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A Good Girl Helps Out
"You're such a good girl, thank you for everything you do.", I heard this from one of the regulars, a patron I saw every other week when I was a volunteer here at the weekly homeless dinner.
"I'm always happy to help! You have a kind and blessed day ma'am," a typical reply from me, but one I truly meant. I was always pleased to know people would go home with a full belly and a brighter feeling for the day. What I was not yet used to was a certain part of what she said.
Good girl...
I don't know how long it's going to take me to get used to this but, to this day, I'm not sure how I feel about it.
As the dinner started to wind down, I turned to my co-host and asked if we should give out the rest of the dessert to anyone who wanted it.
It was a pineapple cake that looked delicious and smelled about as good. Vague feelings welled inside me looking at it, mostly hunger.
"Absolutely. Blessings unto you for your help today! Our congregation is fortunate to have you here to help feed the needy", he remarked. "And don't forget some cake for yourself."
Clearly, I wasn't about to forget the cake. The constant praise was also something I'd have to get used to. I wasn't used to being "a good girl" either, let alone in a church handing out food and welcoming homeless people. Attendance had gone up more since I'd come into the fold, I was told, as they previously had no hostess to help make the incoming traffic feel invited to stay and reduce feelings of shame. Personally, I thought it was a total line they fed but, as more and more people told me their stories as I flitted about handing cakes, replacing drinks and in general taking care of the needs of the guests in the building; I almost started to believe it.
At some point, I had indeed become a "Good Girl".
"Hey, Heather! Can you grab some of the plates from that table? Ol' Bob here can't keep up. Should send him back to busboy boot camp."
That was the cook, Jeff, a salty old man with a playful nature to him just the same. "Show that bag of bones how to do it."
Ol' Bob quickly retorted, "Ye canna ask a lass ta clean up afta these gritty folk! Just keep yer pants on, you old coot."
I chuckled, if only Bob knew how much literal shit and cleaning I did at my previous jobs, or how much hard labor I put in, he wouldn't call me a "lass".
"Hey," I said, "Bob is doing his best. You can't expect a man as cultured and refined as him to bring you plates as fast as a Hooters waitress. He doesn't have the boobs for it."
The men both burst into laughter, then Bob and I began to clear the tables.
We finished cleaning the tables and the kitchen staff all gathered to eat the few leftovers consisting of chicken dumpling soup, the cake, and some toasted bread.
"A good turnout; The increasing amount of people coming has me concerned about just how many homeless we have here now." Jeff was clearly touching on the same feeling we all had.
Bob enjoined, " 'Course. Econ been whaft it is we canna expect less o' um showin up. Just ganna keep feeding the folk and stuffins um up with bread best we can."
Sometimes, I wondered if Bob's accent was from his heritage as a third-generation Scotsman, or his lack of teeth from a life of hard living. Perhaps both, I thought.
"God's Mission to us will not change even if we feed the entire town", my co-host said, with a somber face and a slightly grim undertone. "Do what we can with what we have."
I chimed in, after listening for a while, "Cheer up, it's not like we all had hot dates lined up tonight. This is a good thing you all are doing to help people, look on the bright side."
"We?" Jeff gazed at me, puzzled. "Don't go excluding yourself from this. If you do, no more cake for you from my better half."
We chatted for a while longer, about nothing in particular, for the better part of half an hour before finishing the cleanup and all heading home.
How in the world did I go from a generic workaholic who saved their money to pay off the house to a genuine "good girl" in less than eight months?
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A Good Girl Reflects
I made my way back to my home and decided to throw some hamburger into my pressure cooker. Five pounds would last seven days if I just ate when I was hungry.
Don't get me wrong: I wasn't ultra-poor or anything. I was just trying a new diet, and this was the current one to give a shot. It also tasted pretty good.
Eight months... the thought lingered with me for a while. I was physically unrecognizable to most people now, my old look gone with a new, more refined one.
And while my personality had remained unchanged, the way people reacted to it now was an order of magnitude different. Goes to show you that people do judge a book by its cover.
While it cooked, I quickly undressed and grabbed an old t-shirt that was almost the size of a loose dress on me now. 4X, it was damn big, and still smelled like the man who had last worn it.
The smell was altogether comforting and alluring, but a little weird, with a mix of old sweat I newly noticed and a light dash of something almost cinnamon. That man was long gone now.
