Sisterchicks Say Ooh La La! (6 page)

A
s soon as we decided
on our target date for going to Paris, Amy set about with determination to lose weight. Our departure date was April 14 of next year, so that gave Amy eleven months. She stocked her kitchen with tangible assistance from the health food store: protein powder; soy supplements; and a large, dark bottle of Norwegian fish oil capsules.

I watched her one morning as she drank a quarter cup of raw unsweetened cranberry juice followed by half of a fresh lemon squeezed into a cup of warm water.

“Are you sure that’s good for you?” I asked.

“It’s supposed to revitalize my liver.” She then methodically partook of a tablespoon of finely ground psyllium husks to clear the “preservative residue” from her colon. She had been reading a variety of books on nutrition and
reminded me that my mother’s choice of after-school apples was much better for us than the sweets offered at Amy’s house.

“Look how slim you still are,” Amy said. “You never packed on the saddlebags the way I did.”

Trying to reason with her was pointless. Explaining our metabolism differences had never put a dent in Amy’s comparisons of our body types. I weighed an easily camouflaged ten pounds more than I had weighed the day I graduated from high school. I never had carried a baby inside me for nine months, so I didn’t personally appreciate the agony of extra pregnancy padding that wouldn’t go away. Amy and I had different genetics. Straight and simple. But that line of reasoning never had gone over well with her, so I didn’t resort to it now when she was in the midst of her weight management program.

In the first month she lost four pounds and was so motivated she talked me into joining an aerobics class with her. The best feature of this class was that it was for women over forty.

That sounded more appealing than the high-powered gym that offered free membership for the first month. Amy and I had visited that slick setup. We both left feeling intimidated and certain that we didn’t want to try to negotiate a roomful of exercise machines in a coed gym. For one thing, we would have to buy new workout wardrobes to fit in with the other exercisers. Then we would have to
go to a tanning booth and use some sort of super-whitening product on our teeth.

“I didn’t see one person who looked like she
needed
to be working out at that gym,” Amy said. “I’m going to find a place where we can blend in.”

Extensive research efforts produced a lead on a place across town that was independently owned and for women only. We pulled up in front of the small strip mall before class on our first day, and I said, “So, where’s the gym?”

“Right there.”

“Where?” I saw a dry cleaner’s, a dog wash, and a Vietnamese restaurant.

“It’s that one.” Amy pointed to the front door of a bright yellow store next to a vacuum cleaner repair shop. “See the sign? ‘Lighten Up!’ ”

We entered the small sunshine yellow dance studio and joined a bunch of over-forty women who jumped and jiggled in chortling harmony. I have to admit it was fun. The music was lively. No one took the coordination of her moves too seriously. All that seemed to matter was that each of us moved something, somehow, and kept it moving until the end of the session.

Amy loved the class. Afterward, the glowing women stood in clumps, making plans for where they would go for tacos and diet colas.

The funniest woman in the class was Shirleene. She called all of us “girl.” I became Lisa-girl and Amy was
Amy-girl. Shirleene had ample parts of her personage to jiggle, and yet she was by far the one who worked the hardest without ever moaning or showing a frown. Shirleene kept the rest of the group smilin’ and groovin’—especially Amy.

On our second visit, Shirleene was standing behind us. Halfway through the second song she burst out, “Come on, Amy-girl, shake what yo’ mama gave you!”

Amy ramped up her swish and wiggled like I’d never seen before. Not even when we used to dance in her bedroom with the door closed on Saturday morning and we listened to the countdown of the top ten on her transistor radio.

Every class from then on included Shirleene’s prodding to “shake it,” and every time, Amy did not disappoint.

I soon noticed that Shirleene never encouraged me to shake what my mama gave me. I think I knew why. My endowment for the art of shake, rattle, and roll was lacking. I was the underachiever in the class, noticeably deficient in the area of Motown moves.

One night, when Joel was gone, I found a radio station that played music like the tunes we danced to in our aerobics class. I cleared some space, pulled down all the shades, and took my position in front of the full-length bedroom mirror. Then I began my homework, hoping the extra credit might make up for some of my deficiencies in class.

What I witnessed in that mirror will long be etched in my psyche. Unfortunately. I felt pity for the other women in my class. I also felt thankful that we didn’t exercise in front of any mirrors at the Lighten Up! studio. My skinny, white-girl body tried its best to shimmy up some R-E-S-P-E-C-T, but it just wasn’t going to happen. Amy-girl could shake it with Aretha’s songs as Shirleene’s rolling laughter egged her on. I would forever be the aerobics class nerd.

But I kept at it each week in a show of support for Amy.

By the end of the third week, I weighed in seven pounds less than my starting weight. After a month I was eleven pounds lighter. Poor Amy had only lost two pounds. I knew I had to either fake some sort of injury that would keep me out of class for a few months or bulk up on chocolate malts.

I, of course, went with the chocolate malts. It worked great until Amy caught me. We were leaving the studio after class the first week of September. Usually we drove separately, but this time I was driving us both. I’d lost another pound that week, despite the chocolate malt. Amy hadn’t lost even an ounce that week.

“I don’t know why I bother.” She sighed.

