Driving home from work today, I heard something behind me that sounded like a cross between a garbage disposal and a poorly-made hairdryer. The noise got louder and passed me on the left: a road-worn red Mustang piloted by the largest woman I’d ever seen. Her passenger was no less corpulent. As they pulled their way ahead, I noticed that the rear tire was a spare, and that the rear chassis of the sled was decorated with twee flower decals, chipped away from years of gravel.
Try as I might, I COULD NOT get away from this car. The whole commute, I was confronted with this monstrosity of a vehicle and its interminable, grating roar. Even so, I started to feel bad about being so judgemental. I mean, maybe they were happy, this pair, in their tank tops that remind me of a dollar store in Fargo. Maybe they were just joyriding down 1A at sunset, taking a break from their husbands and their kids, enjoying a smoke and some girl talk.
As I finally pulled by them on the left, I took one last look.
They were both eating double cheeseburgers.
There’s nothing bitchier than an eating-disordered girl who sees other people eating double cheeseburgers. A sick combination of jealousy and horror, marked with a hearty side helping of despair.
We still have some work to do, I guess.
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