Chapter 4 - 4

I stand uncomfortably with a glass of water by a not-crackling gas fireplace.

It's Thanksgiving, and I have to endure the gauntlet of this falsely highfalutin event with my parents and their business and professorial friends. I've been doing my best to avoid talking to no one. My job has been picking at the cheese and crackers and tugging at the sides of my sweater.

One particularly annoying thing about gaining weight, even the slight amount I've put on (26 pounds is NOT slight you illusionistic fatty) can really mess with your "nice" wardrobe. I have plenty of loose jeans and cargos that I've been wearing for the past month, but Thanksgiving caught me off guard; all my nice clothes are (were) fitted and are not very comfortable.

When I put on my khaki slacks earlier, I knew I might be in for some trouble. There is hardly any wiggle room in these things. Tight all the way around, especially in my ass. I stand facing the wall so no one sees how protruding it looks in these pants.

I have not adjusted my formal brown belt past the normal notch because I don't need to. It is very tight on me but tight is good, it means my pants are staying on and not failing in any way. Also, I haven't gained THAT much weight (liar) and I don't need to loosen my god damn clothes up.

I hear the door open and a chorus of hellos emerge, one of them familiar. Thank goodness, Katie is here.

I wait for her to wade through the tide of greetings before I see her. She gets through, puts her coat up, deposits her dish, looks like sweet potato something, and then I wave to her from the sitting room where I am.

She gives a semi-excited "Hey!" and trots on over. We hug and exchange pleasantries. She looks good, a not-to-fancy blue dress that doesn't really hug her curves anywhere else but her chest.

I'm glad she's here.

We chat for a while, crack jokes at our parents and the other folk, and time passes on nicely. Soon enough, it's finally time to eat, Katie and I agree that we are both starving and ready for the food. A call is heard from the dining room: time to eat!

Good.

Like everyone else, I load up my plate with a little of everything. I sit next to Katie, and we laugh about how every stuffing looks the same. I try every one. First plate's gone pretty quickly, and it tastes amazing. Turkey and cranberry and stuffing and rolls and butter and gravy mix together and I before I know it, I'm scraping my plate. Damn, this is good food- better than I have been eating recently. I notice that I've polished off a plate rather quickly, but I don't even feel it in my stomach.

Katie notices: "Wow, John, that was quick!" I laugh and make some comment about it being Thanksgiving or something stupid like that. I ask her to pass the mashed potatoes and she obliges.

Seconds plate fills and disappears almost as quickly. I feel a bit full now. I'm much more aware of what's going on underneath my stomach right now: my zipper, button, and belt are completely trapped underneath my gut. I feel how tight I have tied the belt and wonder how it would feel if I loosened it. Not at the table, not here. Not ever. My sweater is tight against my stomach as it was. My fitted clothes are not fitting well.

I realize that I am eating way too fast- most everyone, and that's about a dozen or more adults, is only just now finishing their first plates, and many of them are pushing their plates toward the center of the table, signifying their completion. I'm pretty ready for dessert already. I don't want to stop eating.

I look over at Katie, and she pushes her plate in, then looks back at me. She playfully pats her stomach, blows air through her lips, then laughs. I laugh too. I ask her what she thinks a good time to get dessert would be. She answers with something like Jesus, give it a minute, people just finished eating.

I am not completely full, and therefore impatient. I pick at a little more food for the next thirty minutes and talk to Katie. My favorite is the sausage stuffing. I mention this to Katie and she laughs as I spoon yet another glob saying, "I can see that!"

Finally, my mother announces that desserts are available to grab. Katie and I immediately stand up. We play-race to the kitchen and start cutting up our choice of pie. Pecan, cherry, and apple for me, chocolate for her. Before I can pull away, she spoons a dollop of some that sweet-potato-marshmallow stuff she brought in on my plate. She smiles and says that she made it herself, so I must try it.

We return to the table and tuck into our pie. We finish about the same time, even though I have triple the amount of dessert as she. I stifle a burp and nonchalantly tug my sweater down a bit. I don't think it's riding up, it just feels taught.

We still laugh and chat, about school and douchebags at school and college applications and quiz bowl, but we have been hushed this entire time because of all the older folk there. We see that some people have retreated to other areas with their wine and liquor, and Katie asks if it's alright for us to relocate. To escape the discomfort, I say yes, we can probably go to the computer room and sit. I grab my plate and we both stand up. I lead her to the computer room, but not before stopping by the kitchen again for another slice of pecan.

Damn, that's good pie.