8 comments/ 9418 views/ 8 favorites Dribble, Shoot, and Run-101 Baskets By: SusanJillParker This is a Summer Lovin' contest story. As if giving my story and I your applause, please give me the support of your vote. Charlotte finally finds the perfect exercise to lose weight. Charlotte is fat. She's fat, fat, fat. Sometimes wanting to pull her hair out of her head and scream, she doesn't like being fat. In a television and internet video filled world with men lusting over skinny models and shapely celebrities, who wants to be fat? Not knowing what it's like not to be fat and made fun of as a child, she's been fat all of her life. Moreover, instead of getting thinner, no matter what she does, what she eats or doesn't eat, she's getting fatter. Her being fat has destroyed her sense of self. Her being fat has destroyed her confidence. Her being fat has poisoned her inner monologue from positive to negative. When she looks in the mirror, she doesn't see her beautiful, blonde hair, nor her big, blue eyes, nor her pretty face, and nor her great smile. She only sees that she's fat. She doesn't give herself credit for her kindness, her good heart, her great sense of humor, her quick wit, nor her intelligence. Her fat body is all that she sees in the mirror. By destroying her confidence and ruining her self-esteem, she's allowed how badly she feels about herself to interfere with all of her relationships, whether with relatives, with friends, with co-workers, or with her lovers. Instead of dealing with her weight issue, she avoids people until they give up on her. Now alone, unhappy, and bitter, with her fat body on her mind 24/7, she's allowed her being fat to ruin her life. Instead of taking a stand to take control her obesity, she's allowed her obesity to control her. She's fat and there's nothing she could do about that, until now. * * * * * Now that the winter is over and April is already here, it was getting warmer outside. Preferring to hide in her house in the dead, dark, cold of winter, Charlotte dreaded the advent of the warmer weather. Rather than trying to lose weight yet again, she's even considered moving somewhere colder, North Dakota, Vermont, Alaska, or even Antarctica, someplace where the winters are seemingly longer and the summers are seemingly shorter. Even though she hates the cold and the snow of winter, preferring spring and fall, she thinks about living someplace where she could wear a bulky winter coat over her fat body most of the year. She hated the heat of summer with people running around nearly naked with nothing on but a small swimsuit or a bikini. She hated bikinis. She hated women who could wear bikinis. She hated skinny women who didn't have a clue what it was to be fat. With the warmer weather soon to be here, no longer could she wear her heavy, oversized, dark clothes to hide the body that she was so responsible in creating and that she so hated having. She hated her body as much as she hated herself for being fat. Suddenly feeling like a beached whale on public display while imagining everyone pointing at her and laughing, she dreaded wearing lightweight clothes that would show all the weight she's gained over the winter. More than the public ridicule she imagined her relatives, friends, neighbors, and co-workers giving her, even though they didn't and wouldn't, she hated seeing herself in the mirror. If it wouldn't be so insane for her to do, she'd like to remove every mirror in her apartment. She didn't need to be reminded in her own house that she's fat every time she walked in a room and walked by a mirror. She already knows she's fat. How many times mush she continue to see her fatness. Instead of addressing the real problem of her obesity, if she wouldn't be deemed so crazy, but for a handheld mirror to do her hair and makeup, she'd paint all of her mirrors black, as bleakly dark as her foul mood. Soon it would be summer, a time of invitations to the beach, outdoor concerts, barbeques, and pool parties. Soon it would be hot, really hot, and too hot to walk around in dark, oversized clothes. She hated invitations. She hated being invited anywhere. She hated having to say no to go to the beach, to see outdoor concerts, to attend barbeques, and to wear cutoff jeans and an oversized tee shirt over her bra to the pool. She hated pools. She hated people. She just wanted to be left alone. She just wanted to stay home alone to watch movies while eating junk food. Whenever out with her thin friends, what was left of them after not keeping in contact with them, men referred to her as the fat chick. Men she didn't even know and who didn't even take the time to know her all wanted to be with her thin friends and no one wanted to be with her. Even her friends talked behind her back about her weight and called her fat. Some friends they were, which is why they're her ex-friends. Women she's known since childhood and who she thought were her friends and cared for her, hurt her by calling her the one word that makes her want to eat more and get even fatter. Instead of getting angry enough to go on yet another diet, she'd rather find comfort alone with a good movie and fast food. She doesn't need them. She doesn't need any of them. She doesn't need to have a boyfriend. She's done with men. She doesn't need anyone to like her. She'd rather just be alone to eat whatever she wants and whenever she wants without ridicule. Except for going to work, she hated leaving her home to go out. No longer able to hide herself in her house while blaming her absence on the snow, the ice, the sleet, and the cold weather, what would she do now that it was getting warmer and too warm to wear so many clothes? What would she do on those 90 degree plus days when everyone was having fun in the sun but for her? Would she decline everyone's invitation again and stay home as she did last year for fear that someone will see how really fat she is and how much weight she's gained? Or would she do the same as she did last year and all the years before? Never wear shorts or tank tops and never go to the beach. She'd rather sweat while wearing a sweatshirt and jeans outdoors while kidding herself that she's not that that warm and not that fat when she is that warm and that fat? The last straw was last year when she weighed 200 pounds at the doctor's office. She saw the look on the skinny nurse's face while she was writing her weight on her chart. Kettle black, being that so many nurses are overweight, we'll see what happens to this nurse after ten years of sitting on her ass while working at the hospital, especially after she has a baby. No doubt, she'll be fat then too, as fat as Charlotte is now if not even fatter. Two hundred pounds? How could she be that heavy? How did she gain that much weight? When did she put on so much weight? When all she sees is her fat, how could she not notice herself getting fatter? She was never so shocked. She was never so embarrassed. She's never been as fat. She gained 30 pounds over the winter, as much weight as the biggest