Dear Journal:
Schadenfreude: The pleasure, joy, or self-satisfaction that comes from learning of the troubles, failures, or humiliation of another person.
At the beginning of the year, my tutor encouraged me to write down things I want to remember. Whenever I read, facts and figures tend to pass through my ADHD brain like a gentle breeze, but when I write them down, they sink in better.
That’s why I’m glad I’m keeping this journal. I never want the memory of what happened last weekend to fade.
After shopping for about an hour, Mom and I had a large stack of clothes…without a single hoodie or pair of sweatpants in sight! There were blouses, shorts, sundresses, and even a swimsuit, which mom handed me through the curtain with a whispered, “You may need this over the summer.” It was this vintage-looking one-piece with polka dots and a flouncy ruffle skirt. It looked ridiculous on the hanger, and I thought it would be way too flashy for me, but it actually looked cute. It made my breasts look perkier than they really are, and the ruffled skirt did a nice job of minimizing my hips and butt.
The total came to $500. I figured I’d have to put stuff back, especially since we hadn’t added sissy’s clothes to the tally yet. We hadn’t even seen her. She stormed off the second we entered the store.
She was grumpy because she didn’t want me to come. I heard her whispering to Mom as I came downstairs that morning. I couldn’t hear exactly what she said, but Mom’s response was a terse, “No, Jessie’s coming with us. I’m not making two trips.”
So, sissy did what she always does when she doesn’t get her way. She sulked.
Her not wanting me to tag along is no surprise (she hasn’t wanted anything to do with me for years), but I think the reasons for it have changed. A few months ago, it was because she didn’t want to be seen with me. Now I think it’s because she doesn’t want me to see her.
Anyway, we finally found her sequestered in a dressing room on the other side of the store.
“Did you find some good stuff?” Mom asked through the curtain.
“No.”
“What about these?” There was a large pile of discarded clothes outside the stall.
“Those aren’t mine.”
Mom scooped the garments from the floor and handed them to me. “Put these on the return rack, please.”
As I hung the clothes on the communal return rack near the entrance to the dressing area, I glanced at the sizes. The blouses and dresses ranged from size 8 to size 12, with sizes decreasing as I went through the pile. Three pairs of shorts followed the same pattern, with waist sizes of 26 and 28 buried beneath a crumpled pair of “relaxed fit” 30s.
“Aren’t you getting anything, hon?”
“No.”
“We could try another store.”
“No. I just want to go home.”
With that, Mom opened the curtain to sissy’s cubby. I guess she assumed sissy was dressed and ready to go, but she wasn’t. Far from it. She was slumped on the bench in the corner of the cubicle in just her bra and panties. The sweatshirt and sweatpants she’d worn were still heaped on the floor beside her tennis shoes.
I may be bad at remembering figures, but I’ll never forget Michelle’s that day. Multiple rolls of fat hung over the waistband of her panties. I counted at least four. It reminded me of those ring stack toys toddlers play with. You know the ones where the bottom ring is thick and wide, and the ones above it get progressively smaller? Sissy’s bottom roll spilled into her lap and tickled the tops of her thick thighs (which looked even thicker spread against the hardwood bench), while each subsequent one protruded a little less. It looked like a fleshy staircase to sagging breasts.
Speaking of her breasts, I had no idea how fat and flabby they’d become! I don’t make a habit of staring at my sister’s tits, but I’m not sure how I hadn’t noticed before. (She must wear a heavy-duty sports bra to keep them in check during games.) Anyway, they’re huge! And not in a good way. Last summer, when sissy tanned almost every day, they were perky, proportional, and perfectly filled her American Flag bikini top in a way that kept the boys at full staff. Now they look like uncooked dough exploding from a can. Not to keep bringing up toys, but the way her overmatched bra struggled to contain them reminded me of those Play-Doh mold kits. The ones where you squeeze the dough into desired shapes, but most of it oozes out from the sides.
Anyway, sissy’s head was bowed, as if assessing the damage, but when it registered what mom had done, she bolted to her feet.
“Mo-om!”
She tried hiding her breasts and belly with her arms, but couldn’t do that and close the curtain at the same time. The result was an awkward dance of jiggling flesh and uncertainty.
“Sorry!” Mom shouted, fumbling with the drape. After it was fully closed, she flashed me a pained grimace. Beneath it, however, there was the slightest hint of a smile.
Maybe I’m not the only one in the family with a taste for schadenfreude.
--Jessie