ONE TO WATCH: FASHION BLOGGER BEA SCHUMACHER
by Toni Santo, TheCut.com
The Internet was ablaze this week when pop star Trish Kelly took to Twitter to complain that multiple designers refused to dress her for the Grammys—because she’s a size 8! Bea Schumacher is all too familiar with this conundrum: With more than half a million Instagram followers and a blog (OMBea.com, a play on OMG) that logs millions of visitors each month, Bea is one of today’s most popular fashion bloggers—but because she’s plus-size, almost no high-end designers make clothes that fit her.
For this week’s edition of “One to Watch,” we caught up with Schumacher to chat about her thriving career, enviable travel schedule, and hottest tips for rocking a red carpet, no matter your size:
How did you get started as a fashion blogger? Have you always loved fashion?
(laughs) God, no. When I was in high school, I wore exclusively baggy black pants and T-shirts and sweaters. I didn’t want to stand out; I didn’t even want anyone to look at me.
When did that change?
Junior year in college, I spent a semester abroad in Paris—that’s where my fashion addiction began. I was totally broke at the time, I spent the semester digging through vintage shops looking for treasures. I found so many great things that my friends encouraged me to blog about them, a little fashion travel diary. My best friend in my program was a photography major, and she took pictures of me in flowing dresses and floppy hats drinking wine by the Seine. I didn’t know the first thing about launching a website, so I just made a preformatted blog on Tumblr—that was the first iteration of OMBea. At first, I just posted pictures, but then I started writing more about my life and the challenges of searching for great clothes as a plus-size woman; it became a really important outlet for me, particularly after I moved back to Los Angeles with its totally monolithic beauty standards.
Was the blog an overnight sensation?
Hardly! In the early days, it was really only for people I knew. After college, I went to work at a Hollywood agency; I thought maybe I would be a stylist for movies and TV shows one day, and it seemed like a good way to learn the ropes of the industry. I was an assistant there, and one of my boss’s clients was a really famous actress who always loved my outfits. We got to talking about my blog, and she tweeted about it—that’s when things really blew up. I got tons of new followers, and I started being included in magazine roundups of who to follow, things like that. Once my reader numbers started getting big, I was able to pound the pavement to find sponsors and advertisers.
All while you were working a full-time job?
Yeah, it was pretty nuts. But after a year of hard work, it really paid off: I was able to quit my assistant job and become a full-time blogger, and I’ve never looked back. It’s been more fun than I could have dreamed.
Tell us more! What’s a typical day like in the life of Bea Schumacher?
It’s always different—that’s one of the things I love about my job. I might be meeting with a plus-size brand about a potential collaboration, or heading off to a fashion party in London or New York, or doing a photo shoot in my own backyard to show readers how I’m planning to style new looks for summer.
But you don’t just write about clothes—you also write about the experience of being a plus-size person who loves fashion.
I think it would be dishonest not to. It’s only very recently that a lot of companies have begun to make clothes that fit me—and especially when it comes to high-end designers, many brands that do claim to offer “plus-size” clothes only go up to a size 16! Which I find ridiculous, because size 16 is essentially average for women in America. Within the plus-size community, I identify as “medium fat,” so I still have a lot of privilege when it comes to finding clothing options. It’s much harder for women just a few sizes larger than I am, which is infuriating, not to mention senseless from a business perspective. I want to shake designers and say, Hey, do you guys hate fat women so much that you’re willing to cut out two-thirds of your potential customers? Do you really see our bodies as so unworthy of wearing your clothes? But the hard truth is that a lot of people in the fashion world would really prefer that I weren’t in it. And I think a lot of plus-size women feel that way in our day-to-day lives. For us, something as simple as posting an outfit-of-the-day selfie is a political action, and we have to live with all the people who feel entitled to comment on our bodies, to tell us we’re ugly, or unhealthy, or grotesque.
People actually say that to you?
On my blog, and on my Insta and Twitter comments? All the time! So many people have this vitriolic hatred of women in the public eye—especially women who have the audacity not to conform to conventional beauty standards—and on social media, they can deliver their hostility directly to our mentions. I wish I could say it never gets to me, but sometimes it does. It hurts to have strangers echoing the worst things I’ve ever believed about myself. But I love fashion so much because it has the power to make me feel strong and beautiful. Ditto for my closest friends and my amazing community of readers.
What about romance? Anyone special who makes you feel particularly beautiful?
Not right now! My schedule is pretty hectic, and I haven’t had time or energy to put into finding a great relationship. But who knows, maybe I’ll figure that out soon.
TEXT MESSAGE TRANSCRIPT, JUNE 9:
BEA SCHUMACHER & RAY MORETTI
Guess…what…I have
A spaceship. Ten rubies. Oh my god, is it a pony????
Nope, better than all those things
I have, in my possession…a plane ticket to Los Angeles.
[9:56am]: 
Is this really happening? I haven’t seen you in so long I forget what you look like
Ouch. (You’re right, I deserve that)
But yes! I get in the afternoon of July fourth, and then I’ll spend the night at your place (if that’s okay?) before I head to San Diego the next morning for Sarah’s folks’ anniversary party. Does that work?
Definitely! Want me to poll the old crowd from the agency to see who’s around?
Up to you, but I’d rather just catch up with you than split time with a whole group
I know I had to move to Atlanta to “be supportive of my fiancée’s career” or whatever, but I hate being so far from you, Bea.
I really miss you.
I miss you too.
Bea insisted she wasn’t nervous to see Ray, but the deep breaths she kept taking (air hissing in through her teeth, then pushed back out past lips pursed in a Lamaze-shaped “ooh”) as she sat in traffic on the 10 told another story. She reassured herself that she was a different person now than the girl who spent all those years obsessed with him, the shy Hollywood agency assistant in love with the most handsome guy in her mailroom class.
How unbearably cliché, Bea thought of her younger self as she pulled off the highway and into the winding, moneyed streets of Westwood, where quaint Tudor houses that looked airlifted from a Grimm story lined every block. She’d rather have stayed in her hodgepodge neighborhood on the east side of Los Angeles, but her favorite wine shop was here, nearly an hour away in traffic. For her one night with Ray (pretend though she might that it was no big deal), she knew she had to make the trek.
Les Caves was easy to miss with its unobtrusive sign and rough-hewn wooden door, and still easier to ignore when one peered inside briefly to see scattered tables laden with disorganized clusters of bottles. But Bea loved it here—loved speaking her broken French with the shopkeepers, loved delighting in the quirky wines they put aside for her, mouth-searingly dry Meuniers and sharply honeyed Savennières.
“Bea, bon matin!” Paul, who owned the shop with his wife, was pudgy and ebullient. Bea often joked that Paul had turned her into an insufferable wine snob, but he always laughed heartily and corrected her that she should be proud to be a connoisseur.
“Bonjour, Paul,” Bea said with a grin.
“Et qu’est-ce que tu désires aujourd’hui?” he asked. “Perhaps something very light, dry fruit and mineral? It is so hot!”
