Thin, p.2
Thin, page 2
Chapter 3: Fashion Channel
“Omph!”
I slump into my sinking couch cushions, relieved of the experience of people, and commuting, and Cecilia, and especially of her underhanded remarks. That woman always has a way of putting me in a mood. I let my eyes wander around my apartment, derailing my angry internal voices.
I live in a sparingly updated High Park North studio apartment, a small space with one large living area and a separate bathroom and a small bedroom. My main living room/kitchen/dining room is an open floor plan with a small kitchen island acting as my breakfast nook and dining room table. My filthy kitchen brings me shame, but only when my landlord sees it since no one else is ever around. I glance over at it and the dish rack crammed full of more dishware than I have space for. Most days I’m lazy and reuse the same plate and utensils. I really should organize it better. The pan sitting on the stove, how long has it been there? I squint at it, trying to think of the last time I cleaned it. Two days ago?
I recoil, curling up on my reclaimed mustard-yellow couch. It’s so ugly, it has a charm to it. Come to think of it, nothing in my apartment is new; not the coffee table buckling under piles of fashion magazines, not the dust-covered TV, not the looming figure of an ancient dress form, not even my loyal sewing machine pressed up against the windows, the only place with natural light. Even the couple of cacti and ferns I have are from somebody else, and I am proud to say, somehow not dead.
The apartment has all I need…except a dishwasher, and a laundry machine, and a dryer, and closet space, and more windows, and…The price is right, and the commute isn’t bad. And bonus, the bathroom has a bathtub in it that doesn’t leak all over the place. I suppose by Toronto standards if a person can afford to pay for it, and it doesn’t come with some unexpected roommates of the cockroach or rat kind, anything else is a bonus. Yes, I like my pest-free, rodent-free apartment.
I heft myself from my groove and stumble over to my reusable bag. From it, I pull the silks and walk over to my shelving unit and the bins for my fabrics.
“Let’s see…”
Before me, I face stacks of clear plastic bins containing yards upon yards of different fabrics. Organization is up to how pragmatic an individual is, but for my own sanity my system is set up by fabric type. I reach up and pull out the silk bin and then place it on the nearby ironing board.
“Okay, in you go,” talking to the silk like it can understand me. I lay the fabric with its brethren, a collection of thick, lustrous fibres, each waiting for the right opportunity to be made into a bouncy blouse or a flirty frock. They will all get a turn eventually. Smiling, I return the box back to its hiding spot.
I stand back and take a moment to admire my acquisitions. In my fabric collection, there are many prints and bold colour combinations, but most important is how many of these fabrics are of natural quality. I learned at a young age that the major fashion brands do not cater to rare body types; be it the super tall, super short, or super skinny. Rather than envy those who could wear such articles of clothing, I learned how to make them myself. Over the years, my craftsmanship improved to the point where even a trained eye can’t tell them apart from the real deal. High-quality fabrics make the difference too. Out of respect to myself, I deserve good fabric. Still, as I look around my apartment, I could give my environment a little more attention. Is it ever dirty. Too much focus on sewing and not enough on just about anything else.
I go to my fridge and muse over its contents. The mayonnaise jar is suspicious. I can’t even remember the last time I used it. Aside from the few lone condiments of questionable expiry dates, food cycles in and out of my fridge fast enough not to warrant inspection followed by condemning the building. It’s a little empty at the moment. I’ll have to go shopping sooner than later.
I reach in and grab a tray of sliced vegetables and a half-full container of ranch dressing, and bring my snack, maybe late lunch, early dinner, to the couch. Phone in one hand, remote in the other, I am prepared to entertain myself. A few taps through it and I have readied my idea of entertainment, the boring parade of recycled content, the Fashion Channel.