Thanksgiving turkey. She gained 30 pounds, 30 pounds. Unable to wrap her head around that enormous weight gain, that was the most she's ever gained over the winter. Normally, she gains five or ten pounds and not thirty pounds. Other than salads until she was hopping like a bunny, donuts, McDonalds, pizza, and Chinese food, what the Hell did she eat to gain so much weight and to get so fat? Never weighing herself at home, she ignored her weight issue by not wanting to know what she weighed. Easy to do when alone in the winter, she'd rather continue believing that she didn't have a weight problem, that she weighed the same, and that she didn't weigh as much as the nurse said she weighed at the doctor's office. When seemingly she was always emotionally hungry, trying to lose weight was a real struggle for her and much worse than trying to quit smoking, which she did. No doubt, not having a cigarette poised between her fingers caused her to eat more. Still, after the wakeup call at the doctor's office, by not eating and by starving herself, she lost 20 pounds. She kept the 20 pounds off but has been unable to lose another pound. She remembered eating more when she was stressed during her brief unemployment between jobs and eating more until she felt more comfortable in her new job. Now that she had a job and could pay her living expenses, she didn't have that never ending, suffocating anxiety. She just had the same stress she had before and that she's always had from being fat, lonely, and rejected. Now that she had to adjust, get used to, and wrap her head around her new weight of 180, she knew she wouldn't lose any of it but would gain even more, especially during next winter when she hides herself away and has nothing to do but to eat. She was 170 this time last year. Instead of reaching her goal weight that she set for herself last year when she was 170 and wanted to be ten pounds lighter this year, wanting to be 160, she's ten pounds heavier than she was last year and now weighs a fat 180. She should have known she'd gain more weight. She should have eaten less instead of eating more but between the breakup of her boyfriend, losing her job, and quitting smoking, she's lucky she only gained 30 pounds. Thirty pounds? She couldn't believe she gained 30 pounds. That's the kind of weight that she'd expect to gain after having a baby but she didn't have any children. With her boyfriend dumping her for someone else, someone thinner but not as pretty, she was so sad to spend the holidays alone. She still has the Christmas gifts she bought him in a bag in her closet. Declining Thanksgiving Day invitations, she stayed home alone to heat up and eat her supermarket turkey dinner. It wasn't so bad. Being alone for the holidays made her realize what it would be like when she's older and didn't have a husband to care for her or children to visit her. New Year's Eve was the hardest. Instead of watching the New Year's Eve celebration on TV, she went to bed at 9 pm. Looking on the bright side, grasping at any ray of comforting hope, at least she's not 200 pounds. At least she lost that 20 pounds and kept it off without gaining it all back. Now she only needs to lose another 20 pounds to be at her goal weight but how is she going to do that? How can she lose another 20 pounds when she starved herself to lose the last 20 pounds? * * * * * Instead of working in an office, instead of seeing people all day, she found a new job as a home healthcare worker taking care of Mrs. Morrison. Now when not hiding herself at home, she hid herself in her client's house. Going from one house to another, other than seeing and interacting with the woman she cared for, she spent day without interacting and seeing anyone. All of this self-imposed seclusion manifested because she perceives herself as being unwanted, ugly, and fat. Depressingly unhappy, she just wanted to go to work and go home. Yet, she didn't allow her unhappiness get in the way of her job. Capable and responsible, she never missed a day and was always promptly on time. Whenever she thought she had a problem, she just had to think of all that Mrs. Morrison had to endure with her monthly doctor's visit when getting ready to ride the handicap wheelchair bus. Compared to the woman she care for, with all of her medical issues, she should have a problem. Caring for her made her feel better about herself. At least she was still young. At least she could lose the weight. At least she wasn't old, ugly, and wrinkled. She was just fat. Held hostage nine hours a day, seven days a week with an hour for lunch, Charlotte had nothing better to do than to stare at the TV screen while she worked as a healthcare aid for elderly Mrs. Morrison. Confined to her house, either to her bed, her wheelchair, or to her reclining chair in the living room, Charlotte cared for Mrs. Morrison as if she was her own mother. With her being an only child, leaving her the house when she was younger, her mother died from a heart attacked caused from heart disease attributed to overeating. With her mother, Rita, only 5'4" tall and weighing more than 300 pounds, not there to watch her graduate high school, she prematurely died at only 44-years-old when Charlotte was 18-years-old. Not such an easy thing to do, she remembered it took three burly men to carry her mother with dignity down the stairs and out the front door to the waiting ambulance. The saddest day of her life, she swore she'd never get that heavy. Yet, as the years passed, despite her best imagined efforts to lose weight by watching all that she ate, with her emotions getting the better of her, the pounds continued to pack on her body. Seemingly, every year she gained at least five more pounds, sometimes ten pounds, and as much as 30 pounds with the breakup of a boyfriend and with ice cream seemingly more of a comfort than any of her supposed friends. Unbelievably, every year she was five pounds heavier. Admittedly, every year she was angrier and more depressed that she never made any of the realistic weight goals she set for herself to lose a lousy ten pounds instead of gaining five pounds more. Then, when she gained 30 pounds that one winter that put her over the edge. She was on her way to being just as fat as her mother. Would she be dead at 44-years-old too? * * * * * Truth be told, she loved Mrs. Morrison but she hated her job. She missed working in an office. She missed talking to people. Her job was so sedentary. A job that encouraged weight gain instead of weight loss, she wished she had a more active occupation only she didn't know what that would be. She imagined herself working as a dancer and/or an ice skater when she was younger but not very good at either, that was just a phase. She imagined if she had worked harder, followed through, and worked as a dance instructor, she'd be thin today instead of fat. Munching on popcorn, after a while, instead of losing weight by curbing her appetite, even buttered popcorn, duh, was fattening and making her gain weight. Perhaps three bags of