The Whitney Chronicles

After eating, I got up to walk a bit, as my jumpsuit had somehow shrunk while hanging in my closet—probably due to the excessive humidity caused by recent rain showers. Anyway, I needed to jiggle the food beyond my waistband, so I excused myself and went for a stroll.

If my mother’s famous teaching—“Always use the bathroom when you have the opportunity. You never know when you’ll find another”—weren’t indelibly engraved in my head, I wouldn’t have gotten into trouble.

Still, I learned something, albeit the hard way. Never, ever wear a jumpsuit anywhere that you might have to use a rest room. One, you must practically undress to use the facilities. Two (here’s where I goofed), you must keep the top half of the suit out of the toilet while you’re using it. Actually, only one arm of my suit fell into the water, and that was after I flushed, so it could have been worse—but not much.

I spent five minutes squirming back into the soggy thing and another fifteen with my arm under the hand dryer. I had no idea how slow those things are—no wonder you always come out of the rest room hoping no one notices that you’re drying your hands on your clothes.

Anyway, the ridiculousness of the whole situation got the best of me, and I did what I often do under stress. I giggled. And guffawed. And hee-hawed and ho-hoed until my stomach hurt. Every time some innocent lady walked through the bathroom door, it got funnier and funnier until tears were streaming down my face. At one point, there were four of us in there holding our sides and gasping for air. Pretty soon they were telling me all their bathroom stories, too—like getting the hems of their skirts caught in their waistbands, walking through the restaurant and wondering why everyone was staring or dragging a long piece of toilet paper through the room on the heels of their shoes. I made some new friends, but it was the weirdest bonding experience I’ve ever had.

As I was coming out of the ladies’ room with bits of the toilet paper that I’d used to soak up water still sticking to my suit (thousands of polyesters died for this outfit), Harry and Matt were loudly asking a waitress to go in after me.

“…she’s been gone a long time….”

“…maybe she isn’t feeling well….”

“…you could ask her if she needs help….”

It was not my best moment. I’ve always dreamed of being a damsel in distress saved by a knight in shining armor. Being rescued by a human Chia Pet and a man I had now upgraded to Mr. Cashew because I’d wasted a half hour fishing my clothing out of a toilet was just not the same. I am also positive that this is not what Jesus meant by “All who exalt themselves will be humbled, and all who humble themselves will be exalted.” This wasn’t humbling. It was humiliating—never mind that in a few years it will be a great story to tell my friends.

For the rest of the evening Harry kept looking at me with beetled brows, as if he expected me to do something ridiculous at any moment. Matt, however, acted as though he knew lots of women who spent time washing clothes in the toilet. Still, at the end of the evening I was thankful to escape, and relieved that Matt didn’t offer to drive me home.

September 25

Harry and I couldn’t meet each other’s eyes today. I was unable to look at his head and he couldn’t meet my eyes after the rest-room fiasco. About four o’clock he sauntered past my desk and told me I could “wrap it up” for the day.

I asked him twice if he’d meant what he’d said. He never encourages anyone to leave early. Sometimes I feel like the Bob Cratchitt of the software world.

“Sure. You’re going to Las Vegas soon, aren’t you? Isn’t there something you need to pick up?”

“I could use a few new binders and highlighters,” I stammered.

“There you are. See you tomorrow.” Then he paused and turned back as if there was something he’d forgotten to mention. I waited for the other shoe to drop.

“By the way, Matt Lambert told me last night that he’d be attending the Las Vegas trade show as a customer.” Harry scowled. “I hope he doesn’t have any ideas of shopping around and replacing us.” He stared at me. “But you’ll be there to make sure that doesn’t happen, right?”

My heart sank into my gut. Was there no justice? Why, after publicly humiliating myself in front of this man, do I ever have to see him again? If Harry thinks I’d be good at preventing Lambert from jumping ship to another company, he wasn’t looking very closely last night when Matt gawked at my wet, paper-encrusted arm.

I couldn’t go to the bathroom without a disaster. Who knew what might happen when I was sent to Las Vegas, of all places, to save a corporate account?

“Harry, I can’t—”

But he would have none of it. “You’d better leave now and get those binders.”

