Fat Ass: A Love Story

How do you fall in love with a beast?

I'm trying to, but it isn't easy. This particular girl doesn't want to be touched between the hours of 6:00 p.m. and 6:00 a.m. When we go for romantic evening strolls in my busy New York neighborhood, she invariably sneers with disdain at passersby. I love making her delicious, healthy chicken dinners served in handmade earthenware, but she prefers to eat like a heart patient on a suicide mission; she only brightens when I bring home some rich Fairway cheese, or fry up sizzling bacon strips. If I dare to stroke her hair, she tells me in categorical terms to leave her alone. She seems happiest laying around and watching bad television shows, or running around town on weekend afternoons with friends who don't care if I'm alive or dead. If we go for a drive, she'll sit in the back seat and sulk -- with that annoying "Are we there yet?" look in her eye. She's a homebody who hates visitors: every time the front doorbell rings, she treats it as an invasion of her private space (even though it's my place, not hers) and makes my friends feel most unwelcome.

Her name is Penny. We were fixed up by a nice woman in the Hamptons who thought we were meant for each other. I'll admit there was an immediate attraction -- on my end, anyway -- and we moved in together right away. In retrospect, maybe that was a mistake. But because I have an optimistic nature and a desire to make relationships work, I immediately devoted myself to a romance with Penny; I guess I was looking for the kind of love I felt was hidden behind those big brown eyes. She's a pretty girl with nice legs and good hair and a sweet smile when she feels like flashing it. After a few weeks I went to Barnes & Noble and picked up some self-help books about girls like Penny; but you know how it is, those books always seem to be about some other girl, not yours.

After our first rocky month together, we agreed to go into counseling. It was my idea, but Penny didn't object; she knew we had issues to resolve. A gentle man named Len came over once a week and listened to both of us. He got Penny to open up in ways I'd never managed to do. I'll admit I was jealous; Penny always seemed to brighten when Len walked into our apartment. After six weeks, all we'd accomplished was showing Penny that I wasn't nearly as appealing as the handsome young man we'd hired to help us.

One night a few weeks ago, Penny and I went out for one of our early-evening walks in the neighborhood. As always, she led the way; her bossy nature drives me crazy, the way she insists on picking routes, dragging me places and demanding endless praise for her every move. (Girls are so needy sometimes!) On this particular walk, as she marched ahead with no regard to the fact that I preferred a leisurely gait, I noticed something about Penny -- a physical flaw that hadn't previously come to mind. It's inevitable with any relationship: sooner or later, you're going to notice the imperfections.

It turns out my girl has a big, fat ass.

"Hey, fat ass!" I called out, with what I considered a healthy mix of affection and scorn. She ignored me, as usual, but I felt better. And ever since that night, whenever I'm feeling wacky or playful or even a little angry or annoyed, I stop calling Penny by her name, and substitute my new moniker in its place. "Hey, fat ass!" I say. Penny still doesn't acknowledge that I'm doing it -- but hey, she hasn't left me, either. Then again, that's not really an option for her.