“C’est vrai,” Bea agreed—L.A. was experiencing its annual July heat wave, the few days a year when even the desert nights barely dipped below 90, rendering the entire city unlivable. It had been like this, too, the night Ray kissed her. That one perfect, terrible night five years ago, when he was stumbling drunk on the sidewalk in front of Chateau Marmont, his breath stale with cigarettes and whiskey, tears streaming down his face as he told Bea his mom was sick again, maybe terminally this time. He put his arms around Bea’s neck and whispered, “I can’t do this without you.” She replied, “You don’t have to,” not understanding whether he meant as friends or something more.
After all the countless nights of drinking together, sharing hushed secrets and whispered observations, feeling so starved to be physically close to him, clamping down nausea as she watched him flirt and kiss and leave whatever bar they were in with yet another gorgeous aspiring actress/model/singer, finally, finally, he was looking right at Bea.
It was too hot, and everything was damp, and she knew it was wrong when he leaned in to kiss her—he was too upset, too drunk, too distracted. But she didn’t care, because she had wanted this so much for so long, and she felt like she had somehow managed to wrench her life onto the right track by sheer force of will.
After the kiss, she expected him to say something profound—or something earnest, at the very least—but he just mumbled that he needed to call a car, he had an early flight.
“Oh,” Bea had stammered. “Sure. Of course.”
He flew home to Minnesota the next morning. He was only supposed to be gone for a few days, or maybe a few weeks, but he never came back, except to pack up his things and drive east. He spent the next few months at home with his family, watching his mother die; then he moved to Virginia for law school; after that, it was off to a fancy firm job in New York, where he met his girlfriend, Sarah; he followed her to Atlanta when she won a coveted promotion; that was where they got engaged.
And somehow, Bea still couldn’t believe any of it, as if the last eight years of her life had existed in some kind of stasis. Three years of knowing Ray, dreaming of Ray, yearning for Ray, believing with all her heart that he must feel the same. One night of blissful, agonizing confirmation. Five years of wondering whether any of it had been real.
She’d dated other men in the intervening time, of course, but she never found that same spark—no one so movie-star handsome, so quietly funny, so utterly captivating. Of all the app dates and setups, no one else had that thick, dark hair and those smoldering Brando eyes; no one else could run a finger along her arm and make her entire body feel weak.
And anyway, Bea’s primary focus was on other aspects of her life—career, friends, travel, family—she didn’t mind waiting to find another love as passionate and exciting as what she’d felt for Ray. She was sure one would come eventually. And in the meantime…well, in the meantime…was it really so bad to live in her memories? Her fantasies?
But today wasn’t a memory or a fantasy: Ray was on a plane right now, probably somewhere over the Midwest, hurtling toward Los Angeles, where he was spending one night in Bea’s guest room before catching a train to San Diego the next morning for some kind of anniversary weekend for his fiancée’s parents. Bea and Ray hadn’t seen each other for more than a year, not since a stilted meet-up in a crowded bar (with Sarah in tow, no less) during one of Bea’s whirlwind trips for New York Fashion Week. It had been loud, Bea had been exhausted, Ray had been sour. But tonight could be different—just the two of them, no noise. A chance to rekindle the connection Bea so desperately missed.
“No.” Bea shook her head when Paul produced one of her typical bottles, a crisp twelve-dollar white. “For tonight, I need something special.”
Three hours later, Bea paced the wide, uneven floorboards of her bungalow in Elysian Heights, a rickety little rental perched precariously on a hillside overlooking Elysian Park. The place was filled with creaks and cracks where faucets were rusty and doors weren’t cut quite long enough, but Bea loved it all the more for that; she vastly preferred a homey, colorful aesthetic to anything too modern or tidy—which, to her eye, lacked character.
Now, though, with Ray in a cab just minutes away, she began to see her home through his eyes: not artful but ragged, not welcoming but pitiful. She smoothed down the full skirt of her black corseted sundress (affectionately nicknamed her “slutty goth milkmaid ensemble” because of the off-the-shoulder neckline that showed off her cleavage in Oktoberfest proportion) and wondered if he’d see her the same way.
“This is idiotic,” Bea muttered, stopping in front of her hall mirror to tousle her meticulously mussed waves one more time, her hair nearly as dark as the perfectly smudged kohl eyeliner that rendered her bright blue eyes electric. She sucked in a breath: He was just her friend, just Ray, just visiting. Him coming here didn’t mean anything—just as their kiss, their whole history, all of it, probably never had. It was all in her head, as usual.
Except the second she opened the door and he threw his arms around her, she knew that she was wrong.
“Bea.” He exhaled, dropping his bag on the floor with a thwack so he could fully encircle her with both arms, hugging her tightly against him.
“Hiya, stranger.” Bea beamed up at him, and God he looked the same, straight nose and soft lips and those eyes that drank in every inch of her, his hungry gaze that always made her face flush with heat.
“I missed you.” He gave her a little squeeze, leaning down to kiss her temple gently.
“I’ve been here this whole time,” she retorted, surprising herself with the edge in her voice.
“You’re right.” He took her hand. “I’m an asshole. I should visit more.”
“Well, you’re here now,” Bea said quietly.
“And you’re…happy about that?” He met her eye, not letting her duck the subtext.
“Come on, Ray,” she demurred. “You know I am.”
“So?” He moved his body against hers, giving her a little nudge. “What does a guy have to do to get the ten-cent tour around here?”
“Oh my God, you’ve never been here before. How strange is that?”
“Unbelievably strange.” He grinned. “Stranger than long-form improv in the basement of that chicken place on Sunset.”
“They should have called it longest-night-of-our-lives-form improv,” Bea joked, and Ray laughed appreciatively. “Anyway, this is the living room. Do you like it?”
Ray wandered through the cozy room, perusing the treasures from all Bea’s travels that crowded every available surface—a carved wooden elephant from Siem Reap, a hand-glazed vase from New Orleans, her laminated LACMA membership card. Ray picked up a glass figurine she’d found in Paris, turning it over in his hands.
“You bought this in college, right—at that flea market you loved? You used to keep it on your desk at the agency.”
“Good memory,” Bea said, her voice suddenly mottled with emotion.
“This place is great.” Ray shook his head. “You should see our nightmare condo in Atlanta—everything shiny and new like a perfect little HGTV prison. Kind of a great metaphor when you think about it.”
Bea wasn’t sure what to say to that—or if she was meant to say anything.
“Um, do you want something to drink?” she ventured. “I have some rosé chilling.”
“Sounds amazing.” Ray let his fingers brush against hers, and Bea realized that this was the idiocy—the idea that she had ever been remotely over him.
Their plan was to head to a rooftop party at her friends’ loft downtown, but Ray wanted to shower first. So after their glass of wine, Bea waited on the couch, listening to the water run and dragging her mind forcibly away from visions of Ray’s naked body wrapped in one of the fluffy white towels she’d laid out for him. A shiver went up her spine—or maybe it was just the air conditioning kicking into overdrive.
“I feel like a whole new human,” he remarked as he breezed into the living room.