Mitzi did not like my leaving before she did. She gave me a scorching glare as I headed for the door. Sailing in late and dashing out early are traditionally her domain, and she was sorely miffed. I smiled widely at her as I left. Kim gave me a thumbs-up as I passed.

I had my paycheck in my pocket and an extra hour in my life. What else was there to do but shop? Unfortunately my sensible gene kicked in before I got to Ann Taylor, so I went to a department store to look for much-needed, long-overdue bedding. I inherited my sheets from my mother, and they’re paper-thin in the sunlight. Last night, after tossing and turning over the jumpsuit debacle, I put my toe between the threads and ripped the sheet in half trying to untangle myself. That, combined with a “Got To See It To Believe It” white sale, seemed like a sign. I didn’t count, however, on the determination and stamina of women in need of cheap sheets.

They were standing in front of the shelves like gate-keepers, determined not to let anyone past until they had found the perfect white sheet with a faint ribbon of blue running through it. I bent down to pull an interesting-looking bed-in-a-bag ensemble from the bottom shelf and nearly got my fingers crushed.

I’d been too optimistic about this run-in, grab-some-sheets and run-out thing. After twenty-five minutes I’d determined there were no sheets that fit my bed. The bottoms were all fitted kings except for a huge stack of twins. The flat sheets were all regulars but for two queens, one in some orange and yellow design and one in dirt blue and tonsil pink that could have scared the paint off walls. I backed out of my spot disconsolately, and a woman with a designer handbag leaped into my place with the grace of a jaguar. Amazing.

I drove home vowing to sleep on the mattress pad until that ripped, too, after which I would order something off the Internet.

I complained to my mother about my shopping misadventure but, as usual, she couldn’t relate. She doesn’t buy sheets—she sends Dad out for them. Mother’s version of shopping is sailing into what I call the itty-bitty section of the store. She picks out what she wants, slides it over her head to try it on, takes a twirl and pulls out her credit card. She’s done shopping and in a coffee shop waiting before I find any two matching pieces in my size, the most popular and picked-over in America—which shall remain unmentioned.

September 27

dep•ri•va•tion: Deficiency, lack, scarcity, withdrawal, need, hardship, distress.

“I thought you were doing something about those snug pants,” Mother said with her usual lack of diplomacy when I arrived at their door today.

“I am. Sort of.”

“Are you still sneaking around in rubber bands, Whitney?”

“Maybe I’ll join a class, something that meets every week and gives me encouragement.”

“There’s one at church,” Mom offered. “I’ll go with you if you don’t want to go alone the first night.”

My diversion hadn’t worked. “Mother, you’d be run out of the room. No woman on a diet wants so see an entire human being who’s the size of someone’s thigh.”

She sighed. “All right then, go alone. Here, let me read you the information.” She picked up the bulletin, which she’d no doubt kept handy just for this purpose. “‘Join us as we gather to support one another in our weight-loss goals, experience fun, fellowship and new recipes. For more information, call—’”

“What’s the name of this group?” I interrupted.

“It doesn’t say. Maybe they don’t have a name. If you went, you could suggest something.”

Mother thinks that I should be able to take over any meeting by receiving all the information I need about the entire group by osmosis as I wander through the room on my initial visit. She also believes the well of my creativity is artesian. Strangely enough, however, a name did pop into my mind. Ecclesiastical Eaters Anonymous Training. EEAT. If that wasn’t the name of this group, it should be. At least that way, when I told someone I was going to EEAT, they’d think I was going out for dinner.

“By the way, Whitney,” my mother continued, “your father came home from church council last night with some very exciting news. We’re hiring a new youth pastor.”

“What’s wrong with the other one? Did he outgrow his youth?”

“Don’t be flippant, dear. He’s staying. Our youth program is expanding so quickly that the council decided we needed a second pastor.”

“Super. That’s very exciting.” I’d chaperoned more than a few sleepovers at the church myself. It’s good news that interest is on the rise.

“But that isn’t all.”

The hairs on the back of my neck began to tingle. Mom had switched tones. She was no longer talking church business.

“He’s single.”

“Motherrrrrr!”

“And quite nice-looking. I think you’d make a lovely couple.”

“Have you discussed this with him yet? Or is the call committee using me as bait?”