My Big Fat Low-Fat Wedding - By Katya Starkey Page 0,1
they ever emerge. One day I was twelve years old, skipping rope with joy, unaware of the pulling pressure to my chest that was yet to come. The next thing I know…
Bam!
It’s two years later and I’m wearing a size 32D bra. My days of skipping rope with my friends were officially over.
“Enjoy them while you can.” I giggle. “I’m going to shrink these babies by our wedding day if it kills me.”
Callum doesn’t answer straight away, he just continues to grope and squeeze my bosoms. “I think there should be a law against large busted women dieting.”
The giggling is gone and so is the smile from my face. “What on earth are you banging on about?”
“If exercising shrinks boobs I’m whole heartedly against it.”
Shaking my head I’m tempted to slap my fiancé’s roaming hands away. “You’re insane, you know that?”
“I’m insane?” Callum looks up at me. There’s obviously lust in his gorgeous dark eyes, but there’s mischief there too. “I’m not the one having nightmares about your boobs, now am I?” Grope, squeeze. “As far as I’m concerned your breasts are perfect. I really think you should stop dieting and just relax.”
Relax? He’s telling a plus size bride-to-be to relax?
Men. They really haven’t got a clue about what it means to walk down that aisle with all those eyes upon you. I shudder at the thought. “There’s no way I’m going to let friends and family watch me waddle down the aisle.”
“Don’t be silly, Emily.” Callum’s voice sounds a little testy now. “You’re not fat enough to waddle. And even if you were it would mean your boobs would be bigger, so…”
“Oh! You punk!” I grab a pillow and hit Callum gently with it. “You’re obsessed with breasts! You know that?”
“I’m obsessed with you, Em. And I can’t wait to marry you at any dress size.” He rolls me over and smothers me in loving kisses.
I was going to mentally plan which new diet to start in the morning, but it can wait. Right now I’ll revel in the moment of being bed tumbled by a lunatic. Because let’s face it, if my adorable fiancé thinks I’m going to stop panicking about our upcoming nuptials, he’s a crazy man indeed!
Chapter 2
I’m on my way to Zumba class. Or as Callum likes to call it by saying the word twice: Zumba Zumba. Whenever I tell him it’s just plain Zumba he says he knows that. I’m okay with him calling it Zumba Zumba though because it makes him laugh hysterically, to my enjoyment.
Thinking about my fiancé’s silly laugh-face with crinkled eyes, I’m giggling to myself as I make my way into the gym.
“What’s funny?”
I stop short, the smile wiped immediately off my face. The Zumba instructor is grinning widely at me. She’s a bleached blonde nineteen year old American girl with overly tanned skin that looks as orange as the ripest clementine. Her huge straight teeth are bleached so white I always feel as though she’s beaming a torch at me whenever she smiles. And she’s always smiling. Kirsten —or Kirsten Zumba Zumba as Callum likes to refer to her, causing even more fits of hysterical laughter— is an exchange student studying abroad here in Malvern. She teaches the Zumba class on a part time basis and she’s the skinniest, most flat chested (lucky girl) and energetic person I’ve ever met in my entire life. If I had half her energy levels magically transported into my fat cells I’d lose a stone in a week.
“Um…” I mumble now, shifting my gym bag higher on my shoulder. “I was just remembering something is all.”
“Ooh! Was it a joke?” Kirsten squeals. So far we’re the only two in the workout room so her voice echoes, piercing my eardrums unpleasantly. “Tell me the joke please, Emily!” Kirsten claps her twiggy fingered hands together excitedly, making me aware of the fact that it’s close to my time of the month. My fingers are a bit bloated and I can’t currently wear my engagement ring due to slightly chubby finger syndrome. “I love British jokes!” Kirsten squeals again. “You cynical Europeans are so funny!”
I nearly shake my head in frustration. Why do bloody Americans always lump us English in with the entire European species? I’ve never even been to France, by choice, even though my cousin Nicola begs me to holiday with her in Paris every time she feels her fashion wardrobe needs updating, which is often, I might add.