popcorn each day was two bags too many. With five TV's scattered throughout Mrs. Morrison's small apartment, no matter which room they were in and which TV they watched, somehow magically the program was always on a station break with commercial after commercial blaring in her head. Commercial after annoying commercial, the same commercials played over and again so many times that she could recite them verbatim. Instead of muting the TV, the woman listened to every frigging commercial as if that commercial or this commercial was her last commercial to see and hear. A pet peeve of hers, Charlotte hated commercials, especially diet and exercise commercials. Taking them as if they were personal attacks on her by making her feel guilty for not doing more to lose weight, without a doubt, diet and exercise commercials are the worst in her face and most judgmental of her inability to lose weight. In the way they worded their ads and demonstrated their exercise machines with models who had perfect bodies in skin tight gym shorts, they may as well call her a fat cow. If she had her druthers, she'd mute every damn one of those frigging commercials, especially the Bowflex and Total Gym commercials with that annoying whore of an air head, Christie Brinkley. Give me a break. Living in her ten million dollar mansion in the Hamptons after divorcing Billy Joel, Christie Brinkley doesn't need the money from making stupid exercise commercials. One would think, with the advent of cable TV, personally paid and supported TV, forty years ago that there'd be less commercials instead of more commercials today but there isn't. There's more commercials today than there ever were before. Other than American Idol, which Mrs. Morrison loves, the worst for having the most commercials are baseball games and, of course, the Super Bowl. With them not just pausing for commercials in between innings and not enough that there are signs advertising products and companies positioned all over the stadium, now they seamlessly sneak them in between giving the score and calling the play by play of the game. Going through the expense of buying a DVD recorder, she records her shows now so that she can fast forward through the commercials later. A Godsend, the only time she's forced to listen and watch commercials is when she's caring for Mrs. Morrison or when she leaves the TV to get herself a snack, not that she needs a snack, Lord only knows she doesn't need to eat anymore excess junk food. Perhaps because she's so overly sensitive to them but seemingly to her at least, some targeted commercials made her feel bad about herself. When they weren't advertising drugs, they were advertising diet plans, diet pills, diet books, exercise machines, gym memberships, and testimonials about diet plans, diet pills, diet books, exercise machines, and gym memberships. Thirty pounds in thirty minutes and thirty pounds in thirty days, she hated the Bowflex commercials the worst. They always had models who didn't need to lose a pound working out on a machine until they were glistening. She'd more willingly watch a commercial when they featured real people instead of tall, thin, good looking models, women that no one sees on the street and especially while shopping at Wal-Mart. * * * * * Apparently with no one happy with themselves in the way that they look, the world has gone mad for an elusive body image that most of us but for born to be beautiful beauty contestants and born to be sexy Playboy models can never have. Especially women, everyone wants to look like a skinny model or a shapely, sexy, celebrity star that they see and follow on television. Keeping it real, when it comes to food, women are just as hungry as men. Keeping it real, women want to eat just as much as men do but where men don't gain a pound, women gain weight. Where older men get sexier, older women just get fatter. It's not right. It's not fair. It sucks being a fat woman trapped in a skinny world where all you see on television are sexy celebrities and super thin models. Sadly, tragically and unfortunately, nonetheless what they look like when standing naked in the mirror, every woman wants to look hot and sexy for their pig of a potbellied man who continues to eat to an excess and drink beer until drunk while being overly critical of a woman's weight. That's the reality that she's had to endure and contend with for the past ten years with the three men that she's lived with and with none of them wanting her enough to buy her a ring and pop the question. Yet, to her benefit, she wasn't as fat as some of the other fat Americans, especially those who frequent Wal-Mart, the grazing capitol of American shoppers. When positioning herself next to a much larger woman in the aisles, she always felt thinner when standing next to a woman who was much bigger. Only, the more weight she gained, women who weighed more than she did were becoming more difficult to find especially when seemingly everyone was suddenly younger and thinner than her. She's thirty-years-old. She's not a kid anymore. Her life is zooming by her while she remains standing still in her unhappiness and depression. It's time she did something to help herself. It's time she took control of the one issue that's plagued her all of her life, her weight. Now with her closer to 40 than she is to 20, she needed to take control of her destiny. Always wanting a child, now she doesn't even have a boyfriend. With no family and no friends, she didn't want to live alone and die alone in the way that old, Mrs. Morrison no doubt will. Only, after being scarred from her last three love relationships that were more sexual relationships, she wasn't eager to take on a fourth boyfriend, a man who would want this and demand that of her when she couldn't even take care of herself. Dribble, Shoot, and Run-101 Baskets "You need to lose a few pounds," always said her ex-boyfriend with his mouth full while stuffing his fat face with food and beer, which is why he's her ex-boyfriend. Kettle black, he should talk, if she had his BMI, body mass index, she'd weigh 50 more pounds than what she weighs now. Losing her sexy curves, with her thighs rubbing together and her ass seemingly needing another zip code, she hated herself for gaining so much weight. She hated how she looked and how she felt. With all of her clothes suddenly tighter but for her sweatshirts and sweatpants, she wished she was thinner and took a smaller dress size than a size 18. * * * * * Somehow envying her, Charlotte looked at 80-year-old Mrs. Morrison knowing that she no longer needed to be a slave to fashion and/or to her perceived body image. Retired and living alone after her husband died of a heart attack brought on by his Diabetes and with him being obese too, no longer having a man to please, she was now free from all of that. Only, after Mrs. Morrison confessed to trying to lose weight all of her life and being unhappily unsuccessful, in the end, now that her life is nearly over, what has diet and exercise done for her other