There was only one word to describe me and that was fat. Fat as a melon in its full ripeness, fat as a double-decker hamburger threatening to capsize, fat as a woman’s belly heavy with triplets. My body moved slowly, heavy with itself, unable to trip along as fast as my words.
The irony was, I wasn’t fat enough. I was certainly bigger than I’d ever been, and too heavy to practise or to attend backdancer auditions, but still eight kilos from the deadline. The trouble was, my weight gain had reached a plateau at 90 kilograms despite my arduous daily regime of spicy fried chicken, sweat potato pizza, jajang noodles, hot dogs and ice-cream sundaes. As soon as I woke up, I reached for the mini chocolate bars that I kept stacked in my lower dresser drawer. I ate three portions of french fries a day. I’d sneak in an extra piece of pound cake after dinner.