It was unfair—unholy, even—how good he looked in an easy pair of khaki shorts and a soft white linen button-down. Black hair, damp skin, like James fucking Bond climbing down from a yacht and wading ashore.
“Plane grime,” Bea forced out, her voice an octave higher than normal. “The worst!”
“You sure you want to go to this party?” He plopped down on the couch beside her, his arm casually leaning against hers—they were a little too still, like they’d both noticed the contact but had no idea what to do about it.
“Oh, um,” Bea stumbled, “did you not want to go out?”
Ray shrugged. “I dunno. We could just hang here. If you wanted.”
Was he suggesting—what? Nothing? Anything? Something?
She had to get out of this house. Being here with him was making her paranoid, so desperate for his attention that she was reading imagined prurience into every harmless sentence.
“My friends are expecting us.” She hopped off the couch and grabbed her phone to call a car. “It’ll be fun, I promise.”
“If you can brave the heat, I guess I can too,” Ray groused good-naturedly.
Bea nearly exhaled audibly. He just wanted to avoid the heat! He didn’t want—
Me. She made herself finish the thought. He didn’t want me.
Well, good. He was engaged to another woman. Nothing could happen, even if he did want her. Which he didn’t, so. That was that.
Bea hit the button to confirm her cab. Their driver would arrive in seven minutes.
The party was just a touch on the wrong side of fun—everyone a little too drunk, a little too hot, quippy comments that otherwise would have made for light banter landing somewhere closer to ornery, tempers running thick and foul, the heat hanging darkly even after the sun went down.
“Who’s this tall drink of water?” Bea’s friend Mark asked with a leer.
“He’s Ray, and he’s straight,” Bea snapped.
“But not narrow.” Ray winked, flirting—as he always did, with everyone, making every person he ever talked to feel special, when the truth was that no one ever was.
“Excuse me, I need another drink.” Bea rolled her eyes and flounced off to refill her glass of punch. Why had she wanted to come to this party? Why had she wanted to see Ray in the first place? After so many years of missing him so much, she thought seeing him would feel good, but it was awful. Just an acutely painful reminder of how much she still wanted him, and how completely he would never, ever be hers.
“Hey, are you okay?” Ray came up behind her, a hand at her waist. She jumped away, the contact too close, too intimate.
“Don’t do that,” she chided.
But he reached for her again. “Tell me what’s bothering you.”
Above them, the first firework exploded—flashes of green and gold, and appreciative gasps all around them as everyone looked skyward. But not Ray. His eyes were trained on Bea.
“Nothing’s wrong,” she insisted. “I’m fine.”
“Don’t lie to me,” he said firmly, but there was a note of desperation there. “I know you’re not fine. Bea, I’m not either.”
Cracks and booms echoed around them, red and blue and silver, as he circled her wrists with his fingers.
“Bea…”
She shook her head. “Ray, what are you doing?”
He pulled her closer. “You know what I’m doing.”
His fingers were grazing up her forearms, her biceps, her shoulders, his hands were in her hair. She heard him ask “Is this okay?” and it wasn’t, it fucking wasn’t, he knew it wasn’t, but she felt her head nodding as if a puppeteer were bobbing it with unseen string, and then he was kissing her. It was so intense, his body pressed against hers, his hands pulling her face closer and closer, his teeth nipping at her lips, and she couldn’t breathe, and she didn’t care, and when he said, “Can we go home now?” she nodded again. This time, with agency. With intent.
The car ride was unbearable, his hands on her thighs, standstill traffic on the 101. When they finally got to her house, she thought they wouldn’t even make it to the bed; he threw her against the wall so hard and ripped the damn dress off her. No one had ever wanted her that much. She was so confused, even as it was happening—had he always wanted this? Why hadn’t it happened sooner, when they lived in the same place, when he was single, all those years that she was so in love?
It doesn’t matter, she told herself. He’s here now. After all this time, he’s here.
He was on top of her, kissing her gently, and a smile lit up her whole face.
“What is it?” he asked, smiling too.
“Nothing.” Her heart swelled, the joy of the moment so expansive it was almost painful. “I’m just really, really happy.”
“Me too.” He kissed her again, and she breathed in his reassurance. “Bea, you’re all I’ve wanted.”
TEXT MESSAGE TRANSCRIPT, JULY 5:
BEA SCHUMACHER & RAY MORETTI
Hey
Are you up?
Sorry I didn’t wake you before I left
On my train now, should be in San Diego around 10, and then it’s a lot of brunches and things with Sarah’s folks
But I’ll call you later?
Ok
JULY 8
Hi
Hey
You never called the other night
I really think we should talk
Oh yeah
Things got really busy
This week is crazy, let me get back to you
TEXT MESSAGE TRANSCRIPT, JULY 8:
BEA SCHUMACHER & MARIN MENDOZA
“Let me get back to you”?!?!?!?!?!
No
No
I’m sorry
No
He did not say that to you!!!!
He…did
What did you say?
Nothing. I didn’t say anything
I don’t know what to say to him
What do you want to say?
I don’t know, hi Ray, I think we’ve loved each other for almost a decade, even though it was always some new excuse for why you had to live in some new city, be with some new girl, and now you’re engaged, but when we slept together it felt like my whole life suddenly clicked into place, like maybe my story was finally ending, or starting, or something, and then you just left like you always do, because you’re a coward, but I love you anyway. And I wish I didn’t. And I wish you’d just come back.
I don’t think you should say that.
I hate my life
Stay right there. I’m coming over.
FOOD2YOU DELIVERY RECEIPT:
ACCOUNT HOLDER—BEATRICE SCHUMACHER
DELIVER TO:
Beatrice Schumacher
1841 Avalon Way
Los Angeles, CA 90026
Stouffer’s frozen meals: Macaroni and cheese (25 units)
LaCroix Sparkling Water (Pamplemousse flavor) (6 cases)
Doritos Corn Chips (Cooler Ranch flavor) (10 bags)
Doritos Corn Chips (Nacho Cheesier flavor) (10 bags)
Skinny Cow Ice Cream Sandwiches (original flavor) (6 boxes)
JIF Extra Creamy Peanut Butter (5 jars)
Original Saltine Crackers (5 boxes)
Diet Coke (12 cases)
Z-quil Sleep Aid Medication (2 boxes)
Cottonelle Rippled Toilet Paper (18-roll pack)
NOTE:
Do not ring bell. Client waives signature requirement. Leave groceries at front door.
TEXT MESSAGE TRANSCRIPT, AUGUST 25:
BEA SCHUMACHER & MARIN MENDOZA
Hey, have you left yet? Sharon made this white peach sangria and it’s VERY GOOD you should def get a car instead of driving
I think I might just stay home? I’m so behind on work stuff
Bea, NO! You didn’t come to Sneha’s thing yesterday either, she was pissed!! Did you go on your date last night?
I couldn’t
Okay
But babe, you’re not going to get over him if you never meet anyone new
I know. I’m just not ready.
I wish you’d come to Sharon’s. We’d all really love to see you.