A light 'pop' sounded as the pressure finally lessened enough to open the pot and scoop some meat out. I mixed it with a bit of homemade spaghetti sauce and stuck it in the fridge to cool.
Tomorrow, I would make spaghetti and finally go get a new bra. Despite losing weight, I had somehow gained another cup size. Anyone who tells you puberty is when you stop growing is a fool.
After watching some ASMR videos, I quickly fell asleep in my computer chair, stuck in a pose so painful yet so unaware of the feeling while asleep that I later woke up with cramps.
During my nap, I vaguely dreamed of having a family get-together and being totally ostracized as a stranger instead of one of them. It was a feeling I had many times over the years.
The truth was that what little remained of my living family was perfectly fine with me, no malice. That didn't stop the dreams and the sense of isolation they brought to me on restless days.
Still, I knew the dreams were horseshit. I was more accepted and liked now than I'd been my entire life. More people talked to me, wanting to hang with me. They literally MISS me not being around.
If someone didn't see me for a couple days, I'd get a message about how I was doing and if we could hang out. I had no idea why I was so popular now versus just eight months ago. Only I did know.
I just didn't really want it to be true, because I had long held to the belief that people would judge you by how you behaved. I quickly learned, my thirty-some years of life had lied to me entirely.
If your behavior doesn't match the appearance people expect, they don't trust it. I kind of already knew this from how people treated bikers in general, some being the nicest and calmest people I'd ever met. It didn't stop some from being irrationally afraid of them as violent thugs.
More to the point in my case, a well-dressed woman wearing some makeup and a cutely-conservative outfit was far more acceptable as a hostess than Ol' Bob would ever be, despite him being one of the kindest and most nurturing people I'd ever met. I guess that's why I was hostess, and he was cleanup.
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A Good Girl Goes to Work
The next day, I got up and got ready for work. Full ensemble, light perfume, eyeshadow, and very light makeup to lighten the red on my cheeks.
My bra was tighter than normal, Time to move up to an E now, it seemed. The speed at which I had grown accustomed to the constant changes was almost alarming.
I slid out the door with a bright spring in my step, happy to see the new day's dawning sun. A silly grin crossed my face as I began to walk to work, feeling fresh and alive.
To this day, the feeling seems surreal. It's odd how I now feel so many things as routine, but a new day always fills me with delight for some reason. Change, maybe?
I ignored the idea; euphoric as it was to be alive, it's almost certainly another reason why I was much happier now. Not even a bit of chill in the morning air dampened my mood.
This was my time, all alone with my thoughts and nothing more as I made the half-hour march. Happy. I was really really happy. Had I ever been this happy before? I wasn't sure.
Despite my unendingly pleasant feelings towards life, there was also a strange sense of wholeness that took me off guard when I noticed it. Is this what it means to feel like a Good Girl?
My boyfriend and I had more than once talked about it. Often on similar subjects and ideas all the time. He was shocked, at first, I think.
He became quite excited at my apparent turning a new leaf. And while I was now damn near his perfect woman at this point, it was all so mundane.
Yet, I think that is how I wanted it. Being myself isn't something special really, and I have never stopped thinking that was the case. Still...
I think most people took a lot of time to actually believe me when I told them of my new adjustments in life. A new life in general, really.
Would that I had never hurt myself on the job; I am unsure if I would have ever discovered the truth about myself and become such a Good Girl.
Only now, most thought I was beyond a good girl and rapidly making my way towards Wonderful Woman, if what they told me was true. Heather was enough for me. I was never a fan of titles or nicknames but sometimes these things stick to you, ya know?
The flowers, the trees, the birds, the bees. Cliche? Sure, but I enjoyed it all on my stroll to work. As dawn continued to break and the sky went from a dark blue to an orangish hue, I continued to feel like life was good. I had never been particularly sad, let alone depressed, though there were moments.
Now though? Just happy. And everyone seemed to pick up on it strongly. When I came into rooms, people would inexplicably smile now, just happy I was there.
Was this energy or even this euphoric feeling contagious? I almost believed it was. And while people were happy to see me before, it was almost always because of what I could do for them, not for just being myself. I unlocked the door to the main entrance and stepped inside, ready to clean up some trash.
