Conversations With the Fat Girl (30 page)

continues to check herself out in the mirror. I hang up my clothes and

take off my pants.

"Cute panties," Emily says.

"Thank you, they're pink," I say

"I know. That's why they're cute," Emily says.

"I'm an outie," Bella proclaims as she spins around pointing at her

navel. Emily and I share a moment of awkward validations for Bella's

outie belly button.

I have not worn a tightener today for some bizarre reason. Everyone

knows that you never try on clothes without a tightener. Here I am

trying on the mother of all apparel without one. I won't panic; I'll

just visualize how these clothes would look with a tightener. I get the

vapors. The black skirt fits. Kate pops her head in and assesses the

progress.

"That skirt is a size smaller," Kate says, perfectly comfortable with

the spectacle of the Exhibitionist Bella.

"What?" I am sliding the skirt around after zipping it up. "You've gone

down a size." Kate smirks.

I stare at myself in the mirror. I didn't starve myself. I didn't drink

lemonade laced with cayenne pepper and maple syrup. I

243 Conversations with the Fat Girl237

didn't eat boxed lunches from the frozen section. I didn't drink a shake

instead of a meal. I am learning how to feed myself. I am learning how

to play again. Oddly, it seems to be working.

"Try this one," Mom says, handing me a white wraparound shirt.

"She's gone down a size," Kate yelps. Mom smiles at me and gives me a

thumbs-up.

"I'm a six-X," Bella adds. Emily rolls her eyes.

The white shirt is a little short, but I imagine the magic a tightener

will work. Olivia has specifically outlined that I am to wear black and

white to the rehearsal dinner. I am unsure of the outfit. I'll have to

wear this outfit all day and in pictures that will last forever. I feel

light and strong at the same time. I feel proud of myself.

"You looked amazing in that skirt," Kate says as we stand at the cashier

with all my purchases. I've got enough clothes for the entire wedding

affair-and all one size smaller.

"Really?" I say

"Absolutely. Really statuesque and classy," she says.

"Thank you," I say. Instead of Fatty and Bobo, it should be Statuesque

and Classy I think I'll start today.

Bella eventually puts her clothes back on and Emily reads me the book

she has started writing as we move to another shop to find outfits for

Mom and Kate. Kate finds a beautiful pale pink linen sheath she'll wear

with a simple strand of pearls. Mom finds an amazing pale blue Richard

Tyler pantsuit she'll wear with an abundance of gold accessories, I'm

sure. She finds a pair of Marc Jacobs shoes and splurges on them. We all

applaud her and use this as a teaching tool for the girlies in how to

pamper yourself.

We stop for lunch at the Quality Cafe on Third Street right

244 238Liza Palmer

by the Beverly Center. Kate, Mom, and I dish about Olivia and Adam.

Olivia's phone call seems like a distant memory.

A feeling of pride in myself overwhelms me. As we make our way back

through the winding freeways of Los Angeles, I think about Olivia's

phone call. How long has she been like this? This shower has got to be

about redefining our friendship and proving to myself that Olivia and I

can be friends on equal terms.

I am driving home from Mom's house, switching radio stations around, as

usual. There's more traffic on the streets than normal and I keep

getting caught at red lights. I switch the radio station again. I know

this drumbeat. I'm immediately transported back to university housing

with Kate and me and our beloved Electric Light Orchestra. I played this

track over and over again. Kate sang the harmony.

Don't bring me down, grroosss Don't bring me down, grroosss!

Another red light. My window is halfway down. I start keeping the beat

on my steering wheel. I turn the volume up a little bit. A little bit

more. I whisper the lyrics to myself, looking to the left to make sure

no one sees. I look at a bus stop full of people. No one is looking.

I look to the left. A mom in a Volvo station wagon is disciplining a

little boy in a kid seat. The light turns green. I screech forward,

singing a little louder. The clapping part! I take both my hands off the

steering wheel and clap along. The little Volvo boy is laughing and

pointing at me. I smile back. He giggles and waves.

I roll my window all the way down. I am singing so loud, I can barely

hear the radio. I haven't felt so free in a long time or so purely me. I

have a good feeling about the shower. This is going to work.

245

This Is My Area

I am meeting Gabriel alone this morning to go over my food diary and to

have my one-hour training session. After warming up on The StairMaster

for ten minutes, I meet Gabriel at the counter. He tells me to follow

him out back. For one second I think he's going to put me out of my

misery. I follow him to a small patio out in Hack of the gym. He's set

up a small obstacle course of sorts. My I )Breath quickens. Yes, I'm

more confident-but I'm not ready to be locked running, or clocked doing

anything really. My eyes dart Ion medicine balls to small blue mats and

then to a large green \ exercise ball. I am silent. Scared shitless and

silent.

"Okay, Maggie we're going to start over here on the wall. Go ahead and

grab that medicine ball for me." Gabriel moves to the AI. I follow and

try to understand how this course is going to work if we start from this

point. Apparently I'm now a marine.

"Great, thanks. Okay go ahead and put your glutes up

against the wall." Glutes? Does he mean my ass? I'm standing here with

this blue medicine ball, which weighs a good ten pounds, and I have no

idea what he wants me to do. Is this some sick form of dodgeball?

246 240Liza Palmer

"Glutes?" I finally ask.

"Oh, yes, I'm sorry. Your pelvis. Go ahead and put your pelvis on the

wall." Is there some trainer handbook that dictates you're not allowed

to utter the word ass? I stand against the wall, holding the blue

medicine ball-which now weighs close to a thousand pounds.