than to make her a miserably, unhappy failure? Now that she's old and wrinkled, eating as much as she wants, whatever she wants to eat, and whenever she wants to eat it, not losing any weight or gaining any weight, she's still overweight. With her food and medication causing her mood swings, still sadly unhappy, but for Charlotte caring for her, she's alone and as alone as Charlotte imagined she'd be at her age. Unhealthy with a laundry list of medical issues, she's seemingly waiting to die while watching commercials for products she'll never buy, items she'll never use, and things she'll never try. With excess eating more emotional than physical, even Oprah with all of her money, all of her programs on obesity and overeating, her personal chef, and personal trainer, even with Dr. Oz chiming in, was unable to lose weight until recently. Struggling with obesity all of her life, she wondered how Oprah was finally able to conquer the internal monster that caused her to pack on the pounds. She couldn't deal with being overweight any longer. Not wanting this to be an issue when she's in her forties, fifties, and sixties, she needed to lose weight now. At only thirty-years-old, Charlotte looked at Mrs. Morrison with sudden insight as if she was looking at herself in the mirror fifty years from now. If she continued down this road of excess eating and of hating herself because she's overweight, this could be her life when she's Mrs. Morrison's age, if she lived that long. Or she could prematurely die of a heart attack in the way that her mother did at three hundred plus pounds when she was only 44-years-old. If she's going to make a change, she needs to make it now. If she's going to happily live her life, she needed to start happily living it now. Just like Mrs. Morrison, after trying to lose weight all of her life and being unhappily unsuccessful, she constantly and continually beats herself up for failing herself. Trying as best as she could, it was then that she realized that she didn't fail herself. It was the diet and exercise plans that failed her. It was those damn commercials lying to her about this diet aid, this guaranteed diet product, this celebrity endorsement, and that diet that failed her. A captive audience in her own home, how dare they come into her house through the miracle of television to take advantage of her and to steal her hard earned money? "Bastards! Dirty bastards! No good sons of bitches!" Obviously, a disclaimer that advertisers should legally be forced to state, what works for some doesn't work for all. What works for some seemingly doesn't work for her. If Charlotte learned one thing from Mrs. Morrison infirmity is to live life now while doing the things that she enjoys doing. It doesn't matter so much what she looks like as long as she's happy. Learning to be happy for who she is inside, her personal happiness is her key to her losing weight or not losing weight. Because she's so miserably unhappy inside is why she's still so heavy and unable to lose a pound. Now without a man in her life and not yet looking for another man to replace her ex-boyfriend, free from all of that tension, catering, and emotional drain, she didn't need to lose weight for yet another man who wouldn't want to marry her. She no longer wanted to care for and worry about another man who would, no doubt, look at other women, younger women, once she's older and fatter. She no longer wanted to endure another man who ate all that he wanted to eat while admonishing her for not losing weight. If losing weight will make her happy and healthier, then she needed to lose her excess weight for herself. Obviously, setting herself up for failure, losing weight for someone else doesn't work. After living her life for someone else, her mother, her friends, her co-workers, and her boyfriends, everyone but for her, now finally she was living her life for herself. Pressured by her peers, she was tired of trying to make some man happy. A man who she could never make happy unless she was taller, blonder, bustier, and wealthy, the only person she had any hope of making happy was herself. Needing to take more of a self-centered attitude than to waste her time worrying about others when they didn't worry about her, she needed to take care of herself for her hoped for happiness. * * * * * Always overweight since she was a kid, easier for her to gain weight than to lose weight, Charlotte couldn't lose a pound. For every pound she lost, she somehow gained back two. Lacking confidence and considering herself plain Jane vanilla, a wallflower who hid herself in the shadows hoping to disappear, with her long, golden blonde, lush hair and big, bright blue eyes, she always felt that if only she was thinner, she'd be prettier and more sexually desirable. If only she was thinner someone would want her enough to marry her and give her a baby. Always so critical of herself, if she looked like anyone, she looked like a fat Cybill Shepherd when she starred in that movie, The Last Picture Show back in 1971. In the way that Cybill looked then, Charlotte looked now, albeit a beautiful woman trapped in a fat body. When she recently watched Cybill Shepherd in that movie on TV, as if she was looking at herself in a mirror, she couldn't believe the striking resemblance. Yet, always in the way of her God given good looks, every single thought of her negative personal monologue had to do with her weight. Attributing all of her failures to her excess weight, as far as she was concerned, not even seeing her pretty face, her beautiful, blonde hair, and her pretty blue eyes because of her weight, the only thing she thought she had in her favor was that she was busty. She had what most men wanted in a woman. She had big tits, not giant breasts, but shapely C cup breasts with an impressive long line of cleavage. Whenever prominently displayed, which was rare, her breasts were big enough to attract the attention of a man and big enough for her not to think about getting implants as many of her friends have foolishly done. Even if she weighed a hundred pounds more than what she weighed now, she'd never be the type to have gastric bypass surgery in the way that her mother's doctor recommended her mother have. Only, not making it to the operating table, her mother prematurely died before the scheduled surgery. If nothing else, giving her the encouragement not to be morbidly obese, she'd rather be a little fat than to have some surgeon cut open her stomach to tie it in a knot. No thank you. What she'd do instead is to get professional psychiatric therapy to find out why she's so attracted to food, why she never feels full, and why she eats to an excess. Even though she doesn't overeat as much now, with the damage already done and the extra fat cells already created, she overate before. Even though she doesn't overeat now, having tried everything, every diet, and every exercise to eliminate her excess weight, her body refuses to get rid of her unwanted weight. Perhaps, if only she'd dressed more