TEXT MESSAGE TRANSCRIPT, AUGUST 25:
BEA SCHUMACHER & RAY MORETTI
So are you really never going to respond to any of my emails? Not one of them?
I’m not trying to ruin your life. I just want to talk.
I hate this, Ray. I miss you.
SELECTED MESSAGES FROM THE TINDER MESSAGE FOLDER
OF BEA SCHUMACHER
Yo!!!!!!!!!!!
Hey there:)
GIVE. ME. THOSE. CURVES.
I…what?
GIMME EM BEA GIMME THOSE CURVES
sup b
nm, T. how are you?
can I come over
address?
do you think we maybe skipped a couple of steps there?
wut
Hey, Alex! Love that Paris pic. My fav city. :)
Sorry, I don’t think this is going to work.
Excuse me?
You need to show your body in your top photo. A headshot is dishonest.
Hello, Bea. How’s your week going?
Hi, Kip! It’s pretty average, a little work, a nice hike now that it’s actually starting to feel like fall.
(Oh god, am I the boring girl who talks about the weather? Sigh.)
How’s your week?
Ha! As residents of Los Angeles, I think we’re legally obligated to mark the seasonal transition from high of 84 to high of 78.
My week’s alright. Would you like to meet for a drink?
Sure, I could do that. Thursday?
BLOG POST FROM OMBEA.COM
7,849 Reblogs 
• 22,378 Likes 
Hey OMBeauties! Okay, I need to level with you: I’m smiling in this photo, but I’m not feeling great right now. I went on a Tinder date tonight—my first date in a while, in fact. As you can see, I wore my patented First Date Uniform: faded black skinny jeans and a form-fitting V-neck top from Universal Standard that miraculously flatter curves on every body, Stuart Weitzman ankle boots fabricated in the Technicolor floral tapestry of my fantasies, and bright-green statement earrings I found at a street market in Barcelona last summer. I wear nearly this exact outfit on every first date (future suitors, be forewarned!), because I find that when you’re stressed and anxious about meeting someone new, having a go-to look that makes you feel comfortable yet confident, laid-back yet sexy, can alleviate some of the nerves.
And beauties, I did feel great tonight—until I walked into the bar my date had chosen.
Usually, when I go out with dates or friends, I’m the plan-maker. I pick the restaurant or bar so I can make sure it has comfortable seating (seriously, can we ban bolted-down booths forever?); I order the car and pay the surcharge for a sedan or SUV so I won’t feel cramped and claustrophobic in the back seat of an itsy-bitsy hatchback.
But tonight, my date was pumped to try a chic new cocktail bar in our neighborhood: a crowded haunt with cozy little high-top tables for two sprinkled throughout the narrow space. The entire time I was there, I felt like a pariah mumbling, “Sorry, excuse me,” to every person I inevitably bumped into, praying I wouldn’t accidentally cause even a drop of drink spillage, feeling like no matter where I stood, I was always in someone’s way.
Going on a first date can be scary for anyone, but I find that for me, natural insecurities can spiral into an echo chamber of all the horrible things society has ever implied (or outright declared!) about my fatness. Even though my date tonight didn’t say or do anything to make me feel unattractive, being in that bar surrounded by thin people (ah, Los Angeles), it was perilously easy to backslide into this ubiquitous idea that I’d be so much happier if only I looked like them. As though if I could make my body fit on one of those tiny barstools, I’d be in a perfect, fulfilling relationship instead of forcing myself to get through this date, wishing I could just disappear.
Of course, I know that none of that is true. That I can’t change my body type (and don’t even want to!), that thin women are no more happy than I am, that these insecurities are seeded and tended in my brain by the weight-loss industry, which profits from our collective self-loathing to the tune of $70 billion every year—despite the fact that 97 percent of diets fail. (Side note: What if we put all that money toward solving actual health problems instead? Could we cure ovarian cancer, like, tomorrow?) I know all of these things. But sometimes, like tonight, I just can’t feel them.
Okay, beauties, enough rambling from me—I’m off to bed. Thanks for keeping me company; you guys brighten up even the dreariest night. More soon.
xoxo, Bea
Sorry your date was a bummer Bea!!! But you look amazing!!!!
youre lucky anyone would date you go see a doctor before the diabetes kills you
TEXT MESSAGE TRANSCRIPT, OCTOBER 3:
BEA SCHUMACHER & MARIN MENDOZA
Just saw your post—you ok?? How was Kip??
Hey, I’m fine. He was fine. It was all fine.
That’s the most terrifying the word “fine” has ever sounded.
Do you think you’ll see him again?
No, it was awkward. We didn’t really have anything to talk about.
Give me a break, you could banter with a cardboard box if you had to.
I don’t know. I just felt like there was lead in my chest, I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Maybe it was too soon.
Ugh, I’m sorry babe. Do you want me to come over?
You’re an angel, but I’m okay. I’m gonna kill the rosé in my fridge, watch some old eps of Brooklyn Nine-Nine and go to sleep.
Yesssssssss I love this plan!! Watch as much Rosa Diaz as possible and become a queer woman so you never have to date men again!!
Is that how queerness works?
Listen, was I born gay, or did Julia Stiles in 10 Things I Hate About You *make* me gay? It’s literally impossible to know.
Get some sleep, and don’t stay up until all hours drafting emails you’ll never send to you-know-who, okay?
I won’t. I promise.
UNSENT EMAIL FROM THE DRAFT FOLDER OF BEA@OMBEA.COM
FROM: Bea Schumacher <bea@ombea.com>
TO: [no recipient specified]
SUBJECT: [no subject]
Dear Ray,
I don’t know what to say to you, but I feel like I have to say something.
I still miss you. So much, not every day anymore, not every minute, not like it was, but when I remember for half a second how good it was, God, I’m just gone. Isn’t that ridiculous? That after all these months and years of you jerking me around, disappearing from my life and dropping back in when it suits you, of doing anything and everything I could think of to put you out of my mind, you still infest my flesh, my blood, like you’re some vital chain binding me together. And I fucking hate you for it, and I fucking hate myself for being party to this absurdity. Because, what, what, am I an idiot? Am I this pathetic that the second a smart, handsome man shows me attention, no matter how bad he is for me, no matter how deeply I know it, I fall for him anyway?
I feel like you’re a pit I can’t climb out of. The clawing and craning skyward to try and find some shred of light is so exhausting, and it’s so much easier to let the ghost of your arms pull me down and down and down. If I let myself remember how you taste, my breath gets hard, my body heaves. If I let myself consider you inside me, I can’t function.
I don’t know how I handed you this power, it makes me so insane that you have it. And I fucking know, I know it’s probably just me and my own shit, that you don’t have a damn thing to do with it. You’re just some vessel holding all my sadness, glowing with the nuclear energy of my loneliness. If I try to imagine you letting me go, I don’t feel free. I feel untethered, unbound. Like I’m nothing and nowhere.
But if I imagine you holding me, I crumple. Ray, I’m running out of ways to exist.
