Just One Look
Copyright© 2025 by DB86
Chapter 1
Just one look. That’s all it took.
She glanced at me once, and immediately started shaking her head. “No, no, no, no, no. I’m not doing this. I’m going to kill Diana.”
Then, without even acknowledging me, she spun on her heel, pulled her phone from her purse, and walked out.
I wish I could say her reaction surprised me, but it didn’t. I’d hoped she might give me a chance, but when you weigh as much as I do, you get used to people looking down on you, used to being the butt of cruel jokes, and used to strangers laughing at the way you look.
Story of my life.
Believe it or not, this wasn’t even the worst first date I’ve ever had. One girl once felt the need to give me a detailed critique of my ‘chubby appearance’ before sprinting out of the bar.
I glanced around. People at nearby tables were trying to pretend they hadn’t noticed. A couple of slim, young women were failing to hold back their giggles.
I paid the bill and left, doing my best not to show any emotion. It was a skill I had perfected in high school, when I was bullied relentlessly.
“Don’t let them see how much it hurts.”
But it hurt. A lot.
Moments like this—girls like this—had a way of peeling back every layer of hard-won confidence. Why was weight the one thing society still thought it was okay to mock? You couldn’t shame someone for their race, gender, or religion, but fat people? We were always fair game.
All I could do was drive back to Middletown and tell Diana, “I told you so.”
Diana was a teacher at Middletown High. I knew her through work—I ran a landscaping business and took care of most of the green spaces in town. I had a crew, but I still handled my longtime clients personally. Middletown High was my first big break.
Diana and I used to chat during lunch breaks, and over time, we became friends. She was married to Steve, a slim, good-looking science teacher, so we were just friends. Not that a woman like her would ever be interested in a guy who looked like me.
Lately, Diana has made it her personal mission to find me a girlfriend.
An impossible task, if you asked me.
I’m used to being ignored at social events. Used to having my opinions dismissed—because apparently, being overweight makes you invisible and dumb. I’ve had strangers grab my stomach and laugh, saying things like, “You could’ve survived the Titanic with a built-in life preserver like this!”
I’ve tried every diet you can imagine. None of them worked for me.
Why?
Well, to be honest, I’m the king of excuses. “I have big bones ... It’s genetic—everyone in my family is fat ... My job doesn’t leave time for the gym or meal prep.” And so on.
It didn’t help that I came from a big Italian family. My grandmother’s motto was “Mangia che ti fa bene”—”Eat, it’s good for you”. I wasn’t allowed to leave the table until my plate was clean. When I started trying to eat healthier in my teens, she’d look at me like I was dying. In her eyes, a chubby kid was a healthy kid.
In elementary school, if I got high marks, we celebrated with food. If I won a blue ribbon at the science fair, we splurged at a restaurant. If I scraped my knee, a cookie made it all better.
So, I learned early on to comfort myself by feeding myself.
All the times I felt not good enough, not handsome enough, not thin enough—those feelings didn’t go away. But a dozen cookies or candy bars could make them fade, at least for a little while.
A doctor once told me, “You medicate your mood with food. Some people take antidepressants, Pete. You eat.”
My love life was nil. I used to say I was better alone, but my heart just couldn’t accept I was destined to be irrevocably unlovable.
I constantly fumed, stewed, and sounded off about how shallow most women were. I ranted and raved about how I was the very same person inside, whether I was fat on the outside or not. “Where are all the quality women?” I lamented.
If I had been brutally honest with myself, I would have taken a good, long look in the mirror and understood that I wasn’t exactly presenting the most attractive package. If I had been a woman, I wouldn’t have wanted to date myself either.
“I’m sorry, Peter. I really thought Sasha was different,” Diana said, her voice low and regretful. “She volunteers at Equal Opportunity and just got out of a horrible relationship—her ex was a grade-A asshole. When I told her about this great, funny, loving, and caring guy I knew, she was genuinely interested in meeting you.”
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