and well-muscled or sporting a shaggy mop, a mountain man beard and sizeable paunch. This episode it’s the latter, and his belly is very apparent by the graphic t-shirt he’s chosen to wear. It clings to his middle as he’s pointing to the overhead ceiling for the future home-owners benefit. They are all ‘ohhing’ and ‘ahhing’ now. The show cuts to a commercial for…cat food.

This channel knows its audience too well.

I stroke Oliver, who is now deeply settled in my lap and enjoying every minute of attention he’s getting. I reach for the zinfandel and take a final sip, feeling nearly as content as he is. The liquid bathes my tongue and I swallow, noting it is just on the right side of cold as I drain the glass. I close my eyes, feeling that slight tingle that lets you know you’ve went from sober to buzzed. It’s a feeling I try to limit during the work week, but when you live alone with no one other than a cat as a roommate, willpower gets you only so far, and there’s no angel on my shoulder to ‘mind the drinking’ or ‘those are a lot of calories, tonight’. And besides, it’s not like I’m pouring shots of whiskey or tequila.

I lick my lips and swallow. The coolness of the wine has now warmed the insides my stomach and radiates throughout my body. Feeling really cozy now, nearly as cozy as Oliver, my mind wanders. What would it be like to be pampered like a cat? To have your meals offered to you in convenient dishes, to have nearly on-demand physical contact as often as you want it? Well, why not pamper myself this evening? If I were a cat right now, what would I want? Comfort or nourishment?

My thoughts are slow to come, like processing has suddenly become difficult. I feel slow to come a conclusion and a wave of fuzzy carbonation pulses through my brain as I’m weighing options. What question did I just ask myself? Why did thinking get so hard all of a sudden? I smile to myself and stifle a hiccup.

“Oliver, I think one of us buzzed…is bussed. Buzzed.” I whisper through thick lips, suddenly a tad giddy. My mind decides on nourishment, but now I’m torn between wanting a second one (bottle, that is), but not wanting to draw the ire of Oliver, I instead reach for the pizza. I’m not really that hungry, but it is on the other side of 11:00pm and…idle mind, idle hands, right?

The pizza, for store bought, is surprisingly good. I usually dress it up with a little extra cheese or use an infused basil olive oil that I bought online a few months ago. It literally can go with everything. This evening, I have done both.

Tonight, I’ve decided on enjoying only half of it and saving the other half for tomorrow morning’s breakfast (don’t judge, we’ve all been there). My eyes dart to the plate before me, which has a little less than a quarter of the pie, to my fridge where the other half resides, nestled on a separate plate protected by clingwrap.

You might find a half of pizza and a bottle of wine an odd choice and a rather small meal for someone of my size, but technically, I’ve already eaten earlier today, so this has become my ‘evening snack’.

We had an amazing surprise staff lunch earlier today and Danielle insisted I take the leftover bento boxes home, five in total. Each one contained an artesian sandwich on ciabatta bread with a garlic-avocado aioli sauce over grilled chicken, baby spinach, alfalfa sprouts and roasted red pepper.

Oh, and did I mention the individually wrapped double-chocolate cookies the size of your hand that were in each box?

As I reach for the plate of pizza, I feel the side of my body crease, fat folds against rib as I strain not to disturb Oliver in the process. Suddenly, I feel like Tom Cruise from Mission Impossible, though taller, equally as handsome (in my opinion), but certainly more well-fed. The pizza is back in my hands, and I hold the plate over and above Oliver as the commercials end and the show resumes.

Resting the plate on my belly seems like the best logical place right now. I wipe a few crust crumbs off my stomach between bites of pizza, wishing I had changed out of my work clothes, today a pair of navy-blue slacks and a light blue checked button-up dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I did have the decency to unbutton the top two buttons and let out my belt a few inches. Sitting here though, the pants feel tight. Even though these pants come with ‘expanded-waist technology’, which is a secret elasticated design that allows the pants to accommodate ‘2 additional inches of room to maneuver’, I’ve somehow exceeded the limit of the 34-inch waistband and am likely hovering around 36. My belt, which was expensive, has gone beyond its final loop and a few weeks ago, I had to carefully add another notch.

Chip is back explaining to the homeowners of the reno choices, and they nod in agreement. As he talks, his hands are folded across his belly, and I suddenly feel a kinship with him.