seductively to show off her shapely, albeit full figure, she'd feel better about her self-image and that positive feeling about herself would jumpstart her weight loss. Only, always ashamed of her body, she never dressed seductively. If asked for the definition of sexy, never including her name on the list, she'd recite the names of various celebrities and movie stars. For her to succeed at losing weight, she needed to like herself enough to include herself on the definition of sexy list. Instead of wearing clothes that complimented her figure, she wore drab colors, dark grey, forest green, black, navy blue, or brown clothes to hide her body. Maybe if she lost some weight she'd dress sexier but if she had to describe herself with one word, that one word wouldn't be sexy. That one word would be fat. Defining herself as fat, no doubt about it in her mind and sabotaging and defeating any attempted diet plan, even fatter on the inside than she is on the outside, she's fat. Fat, fat, fat, she's always been fat and as far as she's concerned, she'll always be fat. Even if she lost a ton of weight and was thin, she'll still be fat. When she looks at herself in the mirror, hating how she looks, all that she sees are rolls of fat around her stomach, hanging from her arms, collecting on her thighs, and blowing up her buttocks. At 5'7" tall and 180 pounds, not terribly overweight and still very seductively shapely, she could stand to lose 20 pounds, 30 pounds, or an impossible to lose 50 pounds to be at her ideal weight of 130. Any thinner than 130 and she'd look emaciated and unhealthy. Weighing any less than that and she'd start looking like the queen of plastic surgery and Botox, phony Marie Osmond. Only, after reading diet books, exercising to diet videos, trying diet plans, and diet pills, every time she lost a pound, she'd gain back two more. With celebrities leading the charge, the average woman thinks that they can look like them without having an inexhaustible supply of money to pay plastic surgeons and hair and makeup cosmeticians. A huge scam to bilk us all out of money we don't have, the whole image thing is nothing more than a fantasy for someone like her and a reality for only the superrich. * * * * * Then, one day, something amazing happened. After working for Mrs. Morrison for a few months, while looking out the window of the elderly complex where she worked, she stared down at the swimming pool, the tennis court, and the basketball court. She's seen them a hundred times before but too busy watching television commercials when not giving Mrs. Morrison her personal care, it's funny how she really didn't pay attention those amenities before. It was good that they were hoping to keep some of their residents active but too many of their residents were too old, too weak, and too infirmed to walk never mind to swim, play tennis, or shoot a basketball. She wondered how many residents used the facilities. Now that she was staring down at them, routinely looking for people taking advantage of them, she never saw anyone on the tennis court or on the basketball court. Perhaps in the warmer weather, she'd see some of the residents enjoying the pool. She didn't swim. She never learned how to swim after she nearly drown as a kid. Just as one would think that being fat as a child would want to make her be thin as an adult, one would think that nearly drowning would want to make her learn how to swim. Yet in the way that nearly drowning gave her a fear of the water, food that gave her comfort as a child gave her comfort as an adult. Yet, always wanting to play tennis in the way that some people want to play golf, she didn't know how to play tennis and even if she did know how to play, she had no one to hit the ball back and forth with her. Watching tennis matches on TV, it looked like a fun game to play. All the tennis players on TV were thin and she wondered if she took up tennis if she'd be thin too. Realistically, she wondered how many tennis games she'd have to play to be thin, tens of thousands probably. Tennis looked easy enough to play not very well, but without a partner, unable to play the game alone, she was dead in the water. She stared from the pool and from the tennis court to stare at the basketball court. Having enjoyed watching basketball games on TV, not even deeming shooting a basketball as exercise, especially in the uncoordinated way that she played, as if it was a shiny penny she found in the street, the basketball court beckoned to her. Something that she could do alone and preferred to do by herself, playing basketball and shooting baskets suddenly appealed to her. She used to shoot baskets with her brothers when she was a kid. Easy enough to shoot a basket, she could do that. She could dribble a ball before standing there to shoot the ball up at the basket. That was easy too. It was making the baskets that was hard. Nonetheless, it would be fun to see how many baskets she could make out of one hundred tries. That type of exercise, exercise that didn't seem like exercise at all but exercise that seemed more like fun, appealed to her. Even though she didn't live there, just worked there, she decided to give shooting baskets a try. True to her word, after work she went downstairs, retrieved the basketball from the closet, and walked outside bouncing the ball on her way to the basketball court. Just bouncing the ball made her feel as if she was a basketball player. Just bouncing the basketball, made her feel as if she was doing something positive for herself. As if the tall buildings were cartoonish and leaning to watch her shoot baskets in the way of professional super tall basketball players on the court looming down at her, she was surrounded by high-rise elderly housing. For someone who never wanted attention, alone with her bad self, she felt a little conspicuous should anyone be looking out their window to watch her dribbling and shooting a basketball. With no one ever on the basketball court, feeling as if she was a trespasser with her not a resident there, she knew that she'd be attracting some unsolicited attention. Nonetheless the unwanted attention she may receive, it felt good to be out in the fresh air and sunshine while bouncing and dribbling a basketball. Finally, she felt like she was doing something for herself and not for someone else. Finally, she was enjoying the activity of challenging herself to make as many baskets as she could. No longer depressed, finally, she was happy and at peace with herself while being out in the world. * * * * * Yet when she went to shoot the ball, with the basket suddenly looking so very high up, she didn't even come near to hitting the rim. 