This sounds so crazy, I know I sound crazy. I’m not sending you this. I would never send you this. But God, Ray. Don’t you miss me? Not this mess I am now, but the me who was, until recently, your best friend?
I don’t know where I am, Ray. I don’t know where we are.
TEXT MESSAGE TRANSCRIPT, OCTOBER 14:
BEA SCHUMACHER & MARIN MENDOZA
So tonight, 7:30? I’ll bring wine, you order takeout?
I’m kind of feeling that good bougie Thai place, the one with the crazy pad kee mao? But idk I could be talked into burgers. OOOH OR DONER
?????
IT’S MAIN SQUEEZE PREMIERE NIGHT BEA OR HAD YOU FORGOTTEN
I…had forgotten
Well great news we’re watching at your house so there’s no appropriate way for you to cancel.
I’m gonna order vegan
Ugh don’t be spiteful. See you soon!!
TWITTER THREAD FROM USER @OMBEA
Hey there, OMBeauties! Totally forgot tonight was @MainSqueezeABS premiere night, but now my bestie and I are on my couch with tacos & tequila and we’re ready to live-tweet every plot twist! Join us?
Is it just me, or do the people on this show keep getting more boring? Jayden is the whitest white man in history and every one of these girls is basically performance art of straight femininity.
Like what would happen if one of these women wore PANTS? Or had SHORT HAIR? Would the world end?
And obviously they could NEVER be above a size 4, Jayden’s poor sad penis would break beneath the crushing weight of an average-sized woman.
My friend @MaybeMarin wants to know if we should drink every time one of the girls says she needs a man to complete her life. I say no bc we might get real real wasted, but what say you???
WHO IS THIS GIRL TAYLOR AND WHY IS SHE SAYING ALL THESE FACTS ABOUT PERSONAL FINANCE MARRY HER JAYDEN
(we’re doing the drinking game)
Ok here’s another thing though. These women are supposed to be “real” but these bodies are not realistic AT ALL. Who actually LOOKS LIKE THIS?
Before you come for me about that one plus-size girl who was on the show one time a) she was A LITERAL MODEL and b) she got eliminated the first night so don’t even
And obviously I know, it’s just TV, it’s all staged and fake, but they bill it as reality! Here are real people, finding real love! Except you, all 95% of humans who look nothing like this.
PREACH, BEA!!
you actually won’t find love tho so like…
love this!!!!!!!! more please!!!!!! can you do a post about this????
TEXT MESSAGE TRANSCRIPT, OCTOBER 15:
BEA SCHUMACHER & MARIN MENDOZA
Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
Are you awake
Probably not, right, okay
When you wake up…maybe look at Twitter
Oh god why, who’s canceled now
Bea.
After I left last night…you wrote a blog post?
Well my laptop is currently upside down on top of a pile of lipsticks (?) on my kitchen counter (??), so…it’s possible?
Oh wait, yes, I definitely did
Wow I was really feeling my rage, huh????
Please just check your Twitter.
VIRAL ROUNDUP OF THE WEEK: 10/18
by Patrick Matz, mashable.com
We thought for sure the most shared content of the week would be an already-infamous video of a tabby cat being catapulted off a seesaw by an overexuberant toddler (if you haven’t seen it yet, do yourself a favor and click here), but a late-breaking surge of support has brought us a new champion: Plus-size blogger Bea Schumacher’s scorching critique of reality romance juggernaut Main Squeeze has now been shared more than a million times across Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, and Instagram. We estimate the viral post has reached more than 15 million people, a staggering 3 million of whom have clicked “Like.” Read on for the rest of the week’s viral content, including a can’t-miss tweetstorm detailing the conspiracy theory you never knew you always needed about Hillary Clinton’s dogs.
“PACK YOUR THINGS AND GO”:
PLUS-SIZE BLOGGER ANNIHILATES MAIN SQUEEZE
by Danielle Kander, bubblegiggle.com
Plus-size blogger Bea Schumacher loves Main Squeeze—and she’s not alone! Who among us can resist watching one man or woman choose from 25 potential suitors, narrowing the field week by week until we’re left with one lucky winner for a fairy-tale proposal, a whirlwind engagement, and a low-key breakup six to eight weeks later?
But I don’t love the show’s total lack of diversity—and neither does Schumacher. Monday night, she went on her blog OMBea (if you’re not following her, you’re doing the internet wrong) to post an epic takedown. She addressed the show’s “appalling” lack of racial diversity, its “perplexing” erasure of queerness, and most of all, its “abject refusal to include any woman who wears above a size 4, despite the fact that two-thirds of American women are size 14 and above.”
“Main Squeeze is the most successful romance reality show in history,” Schumacher wrote. “It defines what it means for ‘real’ people to find love—except according to its own standards, fat people aren’t real. We aren’t worthy. We don’t even exist.”
So far, Schumacher’s scathing post has been shared more than a million times on social media, resulting in a flood of new traffic to her blog and Instagram, where she now has more than 600,000 followers. For our part, we’re THRILLED that more people will see Bea’s body-positive message, and we can only hope her post will lead to some actual change on Main Squeeze—and on television.
SELECTED DIGITAL HEADLINES
RUN DURING MAIN SQUEEZE SEASON 13
MEET THE WOMAN TAKING DOWN ROMANCE “REALITY”
Bea Schumacher is plus-size and proud!
ONLINE PETITION PUSHES ADVERTISERS TO BOYCOTT MAIN SQUEEZE
The petition, launched on the website change.biz, has more than 40,000 signatures.
“I LOVE MY THICK BLOGGER”—WOULD YOU BANG A BIG GIRL?
According to our new survey, 60 percent of men say they’d sleep with Bea Schumacher.
ANGRY INCELS SEND CASES OF SLIMFAST TO PLUS-SIZE BLOGGER
Twitter war explodes after Men’s Rights Activists publish Bea Schumacher’s home address.
PLUS-SIZE BLOGGER DONATES HUNDREDS OF CASES OF SLIMFAST TO L.A. FOOD BANK
“They’re the exact same thing as Soylent, you misogynist turds,” says Bea Schumacher.
SCANDAL: FORMER MAIN SQUEEZE CONTESTANT REVEALS DIETING PRESSURE ON-SET
Gina DiLuca claims women on-set encouraged diet pills and laxative abuse: “It was a literal shit show.”
IN TEPID FINALE, MAIN SQUEEZE RATINGS HIT 5-YEAR LOW
Notorious producer Micah Faust is reportedly in hot water at ABS.
CAN MAIN SQUEEZE SURVIVE WITHOUT WOMEN VIEWERS?
Amidst controversy and dangerously low ratings, rumors fly that ABS may cancel the reality juggernaut.
LAUREN MATHERS NEW EP IN MAJOR MAIN SQUEEZE SHAKE-UP
by Tia Sussman, deadline.com
Following waves of negative publicity and a five-year low in ratings, Deadline can confirm exclusively that executive producer and showrunner Micah Faust is OUT at Main Squeeze. Producer Lauren Mathers—long seen as Faust’s right hand and effectively running the day-to-day on-set—has been promoted to the top spot and will take over immediately, according to Deadline’s ears at ABS.