Wanna watch a bunch of people walk the same way while also maintaining the expression that their soul has died, and they are looking for a fresh victim? Watch the Fashion Channel, where a bunch of models stamp down bland runways, surrounded by people nodding and humming cordially to each design as it is flaunted past them. It’s so exciting…Of all the years I’ve watched, the number of models I have seen fall down is about a handful, and once there was a cat. Actual cat on the catwalk. It had a better walk than some of the models. But I am not here for the perfectly-sized models, and their shapely bosoms, and their spankable asses, and those ample muffin tops that look so grabbable that any man—or bisexual woman—would love to dig their fingers in and make love to their soft and pliable flesh. Grab me anywhere and there is bone.
Jealously and lustfulness aside, I am observing the fashion, honest. I queue up a few videos and stream them to my television and begin to watch.
First up is the winter review, as in the thing that is relevant to me at the moment. Women dressed in white, silver, and black coast down a blinding promenade, prowling the catwalk, asserting their dominance with each stiletto stamp. One by one they march by, pose, turn, and then walk away to make way for the next girl behind them. I pause the video.
“Hmm.”
A sultry reveal exposes a long-sleeved top, simple, uncomplicated, and absent of excessive glitter. I take a picture of it and caption the photo with, Michael kors b tunic w crystal, then resume the video.
Not long after I pause the video again, take a photo, and write, Michael kors b trousers slim w pinstripe. I unpause the video.
Michael Kors is good for business basics. Christian Dior is another solid designer for basics, sometimes really basic basics.
I watch the video and take a few photos this time, mostly of skirt and top combinations. Damn you, Dior, and your occasional use of custom fabric prints. I will never be able to acquire those.
I watch a few more videos, always scoffing towards the end. The “big dress” comes out, showcased by the highest-paid model the design house has on their payroll. I scrunch up my nose at the tulle monstrosity slowly tipping back and forth as it makes its way closer and closer to the camera, hypnotizing its captivated audience with its gaudy splendour. Disgustingly impractical and elitist, one-of-a-kind type of items, yet they look like a group of six-year-olds who raided mommy’s old clothes and stapled them together. These dresses are not flattering, not wearable, and impractical for any and all occasions. Pass.
I am going to call it for today. Got what I needed, which is a few clothing ideas, and time to jot them down. But where o’ where did my paper go? O’ where o’ where can it be?
Sketchbook. I need my sketchbook. I tilt the stack of magazines on the coffee table. Not there. Maybe…? I fixate on the couch and its general vicinity. Nope. Perhaps…? I sit up, crane my neck, scanning. It’s not in the kitchen. It’s not in the living room, but it should be.
I stare at my sewing desk, harder, narrowing in on it. The thing is stashed up against the corner hidden beneath my sewing box.
“Argh!” Why do I do this to myself? “Come here.” I swipe at it, retrieving it and the small pencil case looped through its ring bindings.
I slam my ass into the couch, huffing at the indignation of having to perform a search and rescue for a lone book. At least I found it and can get started with my next task.
Using the phone as a reference, I pull up the photos I took of a few items that had caught my eye. Then I proceed with the art of conceptualizing slightly fleshier stick people in outfits.
The process first starts with an empty page. I lightly doodle a skeletal alien, as can be best described, and start copying the clothing from the photo onto the creature. What I am actually doing is approximating an outfit seventeen sizes greater than mine onto something that is a size one.
Modern clothes are meant to accommodate human anatomy of a specific size. A straight-legged pant for a US 18 has a roughly fifty-inch hip measurement. A US size 1 is thirty-four inches. Making it straight on a smaller figure takes a whole different approach. I doodle in the pants and top, already with a pattern in mind that will work for it
Next, I search the designer’s online store to identify the materials used in the piece’s construction. I write it down. Anything missing from my inventory I will go and purchase, so as long as it is reasonable. Some fashion houses make an effort to find the most elusive materials possible.
My breathing calms down, my spirit settles. I am one with my couch. Planning outfits has a sort of ease to it once I got over the notion that I am actually appropriating someone else’s work. It’s either this or let everyone suffer the sight of a bare Naomi streaking by the CNN Tower. I refuse to wear the limited selection of hoodies, body pads, and sack dresses offered to the slim. Naked or bust. You’re welcome.
