The Wal-Mart

The Wal-Mart was what everyone called the new superstore that opened up in our small town when I was 10.  When you first walked through the automated glass doors, there was a cardboard box full of drooping, I-forgot-our-anniversary flowers on the right – single, moist roses enclosed in dewy, stiff plastic that crackled, the noise almost as loud as the neon yellow packaging. To the left was the produce section, and it smelled like a humid refrigerator. The air was cool but not cool enough, and moist, tasting like your lawn after a fresh mow followed by rain. The next aisle down was my favorite: Bread. And Little Debbie Cakes. If I could’ve made a living out of eating Little Debbie Cakes, my family wouldn’t have been poor enough to need to buy them in the first place. My favorite were the Fancy Cakes, white icing and some kind of cream inside them derived from ambrosia and the gene that causes diabetes. Across from the bread aisle was the fat lady section whose condescending signs claimed they were “just my size;” they weren’t. Their jeans never fit me properly, usually stalling out as I tried to yank them over my ample hips, or bunching up at the top or bottom in an unflattering way that made me appear as a flood survivor who stashed muffins around her waist. Behind the ill-fitting women’s pants and blouses were the ill-fitting bras that bisected my large breasts into chunks that resembled children’s pizzas, cut into four pieces for easier consumption. This was also where they kept the swimsuits, all different colors but no variation in sizes. When I was 15, I attempted to have sex with my boyfriend in the women’s dressing room while trying on swimsuits. I probably just got the idea from a Judd Apatow film because I don’t remember being particularly aroused, and the experience only went downhill from there: Cramped. Noisy. Dry.

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