Maybe I should have married the Fat Girl; she would warn me beforehand, and we could order a pizza or some Chinese and wait for the apocalypse. But no, I had to marry the Beauty Queen, the star of the senior play, the most-likely-to of all time, including most-likely-to-divorce-me. Glossy yearbook pages seal in a me whose smile is forced, whose clothes don't fit, who needs a hairstyle, a good dose of the reality that forges personality, that single-minded confidence we give one word: ADULT. Now I can eat alone, not because I have to but because I know how to cook for myself and clean up the mess. As I write this I'm wiping the table with my free hand, making the smooth surface shine. Why make promises with all their uncertainties when so many Fat Ladies lounge on local barstools, fill their plates at salad bars, bump your cart at the A&P? Their songs are slow and sad, Bessie Smith in perfect form, and their words are my pain played full volume on the radio in rush hour traffic. When the Fat Lady sings, what I thought was my life becomes someone else's night time entertainment, a weekly docu-drama developed for consumption by eighth-grade educated nine-to-fivers scraping the remains of TV dinners from aluminum trays because they're easier to clear away.