"Okay, great job. Now what I want you to do is go ahead and raise the

ball over your head and then bring it down in front of you and tap the

ground." Gabriel demonstrates this action. It looks like he's bowing

down in front of me. Worshiping his new goddess. This momentarily

distracts me from the absolute horror at what he's asking me to do.

I grab the ball and raise it over my head. My arms are bent-not because

the ball is heavy, but because if I straighten them my entire stomach

will be completely exposed. I bend forward and tap the ball to the

ground. I can feel the fresh air right around my "glutes." So not only

is my shirt rising up in the front, but it's also slipping down in the

back to reveal my white granny panties. Great. This is sure worth the

physical benefit. This whole emotional suicide thing is just a silly

side effect.

"Okay, great. Now, straighten those arms fully, and give me three, two,

and ten more." Gabriel is standing directly in front of me watching

every move I make. I start to panic. My own shit-talking is getting so

bad on the fifth go-round that I am actively holding the tears back.

Raise the ball-there's my Area. Lower the ball-there's my ass. I don't

think my own mother has seen this much of me in years.

"Okay, urn . . I'm feeling a little uncomfortable," I snap. "Okay, go

ahead and tell me where it feels tight, Maggie." Gabriel looks

concerned. Poor fool.

"Nothing feels tight. I just . . ." I'm holding on to the medicine ball

for dear life. I take a deep breath.

247 Conversations with the Fat Girl241

"This is my Area," I say, motioning to my belly with the medicine ball.

Gabriel listens intently I continue.

"I'm just not comfortable raising and lowering the medicine ball and all

that because I am superweird about, you know .. . my Area," I stutter.

"It's just us back here, Maggie," Gabriel reasons. Yes, and you're

gorgeous. It's not like I'm back here with Solo, for crissakes.

"I know . ." I trail off.

"I understand what you're saying," Gabriel says.

"And?" I hold the medicine ball.

"Go ahead and give me ten more," Gabriel says.

"But . . ." I'm shocked. He doesn't want to talk about my Area? He

doesn't want to sit by a campfire and sing "Kumbaya" while we talk about

why I think I'm fat?

"No buts. I'm not checking out your Area or even noticing what you're

talking about. You'll just have to trust me on that. Is this some

sophisticated plan to get out of this exercise, Maggie? NASA would be

envious. Can we continue?" Gabriel smiles.

I raise and lower the ball fifteen more times-because, of course,

Gabriel still doesn't know how to fucking count. But the weird thing is

there is a freedom in just showing my Area. Lifting my arms as high as

they could go, challenging myself to lift higher. This could be the

start of something. First Gabriel, then maybe someone else. I have

visions of flashing my belly to the checker at the grocery store, then

at the gas station . . . and then standing in front of Domenic Brown.

Well, maybe.

248

Marcus and Russell

Sitting in a Tree

I call Kate to tell her about the idea I have for the shower

invitations. Refrigerator magnets! I will print out the invitations and

secure them to magnets so the recipients can keep them on their

refrigerator as a reminder. No risk of losing them. Genius.

"Isn't it a little late?" Kate asks.

"Well, there are only seven people going. Olivia wanted something for

her scrapbook."

"So?" Kate asks.

After I hang up with Kate, I head out to Vroman's Bookstore to buy

envelopes and ten business-card-size magnets. These invitations are

going to be tiny I design an invitation that will fit on the head of a

pin and start addressing the envelopes. Shawna Moss. Panchali Nagra.

Gwen Charles. Olivia Morten. I know all the names now. Soon the faces

will come into focus. What will the weekend bring? A grown-up friendship

or the realization that we're not kids anymore.

I drive down Fair Oaks and make a right on Mission. The post office is

on the north side of the street. I park my car and run inside with my

six tiny invitations. I stand in line and as I

249 am doing so, something unnerving happens: The invitations start

sticking to one another. I now have one large invitation. I have three

people in front of me and one giant invitation. These fucking things

took me forever and now I find out that they are unmailable? I begin

maniacally separating each invitation from the others. I approach the

post office window with a six-invitation Spanish fan. I look ridiculous.

The woman behind the bulletproof window stiffens.

"Can I help you?" she asks.

"I'd like to mail these," I say shoving the full fan of invitations

through the window's door. Not one separates from the group. The woman

awkwardly holds up the fan. Not one invitation falls.

"We can't mail these," she says.

"Sure you can. Just pop them in the mail slot one at a time," I say.

The woman peels the first invitation off the top of the fan and inserts

it into the mail chute. It magnetizes to the chute and stays right where

she dropped it.

"We can't mail these," she says as she's peeling the invitation from the

metal postal chute.

I take back the invitation and stick it back to the top of the fan where

it was before the Chute Incident. I dejectedly walk back to my car and

go home. Since I'm newly unemployed, I have plenty of time to obsess on

the invitations. I decide to put the tiny envelope in a larger envelope.

Maybe that way the second sheet of paper will reduce the strength of the

magnetization. I go back to Vroman's and pick up another box of

envelopes. I readdress the new envelopes and drive to the post office

praying I don't get the same lady. I find parking right outside and run

in with the stack of less magnetized invitations.

I get in line. The lady who helped me before is still there. I

250 244Liza Palmer

hold my newly enveloped invitations with courage and moxie.