My thoughts drift from Chip’s belly back to my own body as I reach and nibble on the pizza once more, noting how the plate balances on the bulge that is now my stomach. My button-up dress shirt is spread thin and tight across my belly, and I note the pull of the buttons between the two pieces of fabric so that the white of my undershirt shows through. Fortunately, this only happens when I sit down and not when I stand at work, else I’d have to make some upsized choices in my wardrobe during my next online splurge. But then, I consider that my pronounced spread this evening is likely due to the five bento boxes that I came home with. All five may or may not have been eaten by yours truly. I wonder if Chip is a sandwich guy?

Between bites of pizza, I can still taste the cookies from somewhere in the back my mouth, like one of those delicious chocolate nibs has decided to camp out between my molars for a moment before joining its brethren deep within my stomach. I let my tongue swirl around until I find said morsel and with a hearty swallow, it’s gone.

I look from across my couch into the open space kitchen next to me. To the far side is Oliver’s food and water dish. In the center is the sink. To the far right is where I do all of my food prep (tonight, it was the daunting task of opening up cardboard, removing plastic, grabbing a sheet pan and turning on the oven).

Who’s a five-star Michelin chef? This guy, right here.

In the center, under the sink, are my recycling and garbage receptacles. Inside there are bodies buried. Five bento boxes, to be precise as well as an exsanguinated bottle of zinfandel. Sometimes, when I am melancholy, I might think about the calories of the foods I’ve eaten over the course of a day or during a particular meal. Sometimes, I think about the food choices I make and what kind of impact they might have on my body. Salad vs. steak. Potatoes vs. porridge. But then, I remember that feelings are a choice. It is what we do with the information when we acknowledge them, that makes all the difference—at least that’s what my therapist reminds me of.

Her name is Jackie—Dr. Jackie, my therapist, and is really quite good at helping me see the forest for the trees. She always helps me to keep the big picture in mind when I sometimes get stuck perseverating on the small stuff that in the end, may not always matter. We have standing appointments either weekly or bi-monthly, depending on where she feels my headspace is at.

Sidenote: some people feel that therapy is a waste of money and time. And, to them, I say – that’s your opinion. But, according to me, and if you’re still reading this, then at least you find my points of view somewhat of interest; I think therapy is a great tool for helping to discover more of who you are and why you do the things you do.

My thoughts drift from Dr. Jackie to the television, to the now empty plate (had I eaten the pizza that quickly, I barely tasted it?), to my empty wine glass, to Oliver who is dutifully snoozing on my lap. The heat from his body is like an electric blanket and the thought of this makes me sleepy.

Reaching for my phone, I spot the time, 11:47pm and my body betrays a yawn. Bedtime, young man. I also note on the home screen, a notification for my 7:00pm zoom session with Dr. Jackie scheduled for tomorrow, Thursday. Oh, how the universe works.

Oliver purrs and his tail twitches and I’m suddenly considering not wanting to wake him. I wiggle my backside deeper into the cushions of my sofa and contemplate using the throw blanket that is behind my head as my camp-bed for the night and forgo the long, arduous walk to my bedroom, all of 20 feet away.

But then I stifle a small burp and the combination of wine, sandwiches (artesian or not), cookies and pizza make me reconsider.

“Sorry buddy, let’s take this into the bedroom.” I say aloud, lifting him as gently as I can and put him to the side. He opens one eye accusingly, but he, too, seems to note the time and judges this to be the right move.

I gather the empty wine glass and plate and put them in the sink. The small walk forces another yawn out of me. I suddenly feel the heaviness of my evening binge and put a hand to the side of my stomach and feel how big I’ve gotten. I try to slide my fingertips between my pants and shirt but find the task difficult. Instead, I opt to let out the belt loop, untuck my dress shirt and undershirt as well as thumb the clasp holding my pants together. A wave of pressure is eased, and gravity lets down my zipper halfway, but my fullness keeps the pants firmly in place. Switching off the kitchen side light and television, I lumber down the hall and into the bathroom, unbuttoning the fabric as I walk.

My bathroom is of moderate size with two hampers, one for dress clothes and one for regular. I toss the dress shirt into the appropriate hamper and lean against the doorway to ease myself out of my pants. My balance tonight is not great as I hop-catch myself getting my legs freed. Each jostle sends a ripple through my dense body, and I am considering that I may have overindulged this evening. Glancing down, as I fold my pants to be worn at a later date, I see the domed surface of my belly through my white undershirt. The place where my navel would be casts a shadow and I poke into the fabric hollow. I raise my arms a few inches and note that the shirt, a large (did I mention one wine-imbibed evening I accidentally Amazon ordered the wrong-sized undershirt size and now they have gone from baggy-loose to form fitting?), clings to my body like a second skin and that, raising my arms a few inches higher, that the bottom lifts up to expose a few inches of faintly hairy belly. I let my arms fall back to my sides, but the shirt remains stuck in limbo, as if deciding whether to obey the laws of gravity, or not. It ops for the latter.