“The brass at ABS have been looking for an excuse to ditch Faust for a long time,” said our ABS source, speaking under condition of anonymity. “Alyssa [Messersmith, senior VP of unscripted at ABS] hated Faust’s shit—the drugs, the women, the risky behavior on-set, the production shutdowns.”
Faust’s bad-boy antics have been infamous for decades, but few believed he would ever actually be ousted from his own signature franchise. As for his successor, Mathers has kept relatively under the radar in the industry, working her way up the ladder at Main Squeeze for the last five years. I hear she’s respected on-set and well liked by the crew. At just 28 years old, she’s now one of the youngest showrunners in town—but my source says not to underestimate her.
“Lauren is strategic,” the source explained. “She knew this was the moment to make a play for Faust’s job, and that she had the ally she needed in Alyssa.” But Mathers shouldn’t get too comfortable in Faust’s chair. The source went on: “If Lauren can’t bring the ratings up for the spring season of Main Squeeze, there’s no doubt in my mind that Alyssa will fire her ass too. There are plenty of people in town who would love to run a show as big as Main Squeeze.”
INSTAGRAM DIRECT MESSAGE EXCHANGE,
JANUARY 6: @OMBEA AND @LMATHERS1116
Hey Bea, this is Lauren Mathers, the new executive producer at Main Squeeze. I’d love to meet and talk more about your piece. Can we have coffee? Where in town are you?
Hi, Lauren. Well, this is unexpected! I’m in Echo Park.
Of COURSE you are! I’m in Venice.
Ha, a world away. Would a phone call be easier?
No, I’d really love to see you in person. Let’s meet in the middle—drinks by the pool at the Standard in WeHo? How’s tomorrow at 3?
Sure, that works. See you then.
Ever since the Fourth of July, Bea felt like opening her eyes each morning was some kind of emotional slot machine: 5 A.M., awake. Flip. A pressing, horrific dread: Ray’s arms, his smell, already present. No. Can’t start the day like this—pull the lever again. Another twenty minutes of sleep, maybe forty. Flip. Okay, this is better, just another day, just Tuesday. I can live with this. Let’s go.
She went through this exercise every morning for months, the wish and foreboding of it mingling each night before bed. Maybe tomorrow will be better. Maybe it will be the same.
What drove Bea truly insane was her total lack of control in the whole scenario. No matter how good a day she had, how productive she was or how many friends she saw or how much she cried in therapy, there was no apparent correlation to how she would feel when she woke up the next morning. Or twenty minutes after that.
There were a few weeks during the height of her Main Squeeze post going viral when she was so inundated with texts and DMs and emails and press requests that her frazzled, cluttered existence almost didn’t leave room for him. During those weeks, she wouldn’t wake up thinking about him; instead, he’d snake into her consciousness later, always buzzing at the periphery, waiting for a few minutes between calls or an unmoving lane of traffic to strike.
Bea knew that pining after him was fruitless. One drunken, sloppy kiss five years ago; one perfect, awful night six months ago. He wasn’t the love of her life—he wasn’t even returning her texts. So why the hell couldn’t she move on?
Bea dragged herself out of bed and ran through her calendar for the day—more or less empty since L.A. was slow to get back to the grind after the holidays. Nothing until her meeting at the Standard at three.
Lauren Mathers. How totally strange.
When her post blew up, Bea vaguely expected—okay, fantasized—that someone from Main Squeeze would reach out to her, maybe invite her to consult on the show, participate in some way? But the show’s producers had refused to acknowledge Bea’s post at all, not even with a bland press statement. Their strategy had been to ride out the criticism in silence—and it had worked, more or less. Bea’s post was only a story for a couple of weeks; there’d been a subsequent bout of thinkpieces debating the impact of the lack of body diversity in pop culture, but then those died out too.
So it was incomprehensible to Bea why the new executive producer of Main Squeeze would be reaching out now that her post was all but forgotten. Bea had emailed her agent, Olivia, immediately after Lauren DMed her, but Olivia couldn’t dig up any dirt from her sources at ABS, so Bea was going into this meeting essentially blind.
It’s probably just a get-to-know-you, Olivia had emailed, to make you less inclined to drag them through the mud again when the new season starts in March. Which reminds me—we should DEF get you booked on some morning shows around the premiere. Maybe some late shows too. You’re funny, right?
Figuring out what to wear to drinks at the Standard was a futile endeavor. That particular part of town was the epicenter of L.A.’s looks-obsessed culture, where everyone was either an aspiring movie star or aspiring to sleep with one—people who couldn’t possibly fathom that Bea could be proud of her body. But Bea was determined to go to the meeting in a bold, dare-you-to-look-away style, so after an hour of weighing options, she settled on one of her favorite looks: lavender coveralls with a playful snake pattern from Nooworks, cinched with a top-stitched taupe corset belt to suggest a more defined waist, decadent cognac booties with a stacked wooden heel, all topped off with her favorite Tom Ford aviators and oversized rose-gold hoop earrings studded with rhinestones.
She arrived ten minutes early, but Lauren was already waiting—she rose from their table and rushed to greet Bea as soon as she walked out onto the pool deck.
“Bea! So great to meet you.” Lauren’s voice matched her appearance: rich, sharp, and deliberate. Rail thin in skinny jeans, a silk tank, a hunter-green blazer, and sky-high mules, Lauren looked every inch the moneyed Yale grad Bea had Insta-stalked earlier that day. Her glossy auburn hair was thick and straight, her skin creamy and freckled, her hazel eyes vividly alert—it was instantly apparent to Bea that this was a woman who missed nothing.
“Lauren, hey.” Bea smiled, instinctively patting down her own wild waves (made more ungovernable by her universal insistence on driving with the top down on her clunky vintage Saab convertible, which was avocado green and affectionately nicknamed Kermit the Car).
“So you’re early to everything too?” Lauren asked as they got seated at a table overlooking the pool and the sprawling Hollywood hills beyond. “Not the way people roll in this city.”
“Not usually,” Bea admitted, “but traffic was nonexistent. I love L.A. from Christmas to Sundance.”
“Oh God, same!” Lauren laughed. “The only thing better is Coachella—it’s like every asshole in the city gets raptured and you can park wherever you want. Hey!” She turned to the waitress Bea hadn’t seen approach. “Can we get some chips and guac, and maybe some of those good off-menu summer rolls? And I put in an order for two French 75s with the bartender—are those coming?”
“Yep! Let me grab them for you.”
“Great.”
Lauren handed their unopened menus to the waitress, who bounced off without bothering to engage with Bea at all. Bea turned to Lauren, her suspicion rising.
“So you know my favorite drink?” Bea asked.
“Bea, I think you’re going to find I know an unnerving amount about you.”
“And why is that?” Bea asked, unable to quash her curiosity. A delicious smile spread across Lauren’s face.
“What would you say,” she said slowly, turning the words over in her mouth, “if I told you that you’re my pick to be the next Main Squeeze?”
“Excuse me?”
