Page 11 of The Frog Prince

And I did it all. I was the ultimate good girl. I followed the rules, made my mother, my teachers, my high school guidance counselor happy. I wasn’t a problem. I didn’t need attention. I didn’t require energy. I took care of myself. I managed my needs. I was so damn good.

And it was a mistake. I shouldn’t ever have been good. I should have been bad. I should have broken every rule and made up my own rules and experimented like crazy and spent the summer between high school and college on my back…

Well, not really. But close. I should have at least messed around. Being a good girl screwed me over.

To hell with the good girl. I hate her/me right now. I hate reality. I would prefer to return to fantasy.

I need some fantasy because I can’t be divorced. I can’t be the person who is sending out little apology notes so soon after the wedding thank-yous. I can’t be the person who is stopped on the street by the second cousin of the soon-to-be ex-husband, who says, “We’re just so surprised, Holly. It doesn’t seem like you. You were the last person we ever thought would do this.”

And, of course, I just stand there with my stupid tight little smile, trying not to cry, trying not to shout,Do you really think you’re helping things? Do you think I like being me right now?

Finally my survival instinct kicks in, and I can breathe again. I exhale and inhale while I’m trying to get a grip.

Why do I call him? Do I like pain? Do I need pain? Is there any reason to continue torturing myself like this?

I might as well take a whip and beat myself. I’d probably get as much enjoyment. There’s an idea.Holly Bishop’s Guide to Self-Flagellation.

Suddenly I have to know how bad it is. Not just the relationship with Jean-Marc, but everything, all of it. My body. My life.

I strip off my robe, stand stark naked in front of the mirror, and look. And look. And what I see isn’t exactly pretty. There’s a lot more of hips and thighs than I remember, and I’ve grown a stomach where there never was one. Happily the breasts are bigger, but so is the roll on my ribs where my bra strap would hit.

The knees still look good. The shins and calves are reasonably shapely. Shoulders are fine. Upper arms rather heavy, but the forearms are presentable. I need some work, but the body is salvageable.

(There’s no point in being too hard on me. It’s going to take time to get in shape—can’t hate myself forever.)

Resolution: Stop eating so much crap.

Resolution #2: Start getting more exercise.

In fact, why not start getting more exercise right now?

Push-ups. Right here. Right now. I drop to the floor. Let’s do ten.

I manage two.

That’s okay. Let’s finish them off girl-style. By seven I think my arms are going to fall off. I roll over onto my back, start my crunches. I heard somewhere that basketball great Karl Malone does a thousand crunches every day—surely I can do fifty.

Or forty.

By twelve my abs are burning. By sixteen I know I’m scaling back my goal. Forty was a little ambitious. I’m just starting out. I have to be practical.

I die at twenty.

Reaching for my robe; I cover up, enthusiasm waning a little. It wasn’t a great start for the rest-of-my-life fitness program, but it’s a start.

And that’s the key thing.

I shower, dry off, avoid the mirror. Diet plans always say to avoid the scale and mirror in the early weeks of any new program (I’m sure they said the mirror, too), and in my favorite ratty winter pajamas—we wear the flannel winter stuff year-round in the city—I head to the kitchen, open the freezer, look at the carton of Dreyer’s Rocky Road Light (notChunky Monkey, Olivia). I know I shouldn’t have ice cream. Even the light stuff isn’t on the diet plan. But ice cream isn’t really crap food. It’s dairy. Calcium. Protein. Strong bones. Helps with sleep.

I eat right out of the carton. Three bites. Four. I should stop. I really only need a taste. Anything more than a taste is just empty calories, and the experts say it’s the sensory we’re wanting when we eat anyway. The texture. The flavor. The oral need. One bite and we should have met that need.

But I don’t seem to have met the need yet.

Just a couple more bites. Let me just get a couple of extra marshmallows (I love marshmallows), and with my mouth full of nuts and ice cream and sticky marshmallows I see myself the way others would see me: wet-haired Holly standing at the fridge with the freezer door still open, ice-cream carton clutched to her flannel-covered breast, right knuckles smeared with melted ice cream, cheeks packed, stretched, eyes glazed. And I’m appalled.

I’m no better than an animal. It’s disgusting. I have two sets of dishes—everyday Mikasa and my gorgeous Rosenthal—and I still can’t use a bowl?

I take one more bite and hurriedly put the ice-cream carton away. Feeling very guilty at the moment. All those good intentions are already out the window.

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