On Being Average

"She don't know she's bew-di-full...though time and time I've told her so..."

I can't remember the name of the singer, but hearing this song is probably what made me ask her what it's like to be beautiful. I was giving Sophie a ride to Aunt Mary's wedding upstate, so once we were past the suburbs I tuned the radio to the country station. I told her it was to get into the rural spirit but really, I grew up with country music and pickup trucks. My dad and I used to sing along to Garth Brooks' greatest hits on the way to my horseback riding lessons. But Sophie, no, she only listened to jazz and classical. But she could dance to hip hop like she'd heard it all before.

We'd been in the car for two hours. We'd stopped once, at a grubby diner just off the Thruway, so I could gulp two more cups of coffee. I had an omelet too, with the works, cheese, bacon, all the good road trip stuff. Sophie watched me eat, sipping her tea and slowly buttering her toast, which she ate from corner to corner, working in a circle. A couple of crumbs glistened along the curve of her delicate lips.

I tried to eat enthusiastically, imagining that I was earthy and confident and knew how to enjoy pleasure. Oh God but that she would have eaten that way too. I'd encourage her, because maybe then she'd get in the habit, and her willowy body would soften so slowly we'd be talking long-term problem, gyms and diets and the like. It would give me some time to maybe catch up on her. But the worst thing was, she didn't even want to eat like that. She liked tea and toast. And I have no doubt, if she'd wanted an omelet, she would have had one. So Sophie getting fat would not become the great equalizer between us.