'Wow! This is going to take some practice,' she thought to herself. Using muscles she hasn't used in 20 years, and especially being that she was a foot shorter back then, she did better shooting the basketball when she was ten. Even when standing under the basket, it was hard for her to shoot the ball high up enough to even hit the rim. What looked to be fun from up in Mrs. Morrison's apartment was hard work on the basketball court. A dismal failure, she sucked at shooting a basketball. Yet, not giving up, with her always quitting too easily and too soon before, she persevered in her quest to challenge herself to make a basket. A basket, how hard can it be to make a lousy basket? After missing shot after shot, she now had a new appreciation for those professional basketball players who played the game. Yet, then again, those who professionally play basketball are not only at least a foot taller than she is but also are skilled at playing basketball. Nonetheless, even when she missed a shot, she was getting closer. Moreover, even when she missed a shot, she was feeling the physical benefit of shooting the ball at the basket. As if the ball was her magic elixir needed for her to lose weight, it was then that she perceived her basketball as a medicine ball albeit with air. Again and again, pushing forward with her shoulders as if she was shoving someone back or doing a quick bench press, she used her back, arms, shoulders, and her legs to shoot the ball harder, higher, and more accurately. Again and again, not even close, with air ball after air ball hitting nothing but the base of the pole, not even coming close to the rim, she continued missing making a basket. Shooting the ball like a girl or someone mentally challenged, even though she sucked at basketball, she was determined to continue. Like anything else, with her pitted against the basket, an inanimate object and not allowing a mere basket to measure and/or control her success or failure, she knew that with a little practice, she'd be better. Eventually coming closer, hitting the rim a few times before hitting the backboard, she finally made a basket. She made a basket. She couldn't believe she made a basket. With no stopping, she was on her way now. As if she saved the day by winning the game, a championship basketball game at that, she was proud of herself for finally making a basket. As if an imaginary crowd were on their feet applauding her, cheering her, and encouraging her to continue, she ran around the court with her arms in the air as if she was Rocky Balboa climbing the steps to Philadelphia's Museum of Art. "Wow!" After missing so very many times, as if she had just made 100 consecutive baskets, making that one basket felt good. As if sticking out her tongue at all of her thin, so called friends and all of her selfish ex-boyfriends, making that one basket was now her personal victory and her goal to beat. Now that she knew how, if she could make one, she could make another basket. If she could make another one, then she could make even more baskets. If only by the tingling in her shoulders, chest, back, legs, and arms, she knew that dribbling, shooting, and running after a basketball would work. The difference was that shooting baskets was something that she wanted to do and not something that she needed to do. Shooting baskets was something that she enjoyed doing and not something that she hated doing. After watching a stupid exercise commercial with another skinny model flaunting her perfect body that only made her feel guilty and fat instead of making her feel motivated and inspired, shooting baskets was something that she wasn't required or forced to do. With her developing a strategy that would work for her, it was then that she devised her own game and exercise plan at the same time. Her rule for shooting baskets was that when she shot the ball, wherever the ball landed, as if she was playing in a real game, she had to shoot the basketball from there. If the ball landed out of bounds, she had to return to the foul line and start her little game all over again. Only, so that the ball didn't get too far away from her, as if there was someone else running to possess the ball too, if only to keep it inbounds, she ran to the ball after shooting it. Running after every shot, unless the ball bounced back to her, somehow this brief sprint didn't bother her in the way that jogging around her neighborhood did. Allowing everyone to see that she needed to jog because she was fat, she felt conspicuously fat when jogging. With her big breasts bouncing, men always stared at her and she never liked the attention she received when jogging. Not investing in a sports bra until she saw that she'd stick with jogging, she didn't. Different running after a basketball, with her secluded in the interior courtyard of the elderly housing complex, she felt safe from the lecherous eyes of men. Except for the residents looking out their windows, no one knew she was there shooting baskets. Dribble, Shoot, and Run-101 Baskets Alone on the basketball court, dribbling, shooting, and running was her game to play and her exercise plan to do in the hopes of not only having some fun but also losing a few pounds. Encouraged by the hoped for outcome, for the first time in a long time, she was happy that she was doing something positive about losing weight. For the first time in a long time, she was proud of herself for sweating while working so hard to have some fun. For the first time in a long time, continuing to challenge herself, she believed that this little, private, basketball game would really work. Every day, while not overdoing it, whether she got them in or missed horribly, never shooting anymore and never shooting any less, she shot 100 baskets. In the beginning, she was lucky to get 10 baskets out of 100 shots but as her hand and eye coordination and basketball shooting skill improved, so didn't her basket making percentages. Day after day and week after week, by the end of April, she was making 20 baskets out of 100 attempts, not bad. By the end of May, shedding her baggy clothes for something more appropriate for playing basketball, shorts, a tank top, and sneakers instead of baggy black pants, an oversized, navy blue sweatshirt, and slip-on shoes, after losing 20 pounds, she was making 30 baskets out of 100. Moreover, something she seldom worked hard enough at to do, even when jogging, she was sweating while shooting baskets. * * * * * Then, in the way that men discovered big screen TV's and big, chain hardware stores and women discovered shoe sales and designer pocketbooks, something miraculous happened. Something that possibly may be no big deal to others but that was a big deal to her, symbolic in her effort to finally succeed in making baskets while shedding her extra, unwanted weight, she made her first swish. She made a swish. She couldn't believe she made a swish. She didn't just make a basket, she made a swish. The perfect basket and the very best basket to make, she was so excited that she made a swish. "Swish!" Every once in a while, not very often, she'd get a swish. As if a baseball player hitting a high, long ball while taking a second to watch it travel over Fenway Park's green monster, just by the sound it made off the bat, he knew it was a homerun. In the way he watched his homerun ball, she watched the basketball heading for the