Dear Journal:
My first official work week is in the books! Today, I made $35 in tips, which isn’t bad for a Monday, they tell me. We were slammed most of the morning, and I didn’t have time to be tempted by Dutch Bros. frothy concoctions. The occasional swig of water was all I had time for.
So far, I shouldn’t have worried about the job being bad for my figure (assuming I even qualify as having a figure yet). Between walking to and from work and all the hustle and bustle in between, my XXL work shirts already seem looser. Don’t get me wrong, they’re still far from loose, but at least they’re not cutting off the circulation to my arms or clinging to my belly quite as much.
I have to give Dr. Chen credit. I was miffed when he supported my parents’ stance that I got a summer job, but it turns out he was right. He said that not only would it make me feel more independent and empowered, but it would also help with my diet. (He didn’t use the D-word, though. He said something cloyingly PC like “avoid temptation.”) When I asked him how, he told me about a PSA that used to run on TV when he was a child, called The Munchies, where these grubby gremlin characters would ply bored and depressed kids with goodies until they got fat. They even had a theme song, which Dr. Chen sang part of. I can’t remember most of it--I was too busy suffering secondhand embarrassment--but I remember it ended with “Here munch THIS! Here munch THAT! Soon you're not just bored, you're FAT!”
The 80s must've been a helluva decade.
Anyway, my sister, sans school, a job, or much of a social calendar, has clearly been identified as a target by The Munchies. Apart from the week she sequestered in her room, she’s spent most of the summer snacking and sunbathing. I always hated the way her smooth olive skin browned like a biscuit in the sun, while I remained pale, pasty, and pimply, the dreaded “Three Ps” of pigment imperfection. By mid-summer, Michelle would always look like a bronze goddess, while I’d be beet-red and splotchy, as if stuck in a perpetual state of embarrassed overexertion.
Michelle’s skin still browns easily, but there’s a lot more of it now. And she's looking less like a bronze goddess and more like a golden gobbler. If The Munchies keep visiting her, the only men she’ll be attracting are cannibals.
Sissy still insists to our folks that she goes to the gym regularly, but that lie is getting harder to pull off as evidence mounts to the contrary. (If it were a trial, exhibits A, B, and C would be her Ass, Belly, and Cellulite.) A few weeks ago, mom and dad would’ve responded enthusiastically to her claims. Now, they just grunt impassively.
Especially Dad.
Simultaneously, my relationship with Dad has improved. He used to treat me with polite indifference. But as I’ve begun to emerge from sissy’s shadow (ironic, because she certainly blocks more sun than she used to), it’s like he’s suddenly remembered he has another daughter.
Better late than never, I suppose.
--Jessie