I put my dress pants to the side and pull the edges of the shirt back down and make my way over to the toilet to relieve myself. My bladder suddenly insistent to make its presence known. I reach into my boxers to grab the soft warm flesh between my legs, noting the elasticated waistband has gotten a little smaller. A make a mental note to check that I am still using cold water on cotton fabrics to prevent material shrinkage. Did I put the larges on today or a medium? If the larges have gotten tight, we may have a future wardrobe problem.

I rest a hand on the wall behind the toilet, partly for balance, but partly so that I can see myself. My distended belly eclipses most of what I can see between my legs, although, I know its still attached. I cannot recall the last time I was able to fully see myself down below.

My mind searches back as I flush, wash my hands at the sink and reach for my face creams and begin my evening routine. I suppose I got bigger to the point of eclipsing myself shortly after my knee injury. My belly emphasizes this point as I lean over the sink to apply the eye cream to the skin under my eyes, which are black and hollow looking. God, I need more sleep.

I can feel the flat edge of the sink indenting my belly. I look into my face, which has also gotten softer over the years. I apply the moisturizer across my softer cheeks which are rosy-red (but that could be from the wine), along my forehead and down the sides of my softer neck. The fingers that apply the creams I note have gotten thicker, too.

I reach for my toothbrush and apply liberal toothpaste and flick the switch on and I can hear the constant drone of the electric bristles purging any food remnants from between my teeth. The noise always attracts Oliver, no matter where he is in the apartment and, like clockwork, he appears like a specter at my ankles and lets out an inquisitive purr.

“Hey buddy, nearly done.” I say between spitting out the paste and reaching for the mouthwash. As I gargle, I spy a crease of skin under my neck. A crease that has gotten a little deeper over the years. Was it due to age or have I just gotten a little fluffier?

Refreshed, my tired feet make their way to my bedroom, my hand reaching for light switches as I go. The apartment is very dark, save for the glow of my cellphone as I enter my bedroom with its familiar things and familiar smells. Not unpleasant smells, but ones that tells you someone lives here.

I sit on the edge of my bed, feeling the confined spread of my boxers and Oliver hops up and heads to his usual spot on the far side with the spare pillow that I used to share with someone ages and ages ago. Though the scent of him is long gone, I can still feel the indent in the pillow from where his head had lain.

Reaching down, my belly obstructs the removal of my socks, but I get the job done. Too lazy to go back to the bathroom to deposit the socks, I instead throw them in the vicinity of the open door. My shirt clings to me and the room suddenly feels a little hot, despite being climate controlled. I feel like I’m stuck in a sausage casing, uncomfortable. Or could it simply be from the slowly digesting food? Either way, this shirt needs to come off. With effort, it parts company with my torso and it, too, joins the socks by the door.

The air feels cool around my upper torso, the prickles of sweat across my chest and under my arms begin to evaporate like magic. I reach to pull back the sheets and crawl in, feeling the bed groan slightly as I lower my weight onto it. I can feel my body spreading out, sides, stomach and chest as I lay there.

The thought of checking in with social media crosses my mind, scrolling to see what my favorite celebrities and friends might be up to, but a triumphant yawn suddenly escapes me that is so big it makes my jaw ache.

‘Ouch. Okay, no phone.’ I tell myself, as I push it across my nightstand a few inches further.

I roll over, my back to the phone, my face turning towards where I know Oliver will be. He’s already asleep and purring. Or, at least pretending to be. My ears listen to the familiar sounds of an apartment closed down for the evening. I hear the light rumbles from outside: a car door opening and closing, the base-filled beats from some song I don’t care to know; the faint chatter from Mr. and Mrs. Nextdoor and Mr. and Mrs. Upstairs.

I feel my eyelids getting heavy and don’t pretend to stand in their way any longer as I feel the first wave of sleep take me, its soft ripples like birdsong. I reach up to scratch an itch under my chest and note the softness of my breast before reaching my hand upward to mold my pillow into place.

Tonight, there are no dreams, only contentment and a very, very full belly.

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