I eye my handiwork and its barely-legible chicken scratch across the page. Good enough for today. Time for some mindless man hunting.
Unlocking my phone reveals more dating apps than a person with a sex addiction would have. You name it, I have it, and then some. The one thing I do not have, however, is a date, and in order to get married I first have to find someone. Wedding bells for Naomi would be ringing for the end times.
The first thing I do is suss through my phone’s gallery for recent photos of me looking my best, which is a lot harder than the normies might imagine. Requirements include the right angle to disguise my paltry proportions as something substantial. The other must-have is what I always go armed to battle with, my maverick stitching skills. I upload the most recent vanity shot of me in some obnoxious club wear from my closet. It has so much sequined bling it could be mistaken for a second sun.
A few of the apps have numbered bubbles, how many messages I have received. I scroll through spam and requests for threesomes. If I had a girlfriend, I sure as hell would not be sharing her with these perverted losers. Really, most guys see the “and women” part of my profile and think I am into some sort of devious kink. They will forgive my thinness for the promise of a second woman in bed with them. I block each and every one of these profiles and move through the rest of the messages.
At this point I am all too familiar with the bot profiles. There are the Im horny & wet. Call me! ones that promise viruses and blackmail. And then there are the I have been waiting my whole life to find you, my love! ones that are equally dubious.
Block, delete. Block, delete. Repeat this process a dozen times. I go to CoffeeMate, a local dating app that sets up dates at restaurants, bars, and cafés halfway between two people’s workplaces or homes. Like if Yelp and Grindr made a baby, except the end result wasn’t strip joints with the best buffalo wings. I am about to block a message when something about it makes me realize it is human.
Hey. Saw your profile. You look really pretty. Do you want to meet up on the weekend for lunch or dinner? the message reads. I stare at it. For a bot it is a little lacking in Nigerian prince-scheme qualities.
There is a profile image of a white guy, bit pasty, probably some IT type, in his late twenties. Beggars can’t be choosers, I take a look.
The first thing I take note of on his profile is his name, Frank Newton. Suspicious but curious, I rove my eyes around, scrolling up and down, trying to find signs that this is a bot and the AI are taking over. I do not commit to reading anything until he passes the Turing test and I can declare him a real boy. That being said, I can’t tell if he is trolling me or not.
CoffeeMate is geared towards foodies and professionals looking to make meaningful connections. A lot of the sex stuff that comes through on the other apps is not mentioned here. His profile has the boxes ticked for Connecting and Networking. The first can, and often does, imply that the person is looking for relationships, though it can be used to find friends, who uses an app for that?
Between the two items, I can tell that he is indeed in IT, a system administrative role at a national securities company. He lists his interests as video games, Esports, and board games. Summary, a nerd. With the type of pay he’s making, at least he shouldn’t be living in his mother’s basement.
Food is a very important part of the app, and it’s required to submit at least three foods or beverages the user enjoys. Mine are all beverages, his are of the sandwich-style variety, such as burgers and hot dogs. I predict this is going to be a bad match, but he saw what I liked, so he knows what he’s getting with me. Or maybe I blinded him with one of my bedazzled dresses.
I scroll through some of the images he uploaded. Food photos are stacks of meat patties nestled in oversized buns. Images of himself are unappealing and don’t quite match up. His profile says thirty-three, but it looks like he’s in his twenties here, though some people do not look their age. I’m being judgmental. Maybe he is a nice guy and has a great sense of humour, I tell myself, as if I am settling. How I long for a man with broad shoulders, a wide chest, a barrel laugh, and some clear skin. At thirty-three this guy is a bit old to still have acne and skin issues. Cleanser and toner go miles and can be taught at any age. I can fix him, I can work with this. I’m desperate, I will try anything.
Sure. I’m available this Sunday whenever. I am going to let him decide the time. Men like meek women, and bisexual ladies are weaponized unicorns that intimidate them.