center of the basket. As if a novice dart player feeling the excitement of making a bull's-eye, she always felt that excitement making a swish. Swish! She made a swish. Having never made a swish before, she couldn't believe she made a swish now. Every once in a while, not very often, she'd make the perfect shot. Every once in a while, not very often, she'd make a swish. Intoxicatingly addictive, as if the basketball was whispering its approval, she loved the sound the ball silently made when touching nothing but net. "Swish!" Swish. A five letter one syllable word that so perfectly described the sound that the basketball made when going through the center of the net. Swish. She was so happy every time she made a swish. As if that swish was her brass ring and as if that swish was her goal to do every time she made a basket, she not just wanted to make a basket, she wanted to make the perfect basket. She wanted to make a swish. "Swish!" Seemingly innocuous, that one sound made her practice and concentrate on making perfect baskets even more. Doubling her effort and increasing her exercise plan, before starting her day and after work, she shot her 100 baskets. Now shooting 200 baskets a day, as her hand and eye coordination improved, her percentages quickly rose to 40 percent. For every 100 shots, she was making 40 baskets. Not bad for a woman who never played a sport in her life. Not bad for a woman who was always so uncoordinated that she was a clumsy klutz. For every 100 shots she took at the basket, always so surprisingly gratified when it happened, she made 4 swishes. Unbelievable for a 5'7" girl who hadn't shot a basketball in 20 years, since she was 10-years-old at the park with her brothers, she was not only making baskets but also she was making swishes. "Swish. Swish. Swish. Swish." Being that she worked seven days a week caring for Mrs. Morrison, she was there on weekends too. Sometimes, instead of staying home alone to watch American Idol by herself, enduring the seemingly endless commercials, taking the second shift of the next healthcare worker, she returned to watch that program with Mrs. Morrison. Maintaining her exercise and weight loss routine, every early morning and every late afternoon, even if it was raining, dedicated and determined, she was out shooting baskets. Then, with Mrs. Morrison's permission and while her charge took a nap, Charlotte was out there at lunchtime shooting more baskets. Now she was shooting 300 baskets a day and now with her shooting skills increasing, her basket making percentages increased to 50%. What took her twice as long to shoot 100 baskets was taking her half as long now. Moreover, instead of horribly missing, she was making half of her shots and her percentages of swishes were climbing too. For every two shots she took at the basket, she made one. For every 100 shots she took at the basket, she made a dozen swishes. "Swish, swish, swish, swish, swish, swish, swish, swish, swish, swish, swish, and swish." * * * * * By June, after shooting baskets for three months, she had lost 25 pounds. 'Twenty-five pounds? No way!' When she stepped on the scale, she couldn't believe it. Without following a diet plan, without taking a diet pill, without having to waste her money on a gym membership, and without buying one of those infernal exercise machines, she lost 25 pounds. Just dribbling and running while shooting 100 baskets three times a day, every day, whether she made them or missed them, she lost 25 frigging pounds. She couldn't believe it. 'Are you kidding me? Wow!' Finally finding her magic formula to her personal weight loss, no longer weighing a chubby 180 pounds, she now weighed a shapely 155 pounds. Moreover because she was replacing fat with muscle and with her body more proportional in the way of a broad shouldered, big backed, and narrow waist swimmer, no one would ever guess that she weighed a pudgy 155 but would instead think that she weighed a svelte 140. With her dress size dropping from a size 18 to a size 10, wearing more flattering clothes, with her stomach flatter, her overall body toned and conditioned, her breasts looked even bigger. With her ass appearing rounder, and indeed it was, her body was noticeably shapelier. Never muscular before, her shoulders, arms, calves, thighs, and back had more muscularity to them. Something she never looked like before, she was beginning to look hot. Someone she always wanted to look like before, she was looking as if she was a professional dancer or a professional ice skater now. By the end of July, never thinking it possible, she lost 10 more pounds and another ten pounds by the end of August. Nearly at her goal weight, with just five more pounds to go, she was now down to 135 pounds. Only, at 135 pounds, with her toned, shapely, muscular figure, she looked more like 120 pounds. Now wearing a size six/eight instead of a size 18, she exchanged her clothes for a bikini with a light cover up over it. Every day, three times a day, she was still out there shooting baskets. During the summer, every morning, every midafternoon, and every late afternoon, no longer hiding her body with a cover up, she shot baskets in just her revealing bikini. "Swish, swish, swish, swish, swish, swish, swish, swish, swish, swish, swish, and swish." Her record, twelve swishes in a row, until she missed one and then made thirteen more consecutive swishes. "Swish, swish, swish, swish, swish, swish, swish, swish, swish, swish, swish, swish, and swish." Her first time wearing a bikini, she never thought she'd ever wear a bikini. As long as her top didn't pop off or her breasts didn't peek out of her bra, she enjoyed the freedom of wearing a bikini. So long as they fit right, bikinis were comfortable. When wearing her bikini, sometimes feeling naked, she sometimes felt as if she wasn't wearing anything at all. She had bikinis in every style and color. With her now having the body of an Olympic volleyball player but with tits, seeing her shooting baskets was hot, especially when she ran, turned, and twisted. With her big breasts bouncing up and down with her, watching her make a jump shot was especially hot. * * * * * As if she was shooting baskets in a stadium or a coliseum, it was as if she was a female, Harlem Globe Trotter showing off how many consecutive swishes she could make. Whenever she made a basket, which was now more often than not, she had a fan club of elderly men and women hanging out their windows and applauding her basket shooting skills. With many of them no longer mobile and with many of them no doubt wishing they could be on the basketball court with her shooting baskets, as if rooting for themselves, they rooted for her instead. Whenever she was on a run and making a consecutive number of swishes, they'd keep count for her by yelling out their windows. "One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Eight! Nine! Ten! Eleven!" Moreover, always giving her pointers until she no longer needed a man to give her pointers, there was always some man who