LITMIR.BIZ

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to feel whole. Besides, Kim says diffidence is the best way to catch a guy anyway.

      And, like my monthly goal, ditto on Bible reading and prayer.

      This decade: See above, plus get married, have a baby and/or become a marketing consultant genius and get rich and famous. (If so, I can always marry after.) It might be fun to be a philanthropist instead of a parent for a few years. Besides, I am in no rush to meet a man (note yearly goals).

      I weighed myself this morning and couldn’t believe what I saw—even when I stood on the scale with my palms on the bathroom counter. Unless I learn to levitate, it is very clear that I have to go on a diet. I’ve heard the body clings harder to excess weight the older one gets. I just didn’t think it would cling so hard so fast….

      Anyway, I was already late for work by the time I discovered the waist-expansion issue (my euphemism for disgusting fat). Although being marketing coordinator at Innova Computer Solutions—ICS—allows me to dress casually, I doubt belly bloat oozing out of my zipper is allowed.

      Rather than search my closet for a larger pair of pants (impossible anyway, because I refuse to buy a pair), I hooked the waistband together by looping a ponytail holder through the buttonhole and stretching it over the button (a trick I learned from Kim in the early days of her pregnancy). With a long shirt, tails out, and a jacket, I hoped no one would notice the bulge. I did, however, suddenly begin to wonder about the quality of the rubber used in hair bands. A few deep knee bends loosened the fabric, which had obviously shrunk in the wash, and I was on my way. I spent most of the day treading the fine line between mandatory shallow breathing and hyperventilation.

      If only solving problems at work (work—is there a way to indicate a shudder on paper?) were so easy!

      My boss, Harry Harrison, went mental on us today. He discovered an upcoming trade show at which it was imperative that Innova be represented with a booth and marketing people. Unfortunately the show is next week, and I usually need a lead time of two months to prepare. Harry didn’t seem to care that he was the one who forgot to inform the marketing department of this vital trade show. Harry is a computer genius, but not the most organized man in the world. Frustrated, too, probably. I’d hate to be a balding man named Harry Harrison. But I digress….

      The good news at work today was that I calculated that banging one’s head against a wall uses at least 125 calories an hour. That meant I earned 500 extra calories for my birthday dinner.

      In spite of my newfound caloric knowledge, I had to go to my parents’ house for dinner. Mother’s pork chops and onion gravy should be applied directly to my thighs, because that where they’ll end up anyway. The mashed potatoes with a life raft of butter floating in the center settled directly on the flubber keeping my pants open. (I’m going to write a thank-you note to the rubber-band manufacturer tomorrow.) And the minimal calories in the “I-realize-angel-food-cake-isn’t-your-favorite-but-I-know-you-are-dieting” birthday cake balanced the mounds of whipping cream covering it.

      Mother, at a hundred and one pounds and a metabolism that won’t quit, has never gotten the hang of dieting. A cruel trick of nature if ever there was one. No matter how thin I am, at five-eight, with broad shoulders, a potentially slim waist and size nine shoes, I’m always referred to in the family as “the big one.” It’s a wonder I’m as sane as I am.

      I knew it was going to be a bad evening when Mom opened the door with her shirttails tied in a knot over her belly button and a tiny battery-operated fan in her hand. It wouldn’t be so traumatic if menopause had crept up on her slowly, so Dad and I could grow accustomed to it over time. Instead, it was like a door flying open and quickly slamming shut—one moment she was on one side of the door and the next she was on the other. If she’d had a choice, she would have picked the prize behind any other door. She has a good attitude toward this new phase of her life, however. She says the hair on her legs grows much more slowly now, and she doesn’t have to shave so often.

      “Come in, darling,” she said, scraping damp hair away from her forehead. “Daddy is in the kitchen opening the windows. How can you stand to have those heavy clothes on in this weather?” She reached for my lightweight sweater, but I crossed my arms and hung on. The air conditioner was running full blast.

      “Hi, Pumpkin.” Daddy crossed the room to give me a hug. No matter how old I get, I’ll always be his little girl.

      “How are you?”

      “Getting along, despite the fact my back has started going out more than I do.”

      “Quit with the old-age jokes, Frank. You’re in the prime of life!” Mom gave him a glare that should have melted steel.

      Daddy winked at me and headed for the table. He was, as he always said, “being a duck.” That’s how he and Mom had managed to be married all these years and still be happy. When I was growing up, every time my feelings were hurt, he’d tell me, “Be a duck, Whitney, let it roll off you like water rolls off a duck’s back. Ducks have oil in their top feathers that keeps their under-feathers dry. You need to grow a few oily feathers. Don’t let mean words or insensitive comments make you uncomfortable. Let them roll right off.”

      If I ever marry, I think that’s one piece of advice that will come in very handy.

      “Tell me, Whitney, have you heard from that nice young man from church?” Mother asked as she held an ice cube to her temple and stirred the gravy. It had a quarter-inch of shimmering grease on top.

      That “nice young man” is forty-five if he’s a day and very adept at evading eligible single women and their matchmaking mothers. If the church had a football team, he would be their halfback.

      I performed my own punt, pass and kick maneuvers. “Cake looks great, Mom. So, Dad, how about those Vikings?”

      My mother has a knack for entertaining. She once took a class on twenty ways to fold a napkin, and we’ve never had a flat napkin since. Tonight they were shaped into little hats with “Happy Birthday” stickers all over them. She’d made a centerpiece of chopsticks, ribbons and cutouts from egg cartons that looked amazingly like a bouquet of balloons. She uses her “good” china for every meal. My “good” china consisted of a collection of Rainbow Bright glasses and the wicker holders for paper plates.

      We sat down at the table and began the same conversation we’ve had every year since I quit having little friends over to play on my birthday. It involves Mother recounting the entire day of my birth, from the saga of when her water broke, through the race to the hospital during which Dad’s car ran out of gas, right into the delivery room. These stories give me far more details than I ever wanted to know. I am deliriously grateful that Dad did not have the presence of mind to bring a video camera into the delivery room.

      Then, as is their custom, they wandered into their own childhoods and reminisced about wax lips, Black Jack gum, drive-in movies and sodas that came in glass bottles. Sooner or later they would remember whose birthday it was and start regaling me with stories of my own life—usually the ones I’ve tried for years to forget. Like the time I wet my pants in Sunday school and tried to sneak the damply incriminating evidence home wrapped in a picture I’d colored of David and Goliath. Or the time I “borrowed” a trinket from the drugstore without paying for it and Mom made me take it back and apologize. And the Sunday school Christmas program when, in a fit of shyness, I tried to hide and got my head stuck between the spindles on the altar railing, bottom out toward the congregation. My only consolation is that I had ruffles on my panties.

      My presents—always an exercise in surprise—were quite nice this year. I got a savings bond from Grandma (who hasn’t really accepted that I’m no longer in grade school), a new outfit from Mom and the traditional money folded in a card identical to the one I get every year. Mom purchased the box of cards several years ago when the local band was trying to earn enough money to go to Epcot Center. She says the cards are too ugly to give to anyone except family. No exercise equipment this year (apparently she’d found the Thighmaster I’d received for my twenty-eighth birthday unused in my garage). And thankfully there were no books by Martha Stewart on how to plan a wedding or notes indicating

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