Where would you like to go? There is a button that will signify if we want to meet up halfway from locations of home, work, and other. I select home and send off the message. If he accepts my offer, then the system will show us a list of dining locations and make us pick our top three. Very democratic.
I sit back and wait. I am totally not nervous as I check my phone every ten seconds seeing if I will get a reply. Check. Nothing. Check again. Still nothing. Was I too brash?
Two minutes and I have gone from excited to abject misery. I let the optimism die and preoccupy myself with whatever is close at hand, the vegetable tray.
I take a baby carrot, dunk it into the dressing, and hold it in front of my lips. Instead of eating it, I suckle at the small amount of caloric nourishment that lapping the ranch offers me. Dressing is not food and I do not care. I double-dip the carrot back into the dressing and pucker the drizzle off the veggie. I glance over at my phone and smack the button on it. In the brief flash of the lock screen coming up and then going off, I see a message.
Intrigue gets the better of me and I smack at the device until it reveals the app. Pick a location. He accepted. I shove the entire carrot into my mouth.
Frank likes burgers, so I am going to give him burgers, even if gigantic gastronomy experiences are not my thing, I want to make this work. I pick three places that are bound to make him happy and send over the invite. A minute later a return message comes in, and we have a date.
Reservations for 6:30 P.M. @ Brontosaurus.
Victory! Suck it, Cecilia. I can get a man!
I send a reply. Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow! Happy face emoji.
Same, he messages back. See you then.
Not going to push the exchange further and make it seem like I’m needy. I am a thirsty girl and I will put up with the revolting experience of burgers just so I can make this man like me.
Barely a few seconds following my last exchange with Frank, I send a message to my group of college friends. I got a date!!! I exclaim. It’s a guy. Always have to clarify, they know I’m bi. A sea of supportive replies come in.
Good for you!
Go Naomi!
Knock him dead.
Confetti emoji.
Be yourself and he will fall in love with you.
Being myself, who at times has the snark setting set to max, is not the best advice. What I’ve got to do is make that amazing first impression. I upload three images of some of my date outfits.
It’s a burger joint. What should I wear?
Damn, they’re all fabulous. Too nice for burgers. They’re shirts in dark palates, two offshoots of skinny jeans, and one skirt. Nothing I have is so sloppy I couldn’t wear it to the office, nor for date night. Whatever. Something might have to be sacrificed to the ketchup gods. I will survive.
I like the jeans.
Two.
Two.
Two.
Universal consensus has been reached.
Thanks girls! Love you! Heart emoji. Kiss emoji.
Best of luck. Not that you need it.
For a rare instance, I am the bearer of great news, I have a date! Me! Naomi! I stand up and twirl through the apartment, feet as a light as a feather as my euphoria carries me across the floor.
I have a date with a wonderful man who will have a great sense of humour. He will be tall, and smart, and patient. He will have large hands that can wrap around my waist completely, embrace me with every part of himself. He will love me, and adore me, and tell me that I am perfect the way I am.
His name is Frank Newton. I think that would be a great last name for me.
Chapter 4: Dinner Date
“Hi, I’m Frank.”
He is 170 cm with small hands, thinning hair, a poor dresser, and is disproportionately front-heavy with no ass. Maybe he has a nice personality, please, some redeeming quality.
“Hi, Frank. I’m Naomi!” I let on that I am not disappointed with what is on offer and smile broadly.
We have met outside Brontosaurus. Below its Flintstone-inspired-looking name is their motto, Home of the Brontoburger. Dread what I am in for.
I stand poised, waiting. A gentleman should lead and offer to open the door for the lady he is accompanying. My head turns, little ticks at a time, waiting for him to take a hint. Go on, man creature, lead. Do the thing. Frank is oblivious, standing there instead.
I take charge and storm the place, he finally catches on and joins me. Together we arrive at the door and I open it for the both of us. Out of a rating of one to ten, he’s a five. That I even have to settle with a passing grade is insufferable. I hope he doesn’t make his way down to a four.
