|Weighting for Mr Right|
Article by author Patricia W Fisher, RN.
I don't want a size two ass. I never have.
In my romantic comedy, Weighting for Mr. Right, I didn't want my heroine, Megan Sayla, to end up with one either.
I will confess. Initially, I planned for her to lose a ton of weight to find her happily ever after. Problem with that scenario is we've all seen it enough times to count and I knew the majority of my readers wouldn't be able to relate and probably lose interest in her. She wouldn't be relatable nor likeable and would fall out of the fantasy of the romance and honestly, it's not very realistic.
By the end of the book, I wanted readers to cheer for Megan's success and think, "I like this girl. We could out and drink margaritas all weekend."
Don't get me wrong, regaining or keeping your health takes work and I've lost and gained and lost enough times to make my head spin.
Problem is, I love to eat and I've had more than my share of temper tantrums in dressing rooms of major department stores, just ask my husband or my mom. But with the growing epidemic of obesity in our country and the world, I wanted to be responsible and address how all of us who hate the size of our thighs, might have gotten where we are and how to get healthier. I wanted to write a realistic heroine in a romantic comedy (fantasy) where I gave a good message.
So how would I weave fantasy with reality so people didn't think they'd been preached to, but still liked the characters (and me) by the time I wrote The End?
As a former ICU nurse, I'd seen my share of what poor health habits can do to a body. I remember one family all out in the waiting room eating tubs of BBQ and potato salad while they each took turns visiting grandma in the ICU after her heart attack and open heart surgery. As much as I wanted to shake them and say, "Look at what you're doing," I also understood it. Food is as much of a nutritional necessity as it is comfort.
In Weighting for Mr. Right, Megan Sayla has comforted herself with food far too long and just by saying the word No at the most inopportune time (her wedding), she's thrown down a path of self-discovery and given the potential to eat a big ass pile of Krispy Kreme donuts. (Remember, when the marquis light's on, you get a free donut.)
That's when the story really begins because what Megan discovers is that sometimes what you want may not be what's best for those in your life. I'd witnessed it enough to see that change causes major chaos, even if the change is a good thing. That was the reality of Weighting for Mr. Right.
Now here's the fantasy. There's a very hot guy in it named Jacob Dante who thinks Megan is amazing from the moment he meets her. To be clear, the guy is the fantasy, not the fact he likes her.
He looks a lot like this guy, my friend Warren. Check out his Facebook page here: https://facebook.com/modelwarren
And that's the simple version of how I mixed fantasy and reality in my book.
In Weighting for Mr. Right, multilingual nurse Megan Sayla has said no at the most inopportune time, he wedding day. In her confusion to get out and clear her mind, she decides to get "Just Married" cleaned off her car, but as soon as she reaches the carwash, she gets flustered and ends up in the men's bathroom.
There, she meets, Jacob Dante, who finds her not only cute, but intreging.
This is an excerpt of him realizing she'd spoken more than just English to her family when they called her, asking her to come back to the church.
"Wait, you said merde." He pointed. "I've heard that before. You speak what?"
"It's 'shit' in French."
"You speak French?"
"But you didn't just speak French did you?"
"No. I spoke a couple languages."
"Because 'oh shit', or really 'damn', in Danish is for hevelde and it doesn't flow as nicely across the lips as merde."
He shot me a look that made me wonderfully uncomfortable. "You're multilingual?"
"Yes, but it's not a big deal, really. No one thinks it's a big deal." I bit my lip. "No one."
"I do." Adonis moved toward me. "What languages do you speak?"
I wrung my hands. "Oh, okay. Um, English, of course, Danish, Russian, German, French, Spanish, and Italian."
Those green eyes sparkled. "You speak Italian?"
What was that look? "Yes. Si."
He took a step closer to me. "Say something in Italian."
Say something sexy, something clever.
"Okay." I took a deep breath. "Ho bisogno di verso lavaggio mio vestiti."
You're such a moron.
Adonis got a look on his face that wanted me to, well, do naughty, naughty things to him. "What did you say?"
Lie to him. He'll never know you said something stupid. "I said, 'I need to do laundry'."
The intensity of his eyes softened. "Who thought doing laundry could sound so ... appealing?"
"You should hear 'my car is clean'. That's la mia automobile è pulita. That's very sexy."
As he stared at me for a moment, a slow smirk spread across his face. "Right. Speaking of cars, I bet mine is finished." He shifted his feet, not moving any farther from me. "You good?"
I nodded, as I felt a little high, but couldn't determine if it was the lemon cleaner fumes or my endorphins. "I'm pretty sure I'll be fine."
"Nice to know." Turning to leave, he pivoted on his heels before disappointment set in my mind. "I'm sorry, but I've got to know your name."
"My name? Why?" His sudden request had me almost speechless.
"Gotta have a name to go with the story, because no one will believe me. No one will believe me when I tell them about a woman who had the guts to leave a man at the altar."
I raised an eyebrow. "Are you going to put this on your Facebook page?"
"No, no, nothing like that."
"My Space? Write a paper, an article, or a blog about it?"
"Not at all." He cleared his throat as he stepped toward me, leaving little room between us. "Just need a name ... call me curious."
"All right, Curious." I inhaled the mint of his breath. "I guess it isn't every day you meet a woman in the men's bathroom."
"At least not a woman willing to take such chances in life like you are. And ..." He took a deep breath.
"And what?" I felt my body leaning into him.
"You speak Italian."
"Oh." It finally dawned on me why this guy had me so flustered. For the first time, in however many years, someone noticed me.
He saw me through all the white, fluffed, marshmallow—cream of a wedding dress, pound of makeup and gallon of hair spray. He asked me something only I could answer, focused on one of my strengths, and he didn't tell me what I thought or needed or feel.
"Sì, parlo l'italiano." I smiled when his eyes sparkled again.
"Say something else," he whispered.
"E terrò a parlare esso se lei tiene sorridere come ciò." I'll keep speaking it if you keep smiling like that.
I tried to convince myself that no man, who looked like him, would be even remotely attracted to a lumpy, boring, made–up bride-on-the-run. That he was high, drunk, mentally impaired, or he needed a green card.
The problem with that theory? As each moment passed between us, and with every word of Italian I spoke, his green eyes became more vivid.
His undivided attention had me thinking of things I shouldn't when–
"Omigod, Megan!" Two of my bridesmaids,
Lydia and Sam, barged in.
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