In Thickness and in Health

If you’re dieting, you’re already dead. So, we celebrate our anniversary at Taco Bell. Cushioned by our love handles, dimmed by our shadows. The comfort of Quesadillas, the bliss of extra Queso. A flask of Tito’s to slip it into our Diet Cokes. Other couples make reservations at “authentic” restaurants. Boys give jewelry, girls take selfies. Every Kiss Begins With Kay. Engagement photos? Get real. Nothing is more authentic than fast food. Everyone knows this. Take me to Olive Garden and stuff me with breadsticks. Cucumber-sized buttery pillows. Melt in your mouth, not in your hand. That’s how I like it. In fact, Olive Garden will be at my wedding. Yeah, I’m engaged. You heard it here, on my Livestream, from my own big fat mouth. Ring Pop and all. Cherry, no less. Eat that, haters.

We will serve boxes of fries as passed hors d'oeuvres. Did someone say Happy Meal? Condiments galore. There will be no shortage of condiments. Kegs! S’mores the whole goddamn time. There is nothing like the gooey grace of a toasted marshmallow consuming your mouth. Sticking to the corners of your lips, for later. Overall, though, the catering will be world-flavored, American style. Taco Bell, Panda Express, Red Lobster, Sbarro, KFC. More of a food court than a buffet.Fast food thrives at a lukewarm temperature. It’s designed that way. Drink-wise, there will be White Claws in every direction. The boys at the bar? Jim Bean, Sam Adams, Dr. Pepper. Our wedding cake will be a giant Blizzard from Dairy Queen, who has always been more of an Empress to me. Pick a size, get it straight from the chalice. When the ice cream hits the blender it becomes lighter and heavier at the same time. So dense and delightful. A paradoxical, tasty wonder. Nobody likes wedding cake anyway. (And don’t get me started on gelato. Gelato is terrorism.)

The service? Milk and honey at the ceremony for a taste of the Bible. Also, wine. It is a wedding, after all. Bread stick bouquets on every aisle. Who says sacraments can’t be decorative? Abundance is the hallmark of a good wedding, a healthy relationship, a worthwhile future. Excess needn’t be escape. Love as sweet as glistening, salted butter. Salt is holy, always.

In credit card debt and wealth,

In thickness and in health,

Fast food, slow death,

Expiration date,

Never.

Reception will be in a parking lot, weather permitting. Tarp above, asphalt below. First dance will be “Candy” by Mandy Moore. We’ll slow dance like the fat middle schoolers that we are. Then, the heavy hitters. “Blame it on my juice,” we’ll sing, dancing like lunatics, sweating like pigs. “Margaritaville,” “Sugar Sugar,” “Raspberry Beret.” Father-daughter dance will be “American Pie,” you know, something a little sincere. As things wind down, we’ll hit ‘em with “Banana Pancakes,” brew some Starbucks, call it a night. The people will hit a food coma, stumble out of my wet dream of a wedding. Fog machines, “Diet Mountain Dew,” “Sex and Candy” for the after-party. Wedding favors? Reese’s Cups and monogrammed lighters. Bic, of course. Something that will last a while. Longer, in all likelihood, than the marriage. Then, we’ll head west, drive off to Tampa in a rented Ford Escape, treading glow sticks and gasoline. Ballooning with the hot air of our future.

Sure, there are creases in my neck, bread rolls on my back, an oily sheen to my skin, and scars on my growing pains so no, I don’t model anymore. I gave up Likes for 5-Layer Burritos. There is one on this table, staring me in the face, getting colder by the second. I’ve made sacrifices, sure, but, I’m happy. Right? Tell me I’m happy. I’ve forgone the rabbit food, given up the prickliness of celery for the boundless purity of sour cream. Can you blame me? I now have the girth of an ox, and somehow, the energy of a pitbull. A jiggle to my thighs, a rumble to my step, an echo to my belch, a double chin in all of my selfies, regardless of the angle. This plastic booth will hold me no matter how big I get, this I know. My Ring Pop is too small, Ring Pops are for children. But I’m not alone, so it’s fine. Is it fine? Am I happy? Am I free?

Bessie Taliaferro is a writer living in New York City. She received her MFA in Creative Nonfiction from Sarah Lawrence College in 2020. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Review of Books, Kirkus Reviews, The Rumpus, and The Belladonna, among other publications. Bessie is currently a grant writer at the Lower East Side Girls Club and is working on a novel. You can follow her on Twitter at @bessie411.