Weighting For Mr. Right By Patricia Fischer

Friday, January 18, 2013

If nothing ever changed, they’d be no butterflies ~ Author Unknown

When I started writing Weighting for Mr. Right, I wanted to create a story where the heroine Megan offered something more than “fat girl got skinny and she lived happily ever after.” In fact, I wanted to make sure she didn’t become skinny, but instead focused on her health and wellness, like I had, but I’ll get to that in a minute.

When Megan discovers her awesomeness, then she finds her happily ever after with a very hot, sexy, hot, intelligent, (did I mention hot) hero who falls in love with her when she’s in the before stages.

Problem is, with any sort of change, even with fictitious characters, it causes conflict, chaos, and confusion.

It’s no different for Megan. Not only does she have to battle food cravings and the want to quit torturing herself on the treadmill, but she finds that some of those around her are having a very hard time understanding what she’s doing and why.

I had the same experiences as I’ve lost and gained pounds. My relationships with those around me have changed—some for the better and some, well, let’s just say they fizzled out. Change can be very difficult for some, but necessary for others and I had Megan in a situation that she had to change or stay her miserable self for the rest of her life.

Just like Megan, I found myself in the before stages of me regaining my health right about the time I was in the final edits of this book before I submitted it to Soul Mate Publishing.

For five months, I worked my ass off (literally) and lost a total of 40 pounds right around the time I found out I’d sold this book.

Now, I’m beginning the second phase of my health and wellness, as well as the second book of the series, and planning to lose another 40 by September.

So, I know not all women need a size 2 backside to find happily ever after. In fact, in writing Megan’s story, I realized just how many people out there have been through the same image and weight loss struggles I had. I hope this story gives them a good laugh, but also makes them realize they can regain their health and wellness. Tears began to pool, again, as a few ran down my face.


“Ever wanted a do-over day?” I dried my face, only to pull away a makeup-covered wad of paper. Ugh.

“We all do.” Pause. “I guess this is one of those days?”

An escaped giggle filled the room. “Man, you’re good.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“Show off.” My phone vibrated, again. I ignored it.

“Bad day, huh?”

“Yeah, but I’m sure his is worse.”


I took a slow, deep breath. “Why? He’s a nice guy and I left him at the altar. He’s still there, dealing with everyone, while I’m in a car wash bathroom confessional.”

“Hard to say. Neither of you had good luck today.”

Shaking my head, I almost broke the beading off my gown, as I wrapped the lace accents around my fingers. “It’s not his fault, really. It’s mine.”


I stomped my foot. “Why? Why? That’s the sixty–four thousand dollar question, isn’t it?”

“But you didn’t answer my question.”

“You sure you’re not a priest?”

“That’s not my question.”

“I know that, but you play the guilt card so well.”

“Believe me, I’m far from being a priest.”

My stomach knotted as the image of a very hurt Travis flashed through my mind. More tears. “When the preacher asked if ‘I do’, all I could think of was ‘I don’t’ and ‘I can’t.’” I sniffed and dabbed my wet face, again. “Please don’t ask me why. I truly don’t know.”

Enough time passed that I figured he thought I was some histrionic or spoiled bride–to–be and not worth the effort of an answer.

“You said he was a nice guy.”

I rested my head against the stall door. “He was.” I hiccupped. “I mean, he is.”

“But you said no. Maybe he’s a nice guy, just not the right guy.”

My heart slammed in my chest as I heard the words out loud. This guy couldn’t be more on the money. All this time I kept telling myself Travis was such a nice guy, but I never asked if he was the right one. “You sound like a chick flick movie.”

“I’ve got three sisters. I’ve been forced to watch my share of them. And Oprah.”

I liked the way his subtle, southern drawl lengthened his ‘I’s’. “I’ve got three brothers, so I’ve seen everything to do with aliens, losing your virginity in high school, the military, and superheroes.”

He chuckled. “Coming out of there anytime soon?”

“I probably should.” My tears finally slowed. After wiping my face again, and knowing I’d ruined the two–hundred dollar makeup session I had not three hours ago, I needed to look in the mirror. “All right, I’m coming out.”

“Wow. You’re coming out already? I am good.”

I could feel the corners of my mouth lift. “No. My vanity has taken over.”


“I need to look in the mirror, because I think I might resemble a drunken circus clown after smearing all this makeup.”

“That sounds ... interesting.”

“Okay, I’m coming out.” I tried to straighten my overly beaded and ridiculously poufy dress. At least I’d opted not to wear the stupid petticoat before the service, much to my mother’s dismay. If not, I’d never have fit through the bathroom stall opening without getting snagged.

“Do you want me to leave?”

“Only if you don’t want to see a spazzed–out bride who probably looks like a circus freak.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

Taking a deep breath, I inhaled the lemon scented cleaner, stood up straight, and unlocked the door.

When I looked out, I saw him standing against the opposite wall with his hands stuffed in his pockets.

“You’re actually sticking around?” My hands fiddled with my phone. “Really?”


I paused as I caught a quick glimpse of him. He stood at least six–feet, brown hair, nice frame. Before I could get a better look, a glob of mascara and fake eyelashes clouded my vision. I pressed the wadded–up paper against my eye in an attempt to keep the makeup at bay. “Isn’t that a big no–no for confession? You’re not supposed to know what the confessor looks like. That’s part of the decompression process.”

He shrugged. “It’s not a secret. The priest knows who’s in the box, right?”

“You knew it was me in there, huh? Seems a bit unethical.” I dabbed at my eyes with a ball of toilet paper, clearing my line of sight for a second.

“You forget. I’m not a priest.”