worked for or was visiting the complex watching her shooting baskets. "Don't push it from your chest. Instead, put your arms up, way up. Extend your arms over your head," said the custodian of the complex who obviously knew something more than she did about how to correctly shoot a basketball. "Thank you," she said figuring he was just another dirty, old man who wanted to ogle a young, hot chick shooting baskets in a bikini. Holding out his hand, he asked her for the ball to demonstrate how she should shoot it. Extending his arms high over his head, he looked at her. "Now, when you shoot, shoot the ball high, higher than necessary, and arc it. Instead of aiming it, a delicate operation as if dropping a pinpoint bomb from a building, allow it to fall from the sky over the basket and into the next. If you shoot a line drive it will hit the rim or bounce off the backboard. Lastly, when you shoot, allow the ball to roll and spin off the very tips of your fingers," he said. Nonetheless his professed technique, uncomfortable shooting baskets in that way with her arms raised over her head, she figured that he just was hoping that her tits would fall out of her bra. She figured that he was just hoping that her bra would pop off her body and she'd be standing there topless for a few seconds before noticing that her bikini bra was on the ground. Yet, after watching the professionals play, never comfortable shooting in that posture before with her arms stretched high over her head, she felt comfortable shooting that way now. Now when she launched the ball instead of shooting the ball, it felt more natural. Now comfortably poised as if ready to do a high dive, she couldn't imagine shooting a basketball any other way. Besides, now with her in that professional posture, in the way of a batter stepping to the plate, just as someone could tell from the stance he took if he could hit a baseball or not, without her even shooting the ball, someone could tell that she was a good shooter. First there was one man, a man who worked at the housing complex cheering her on while giving her encouragement and pointers. Then, there were two men giving her pointers and cheering her on while giving her encouragement. By the end of the summer, as if she was shooting an exhibition, the basketball court was literally lined with men watching her shoot baskets. Perhaps the reason why they stopped to watch her, she liked to think, was because of her basketball shooting skills. Perhaps the reason why they stopped to watch her, she liked thinking that too, was because of the consecutive number of swishes she made. Or perhaps the reason why they stopped to watch her was because it was of her barely there bikinis that she wore while shooting baskets. Obviously, with her having the focused attention of so many men, she had her pick of any man that she wanted but she was more interested in making baskets and in making swishes than in dating men. Now at a high percentage rate, she was making 60-70 baskets per 100 shots. Right up there with and on par with the pros, with the ball poised high over her head, her arms extended, and her fingers lightly rolling and spinning the ball high through the air... "Swish. Swish. Swish. Swish. Swish. Swish." Because of what the custodian showed her in how to correctly shoot a basketball, she was making more swishes. More often than not, when she made a basket, she made a swish. Swish, swish, swish, swish, whenever she made a basket, not hitting the rim or the backboard, she made a swish. Seldom hitting the rim or the backboard, all she now made were swishes. As if she was a swish making, shooting machine and immediately fielding the ball, running and shooting without even taking a second to set and aim, she made one swish after another. The sound of the swishes were intoxicating. It didn't matter from where on the court she shot the ball, she made a swish. "Swish." * * * * * "You're good," said a tall, good looking man while watching her shoot baskets and make swish after swish. Unable to remove her stare from his eyes, his light, grey eyes contrasted his dark skin. "Thank you," she said. Filled with confident poise, in the way that he carried himself, he looked like someone of significance. He looked like he had money. He looked as if he owned the place and as it so happens, he did. He resembled Derek Jeter of the Yankees only with a fuller face, more in the way of Alex Rodriquez, he was better looking. "Just the two of us, maybe we can play a game sometime," he said giving her a look that told her that he wasn't talking about playing basketball. With her not having had sex in a long time, since her boyfriend left her last October, suddenly, she imagined herself tied to his bed and him tearing off her clothes with his teeth. Suddenly, she imagined him tied to her bed and her having her wicked sexual way with his hot body. He was coming on to her but she didn't work this hard to get the body that she now had to jump in bed with the first man who made a pass at her. She wasn't a slut. She wasn't a whore. Even though on the outside she was hot, on the inside she was still fat. On the inside she was a good woman who wanted to fall in love, get married, and have a family. In this age of everyone living together and having children without exchanging marriage vows, having learned the reality of that with her three ex-boyfriends who never confessed their love for her, she was old fashioned in that regard. Steadfast in who she was and in now knowing what she confidently wanted, she'd never live with another man until he put a ring on her finger at the altar. "I don't play games," she said shooting without even looking. "Swish. When I do play a game, I play alone. Swish. When not playing a game, I play for keeps. Swish, swish," she said returning the eye that he was giving her with a sexy, come hither look. She turned as she jumped high in the air to make the next shot. "Swish." He watched her as if she had just dived from the 30 meter high diving board. "My name is Martin," he said walking over to her to extend his hand. "Charlotte," she said with a smile that would light up a room and that obviously lit up his world. As soon as his hand touched hers, she knew this was fate. This was her destiny. Love at first sight for both of them, after dating for nearly a year, they were married the following summer, the best summer she ever had. Three months later, she was pregnant with their baby, a boy she affectionately called Swish in private but named, Jerry Martin after her father with his middle name in honor of her husband. Swish made for her 101st basket. Then, two years later, Rita Charlotte, named after her mother with her middle name in honor of her, made for her 102nd basket. Still shooting baskets but no longer caring for Mrs. Morrison, she plans on teaching her two kids how to shoot baskets as soon as they're older and taller. THE END This is a Summer Lovin' contest story. As if giving my story and I your applause, please give me the support of your vote.