[Stories & Tips]

I’m sitting in the car, leaving my dad’s house after his latest weekend. My mother has decided to pick us up. It’s hot out and the air conditioning hasn’t kicked in. It sucks being fat. Dad comes up to the car, tells a joke or two, and then looks down. He tells mom that her tires are low on air. That can’t be right. She filled them a week ago. Just before she gets out to take a look, my sister leans forward from her seat in the back. She’s about to make a comment. It’s not intended as a shot or an insult, but a statement of fact. Often, that’s how things change, when facts become clear. She leans into moms’ ear, turning her eye toward me to check that I wasn’t listening, and whispered in her ear. My sister is good at many things, whispering is not one of them.
“You’re forgetting Erik’s in the car?”
Immediately my mother starts to laugh. By now I have made it known that jokes about my weight are welcome, that I can get a laugh out of them too. But that statement had an effect I had not anticipated. I was used to not fitting in restaurant booths or theater seats. I was used to running out of breath after walking for ten minutes. Never in my life did I think I could be fat enough to deflate a car tire to an extent where it looks low on air. She continues laughing and gives me a kiss on the head, trying to soften the obvious pantsing I’ve just received. I turn to look out of the window, wondering how long it takes to cook in a mid-summer sun. Then I close my eyes, not realizing at first, but feeling that slow motor of change start to grind inside my giant gut. Never again.

Looking back on that, it’s hard to believe such a stupid comment started a life changing event. When the ride attendant waved me through, the air conditioning cooling the sweat on my forehead, I stuffed my hands in my pockets. I could feel my hipbones protruding. Every step I took was easy, without extra effort. My pants were loose and not fit for pitching a tent. A girl or two cast her eyes my way. I try to hide my smile but it refuses to be denied. This is going to be my first time in over a decade. Could I handle it?
When I reach the top of the ramp I can see the dim silhouette of the train cars, eager to accept the next batch of riders heading up Space Mountain. Two years ago my hips would be hurting and my body would never fit. People would be sneering at my futile attempts to get in. Now, I slip into the front car with ease and relish each click of the safety bar against my stomach. There’s a brief jerk when the train zooms forward. The indoor winds smell of warm metal. I almost want to put my hands up as I go through a tunnel of swirling lights. For the first time since I can remember, I call out with a jubilant yell.