“French 75s!” The waitress was back, depositing their drinks. Lauren lifted hers to clink glasses with Bea, but Bea couldn’t think, let alone move.
“Okay,” Lauren said gently, “I’m seeing now that maybe I should have worked up to that a little better. But fuck, Bea, isn’t this exciting? You’re going to change the face of reality television.”
“So…” Bea’s throat felt dry. “You’re saying…”
Lauren put down her drink and leaned in. “I’m saying, I want you to be the next star of Main Squeeze. I want to handpick twenty-five men to compete for your attention, and I want you to get engaged to one of them on television. I want to transform the way America sees plus-size women. I want to explode your career and change your life.”
At this, Bea burst out laughing. “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, but just—why?”
A busboy dropped off their appetizers, and Lauren helped herself to some guac, as if this were a totally normal drinks meeting and not the most absurd conversation Bea had ever had.
“Bea, your piece was absolutely spot-on. Everything you said about the way the show totally ignores women who don’t subscribe to one specific hyperfeminine beauty standard, about how we systematically erase every kind of diversity. The guys who used to run the show, the guys I worked for? They hated you. And you know what? I fucking hated them. I hated how smug and callous they were about women, how they think we’re such idiots that we’ll swallow their garbage version of Cinderella year after year, that we can’t possibly want more for ourselves—or expect more of the men we fall in love with. Beauty queen, wife, mother. As if that’s the totality of everything we could ever want to be.”
“So it’s true you staged a coup?” Bea asked. Lauren leaned back in her chair, a satisfied smirk twitching on her lips.
“I wouldn’t say ‘coup.’ ”
“What would you say?”
“I’d say that I’ve been overseeing the day-to-day operations of Main Squeeze for the past four seasons. That I’ve made myself indispensable—and that the cast, the crew, and the network all work with me a lot more than they work with certain men whose primary roles at the show have devolved into acting like pigs and cashing huge checks.”
“And you convinced the network that it was worth losing the pigs to save themselves the checks.”
Lauren tapped her nose—bingo.
“So why rock the boat?” Bea asked. “If you’re finally running the show, why not just go with the old blueprint and keep your job secure?”
“First of all, the old blueprint isn’t working—last season was our lowest-rated finale in five years. Second, what’s the point of putting me in charge if I’m just going to execute someone else’s regressive vision? I told the network that I’m going to shake things up and deliver higher ratings, and I’m working on a lot of exciting ways to do that.”
“Such as?” Bea prompted.
“Eradicating spoilers, for one.”
“What? How can you humanly contain them?” Bea was extremely skeptical—ever since the advent of cell-phone cameras, the twists and turns of every season of Main Squeeze were captured by rabid fans and spread across the Internet well before they ever made it to television.
“By changing up our shooting schedule. Instead of filming the whole season in advance and then airing it afterward, we’re going to kick things off with a live premiere, and then film our episodes on a nearly real-time schedule: The dates we shoot each week will air the following Monday.”
“Holy shit.” Bea was genuinely impressed. “Is that even possible?”
“Sure! There are British reality shows that air new episodes every day—it won’t be easy, but I know our editing unit can turn around an episode per week no problem. Getting rid of spoilers is one half of my strategy—casting you is the other. America has never seen anyone like you lead a show like this. We’re going to be right in the middle of the zeitgeist and send our ratings through the roof.”
“Even if that’s a sound strategy, why would you choose me? I’m sure the fact that I have a built-in fan base is a plus, but why not cast someone who hasn’t, you know, openly vilified the show? Don’t you think people will see me as some kind of fame-seeking hypocrite if I do this?”
“The fact that you have a lot of followers is huge for us,” Lauren admitted. “But Bea, your piece is the reason I want to cast you. You wrote about why you watch the show in the first place—how much you connect with all these silly people risking looking like idiots on national television because they really do want to find love. You felt let down by the fact that the show was saying that not a single one of those silly idiots could look remotely like you. If you come on the show, it’s a chance to prove that you—and, by extension, millions of women who look like you—can find love. And that you deserve the spotlight as much as any other woman.”
Bea picked up her French 75 and took a deep drink, letting the fizzy, astringent liquid prickle down her throat.
“Can I ask you a question?” Lauren gazed at Bea with her piercing eyes. “Bea, why wouldn’t you do this?”
“Being a fat woman in the public eye isn’t exactly a cakewalk,” Bea replied. “I got a taste of massive trolling when my piece went viral.”
“I read about the SlimFast shakes.” Lauren scowled. “Fucking disgusting.”
The shakes had been terrible. What started as a daily laugh with Dante the UPS guy morphed into full-blown mortification as hundreds and eventually thousands of shakes arrived at her doorstep. But they weren’t the worst of it—not by a long shot.
“I couldn’t post anything on Twitter without getting rape threats and death threats. They posted my home address all over the Internet, sent revolting text messages from anonymous phone numbers, dick pics at all hours of the day and night, strange men telling me they’d force me down and make me squeal like the pig I am. And that was just from one blog post! If I do this, with all the exposure…I don’t know. I just don’t know if it would be worth it.”
“People think fame makes your life easier,” Lauren reflected, “but everyone who’s been in the limelight knows how hard it can be. People project their insecurities onto you—especially men, the fragile little shits.”
“Not exactly reassuring,” Bea said pointedly.
“But think of it this way: You went through all that garbage as a relatively anonymous person, with no one to protect you. If you do our show, you’ll have our whole team at your disposal—not to mention millions of fans, all the celebrities who watch the show, the feminist journalists who’ll write thinkpieces in your honor, bless their hearts.” Lauren peered at Bea. “Besides, you wouldn’t actually let pathetic Internet misogynists keep you from doing something you wanted to do, right? That doesn’t seem like you.”
“It definitely isn’t—but I’m not actually sure I want to do this.”
“Why, Bea? Why would you turn down a chance that could be so huge for your career?”
“How about because I don’t trust you?” Bea responded. “I’ve watched this show from the beginning, and I’ve seen you make fools of people who didn’t deserve it. You have your own agenda, and you have the ability to manipulate anything I say or do in the way you edit me. Why would I hand you the power to destroy my reputation?”
Lauren couldn’t help chuckling at this—though Bea didn’t understand what was funny.
“Sorry,” Lauren apologized, “I’m just so used to people begging me to put them on camera, grabbing at fame for fame’s sake. It’s kind of a pleasure that you’re actually thinking about the step that comes after that. But listen, Bea, our interests are aligned here. I need to breathe life into a flagging franchise, and if I make you the new face of Main Squeeze, it does me no good whatsoever to do anything that would harm your image. If you agree to do this, it will be my job to make sure everyone in America loves you—that means magazine covers, endorsement deals, millions of followers, an entire lifetime of career security in exchange for just two months of filming.”
“That doesn’t sound…terrible,” Bea conceded, her anxiety rising as she realized she was running out of plausible reasons to say no.
“So why are you still hesitant?” Lauren put down her drink. “Why don’t you tell me what’s actually bothering you?”
