DIAMOND IN THE ROUGH

‘Take it off! Take it off!’ the drunks, the lonely, the sex-starved men shouted to Gypsy, Belle Starr. They bumped and ground their luscious soft hips suggestively.

Mine are soft alright. My best friends, Helen and Flo, nag me to death. ‘Take it off! Take it off! You’re fat!’ ‘I’m not fat. I’m pleasingly plump. Barry loves every inch of me.’ This conversation has become monotonous. They are not nice to me any more. We go to lunch and I do try to cut down, leave off the mayo, use Sweet ‘n Low in black coffee, skip dessert. They eat twice as much as I do and have figures I am almost ready to die for, but I’m not going to take up tennis. Who carries extra large tennis wear? Besides I don’t like the game, never watch it on t.v., not even the Wimbledon finals that Barry had to see from beginning to end.

Helen is curt, says nasty things to me. She makes me feel like crud. I know she means well but constantly bugging me is having the wrong affect on me. We part. I go straight home, make a low salt muenster cheese, sliced thin, sandwich. I cover it with mustard, fight the devil and manage to leave off the ham.

Flo doesn’t condemn me as often as she used to. Her tongue is tied but I can see pain in her eyes, know what she is thinking when she sees the rows of bulges in my blouse. ‘Take it off! Take it off! You are getting fatter. You are going to burst!’

Barry and I go to bed. I am afraid I will crush him. Our bed squeaks and I do not want our children to hear us. I lay there like a cold fish.

My 40th birthday is next week. Barry is lost. He doesn’t joke with me, doesn’t promise me a three carat diamond ring, like he has been doing for 5 years. And I don’t tease him, don’t dare suggest a turquoise negligee with lace trim. What I do is pretend I don’t know my birthday is almost here. I feel I am failing as a woman, as a mother. School closes in four weeks. Neither Barry or I have mentioned a summer vacation. At dinner my darling son asks if we can go up in a blimp, winks at me, and says, ‘Never mind. We have our own!’ Barry stifles his laughter and is able to give Sid hell.

‘Don’t anyone bother getting me a present,’ I tell them, and mean it. I have everything I need, and then some. ‘For my birthday dinner let’s go to the Green Salad Joint. I promise, honest, I promise, I’ll use only oil and vinegar, no bread, no potatoes, no corn, no dessert. O.K.?’ I keep my promise.

At home, in private, Barry hands me a small box, wrapped in silver paper with two tiny red hearts hanging on the ribbon. What a surprise! I gasp. He chose a gorgeous marquis diamond ring, too small for even my little finger. He also hands me an envelope that has a certificate for a six week stay at Franny’s Fat Farm. It has a guarantee to take 50 pounds off of me. I get the message, loud and clear.

I accepted both gifts and am glad to tell Helen, Flo, and you, too, that now my new ring fits fine and my bed no longer squeaks.