Ultimately Reagan decided against inviting Uma.
They would have had to wait until after Uma got off, and one of them would have had to go get her from work. Which would have meant either Reagan or Chel (or both) would have had to not drink anything alcoholic for the first few hours of their night out, which was always a bummer. Then Reagan would have had to make sure that Uma didn't burn too many calories or get any ideas at trying some of the more athletic games, she'd have to do her best to keep her munching down arcade food...
It honestly just seemed like a lot of work.
And Reagan, in her own narcissistic worldview, had felt that she'd earned a night off. Not just because she had been doing the whole college thing, or even because of all the effort she'd been putting into fucking with Uma, but mostly because she was still riding high on the fact that she had found a pretty cute pair of pants to squeeze into.
So she and her cousin headed out for a night at the arcade for a good old fashioned night of booze, bar food, and awkwardly hitting on dudes.
But while they were out having a blast, Uma had to hitch a ride home with Phoebe.
And it had been one hell of a day.
"Fuck my life."
Uma had said it about a billion times just on the car ride back home, but it had yet to feel like it was making any difference. Coming home in her clonking cowboy boots, spilling out of her uniform and ripping off that stupid hat, anyone could have seen that she had been through the night from hell. Her red blouse and blue waist apron were stained with barbecue sauce, she was sticky to the touch from something that she couldn't quite remember the origin of. All of that was typical waitress/hostessing. But most humiliatingly, the clasp on her skirt had busted... again.
Uma had been trying to stay away from the scale, in the spirit of not judging herself too harshly for falling off of the fitness wagon (at Audrey's suggestion), but that had only made this morning's peek at the needle more unbearable.
Two hundred and eight pounds—about fifty more than her playing weight, and all of it pizza dough.
Her muscles were soft, her feet ached every night, and she was out of breath after so much as climbing the stairs. She'd never been this out of shape—not even when she'd torn her ACL back when she was in college! Physical Therapy hadn't been as difficult as squeezing into yet another uniform and dealing with chafing thighs...
Also, people were supposed to tell other people when they had their belly hanging out! She must have looked like such a fatass...
It was times like this that Uma liked to dive headfirst into a cold beer. And dive she did. But the leftovers on the counter stayed there. She wasn't about to let that meatloaf sandwich and order of potato wedges get a foothold on what was already a big, fat belly...
"I say again." Uma said a little more loudly as she clip-clopped oer to the couch, "Fuck my life."
"Um... you said that like a hundred times on the way over here." Phoebe said with an expected airheadedness, "I mean, between the other things that you said on the way over here... which were also kinda FML-y."
"And yet, I still feel like shit." Uma said sternly with a swig of her longneck, "Still a fat piece of shit with no car, no real job, and no embarrassing uniform that fits over my big fat gut."
Uma unbuttoned the bottom two clasps on her blouse, already pulled apart by the sheer size of Uma on a still-full stomach. Her brown belly oozed forward, blowing back up to its true naked size. Struggling to bend over past her belly to kick off her boots, Uma finally resurfaced over the couch, flush and absolutely ready to pop off at the next minor irritation.
So naturally, this was Phoebe.
"You wanna talk about it, Umes?"
"Do not call me Umes."
"Okay, um... do you want to talk about it?" Phoebe paused, "Umie?"
Uma groaned and threw her head back over the couch.
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