Bea looked at this beautiful stranger—how was she supposed to confess to Lauren the things she could barely admit to herself? Her creeping notion—often dormant, never gone—that the reason she’d never had a proper boyfriend was that there was something fundamentally wrong with her, and that Ray’s disappearance was, finally, the proof that this notion was true?
“I don’t have the easiest time with dating,” she said carefully.
Lauren nodded, unfazed. “You’ve been single for a while now.”
“Well, I’m always busy with work—and fashion, you know. Not a ton of straight guys in that world. Unless they’re trying to sleep with models.”
“You’re on the apps, though.”
Bea narrowed her eyes—exactly how extensive (or legal) had Lauren’s background check been?
Lauren laughed, as if reading Bea’s thoughts. “You blogged about your Tinder date last fall.”
“Oh.” Bea flushed, feeling silly. “I thought maybe you’d hacked my phone.”
“No, definitely don’t put that past me. So it hasn’t gone well?”
“Are you on them?”
Lauren tossed her shiny hair. “Yeah, but you know, more for a laugh than anything else. I work so much, it’s nice to have someone around if I get bored.”
“You don’t have a boyfriend?”
“And spend my fifteen seconds of free time every week handling some man’s emotions because he’s not capable of dealing with them himself? Um, no.”
“I know. It would be one thing if I ever met anyone who made me want to settle down, but…” Bea trailed off, hoping this would put the conversation to rest.
“Do you want to get married at all?” Lauren asked.
“Am I allowed to say no?”
Lauren let out a bark of laughter. “Of course! I don’t need you to actually want to get married to be on this show—I just need you to be willing to say that’s what you want.”
“I mean, it’s not that I don’t want that eventually—marriage, kids, a family—I want all those things. It’s just that dating has been so bad lately, I’ve kind of sworn off it altogether. Doesn’t really seem like the best time for me to star on a dating show, does it?”
“You know what?” Lauren pondered, working something through, “I actually think this could work really well.”
“How?” Bea blurted despite herself.
“The most annoying part of my job is dealing with the mess of people’s actual emotions. All these desperate husband hunters—you watch the show, you know how high-strung and impossible they are. But if you’re not really looking for a relationship right now, we can keep this simple. You’ll meet your men, you’ll have fun with them, go on all the fabulous dates, but you’ll take things slow. We’ll monitor audience reaction and keep the most popular guys around, and toward the end, you can pick your favorites for the overnight trips, saying ‘I love you,’ and the engagement, obviously.”
“And, what? It’ll all be fake?” Bea tried not to sound scandalized.
“Why not?” Lauren asked calmly.
“Because there’s an audience of millions!” Bea was incredulous. “Won’t people know if I’m not—you know, not to be trite—if I’m not doing this for the right reasons?”
Lauren laughed, delighting in Bea’s naïveté. “You tell me. Do you think it’s a coincidence that half of our couples break up six weeks after we finish airing? How many of the relationships from the last five seasons do you think were actually real?”
The more Bea thought about it, the more she realized she had absolutely no idea.
“Bea,” Lauren intoned, “I’m great at my job. It’s good for both of us if the public buys your story. And if you actually find someone? Hey, so much the better—those wedding specials are ratings monsters. But if you’d rather play it cool and not take the romance side of things too seriously, then we can be straightforward with each other: We’ll make a great TV show. We’ll show America that plus-size women deserve to be the leads in their own stories. And you’ll be a fucking star. I’m not seeing a downside to this—are you?”
For the first time in the conversation, Bea had to admit she really wasn’t.
On her drive home, Bea decided to take a detour through Griffith Park. She put the top down on Kermit the Car and made her way through crooked residential streets into the parkland hills, where tall trees and long grasses rustled in the dry desert wind. She turned up the radio and thought about life before Ray. Was it better? Was it good? Or had this unhappiness been there all along, just waiting to be drawn into the light?
Not doing the show seemed like the safe option, but it wasn’t, really—it was just knowable. More weeks and months of missing Ray, making dates and canceling the morning of, feeling like her love life had been cursed with external misery, of hustling constantly and scrounging for advertisers to keep her business afloat, never able to rest easy.
Bea couldn’t know what would happen if she did the show—whether she would meet someone wonderful or be thrown headlong into a pit full of snakes, whether she’d be a hero or a laughingstock. All she could know for certain was that if she said yes, her life would change. In the end, that was enough.
A CONTRACT
WHEREAS Beatrice Schumacher (hereafter referred to as the MAIN SQUEEZE) has agreed to appear on the television program Main Squeeze (hereafter referred to as the SHOW),
WHEREAS the MAIN SQUEEZE agrees to participate in principal filming to commence on March 2nd and remain available for at least ten weeks, with a tentative filming completion date of April 20th, as well as a reunion special tentatively scheduled for May 18th,
WHEREAS during filming, the MAIN SQUEEZE will meet, “date,” and ultimately choose one of twenty-five SUITORS for a long-lasting and romantically satisfying relationship, and where “long-lasting” is defined as no shorter period than such a time until six weeks after all episodes of the SHOW are broadcast,
WHEREAS filming will begin with a LIVE PREMIERE SPECIAL, continue with episodes broadcast each Monday night that detail the events of the previous week, and end with a SEASON FINALE where the MAIN SQUEEZE will choose a “winner” for an engagement or similar,
WHEREAS the MAIN SQUEEZE will not disclose details of filming to any person or persons not appearing on or employed by the SHOW or the American Broadcasting System (hereafter known as the NETWORK), particularly not members of the press or digital media, including entertainment magazines, gossip magazines, or “bloggers,” any unsanctioned interaction with whom will result in legal action for breach of contract and immediate termination of said contract, until such time as all episodes have aired,
WHEREAS the MAIN SQUEEZE agrees, to the best of her ability, to explore deep, soul-searching love in complete honesty and without any “emotional walls” (though if she is experiencing the aforementioned “walls” she is encouraged to discuss them and their potential origins in detail with production crew), through intense interpersonal communication and, as often as needed, physical connection, including physical intimacy if determined appropriate by the MAIN SQUEEZE and her Producers,
WHEREAS the MAIN SQUEEZE agrees to defer to the Producers in all matters that may affect the overall quality or outcome of the SHOW,
WHEREAS the MAIN SQUEEZE agrees to incur any financial burdens borne by the SHOW or the NETWORK if they are in direct consequence of her actions or breach of contract,
WHEREAS the NETWORK retains exclusive first rights to published photographs and other materials relating to any future Weddings, Honeymoons, and possible Dependents resulting from relationships formed on the SHOW,
WHEREAS the MAIN SQUEEZE will, if possible, find True Love, potentially resulting in an Engagement, Marriage, and Everything She’s Ever Dreamed Of,
Beatrice Schumacher will hereby fill the role of MAIN SQUEEZE on the 14th season of the SHOW, Main Squeeze.
Signed and dated,
Alyssa Messersmith,
Senior Vice President of Unscripted Programming, American Broadcasting System.
Beatrice Schumacher,
Beauty & Style Blogger, owner of OMBea™ and OMBea.com.