“Don’t get discouraged. You know you’ve lost inches even if the pounds aren’t showing up on the scale yet. You said your jeans feel looser. That should be encouraging.”

“I know.”

“And you’re feeling healthier. The goal is to be healthy first, and then the weight comes off naturally. Isn’t that what you’ve been telling me?”

“That’s what I’ve been preaching. You know what? I should have taken off my jewelry before I got on the scale. This watch is at least four ounces. Maybe five. And what about these earrings?”

“Amy.”

“No, I’m serious.”

“In that case, did you shave your legs today?”

“No. I didn’t!” Her face lit up with hope. “What a great idea! Next weigh-in I’ll make sure I shave nice and close. I’ll exhale before I step on the scale. And I won’t wear an underwire bra that day. Hey, I could get my hair cut, too!”

“I was only kidding about shaving your legs. Don’t get your hair cut. Your hair is perfect the way it is. Besides, your hair doesn’t weigh a whole pound.”

“It might. It’s pretty thick. If I shaved all my hair off my head, I think it would weigh at least a pound. Maybe two pounds.”

“Amelie Jeanette DuPree Rafferty.”

She shot one of her innocent smirks in my direction. “What?”

“You are not going to shave your head, so drop that idea right now. You will have to go through the rest of your life never knowing how much your hair really weighs.”

“You take all the fun out of everything,” Amy muttered.

Without paying attention to where I was driving, I pulled into Jack in the Box, like I usually did, and heard what had become a familiar voice greet me through the speaker. I knew the regular employee could see my car in the round traffic mirror affixed to the top of the menu sign. “Welcome to Jack in the Box. The usual?”

“Ahh, no. Um. I’ll have a diet soda. A small one. And ahh … do you want anything, Amy?”

“No.”

“That’s it. One small diet soda.” I drove to the payment window with my eyes straight ahead.

“What did he mean by ‘the usual’?” Amy asked.

“Hmm?”

“The guy just asked if you wanted the usual. I didn’t know you had a usual at Jack in the Box.”

I knew I had to come clean. I confessed, and Amy stared at me with her mouth open. I thought she was going to be mad. Very mad. Maybe angrier than she had ever been with me.

To my surprise, she started to laugh and couldn’t stop. “You are such a sneak!” She swatted me on the arm as I pulled out money to pay for my diet soda. “I can’t believe you!”

I drove home feeling ever so sheepish. Amy offered me the out I’d been hesitant to ask for. “Lisa, you don’t have to do this anymore. I can do this on my own. I’m not going to quit if you don’t go every week.”

“I don’t mind going. It’s just that I’m not an aerobics kind of person,” I said, still trying to build my defense.

Excuses were never required with Amy. She waved her hand. “Don’t worry about it. You’re under no obligation. You don’t have to go to another workout with me ever, unless you want to.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course! If I ever need a ride, I’ll call Shirleene.”

I imagined Shirleene could get Amy to burn a couple hundred extra calories each week if they carpooled because she would have Amy laughing all the way to class and home.

“You know,” Amy said, as I pulled up in front of her house, “I do appreciate your gesture, Lisa. I know you were sticking with me to keep me motivated. But honestly, you don’t have to be that loyal to me. I’m sure psychologists with impressive degrees write books about people like you and me.”

I relaxed. “That’s okay; let them diagnose us. We’ve always known we were a little crazy.”

“Just a little.” Amy started to get out of the car and then turned back, eyeing my untouched diet soda. “You going to drink that?”

“I hate diet drinks.”

“I know.” Amy laughed at me again and snatched up the drink. “Brutally honest. Yes, that’s the Lisa I know and love. Don’t let that true Lisa get lost again in her kindness to me, okay?”

By Labor Day Amy had dropped a solid eight pounds. She sedately nibbled on the potato salad, hot dogs, and ice cream sandwiches the rest of us ate at our combined family end-of-summer BBQ. I’m sure I ate twice as much as she did and paid for it with a stomachache that night.

I could tell that after the past three months of adjusting her eating habits, Amy was on the road to success. Organic omega-3 eggs and cold-pressed flax seed oil were some of the secret ingredients found in her refrigerator at all times. I was impressed with her diligence.

At Thanksgiving, Amy wore a new pair of dress pants that were two sizes smaller than the others in her closet. For Christmas everyone gave her gift certificates so she could buy new clothes. While the rest of us sat around at a New Year’s party at our house joking about our outlandish resolutions that we always listed but never kept, Amy only smiled. I knew she had smashed her glass ceiling on losing weight. The slow and easy approach allowed her the freedom to fully enjoy “a taste” of every Christmas goodie that came her way; yet she kept her metabolism working at an elevated level.

By Valentine’s Day Amy and I were busy pulling together our travel plans. We had our airline tickets, hotel reservations, new wheelie suitcases, and more tour books on Paris than either of us had been able to read in our free time.

I was teaching third grade that year, which is why Amy
and I had set our travel dates to coincide with spring break. The substitute teacher I requested was a friend of mine. Even though I was only scheduled to miss a few days of class after we returned from Paris, I knew that if I was too tired to go back to work, I could leave the class in her capable hands for a full week after the trip.

Whenever we mentioned where we were going in April, people would invariably get this faraway look in their eyes and say, “Ah, springtime in Paris!” When we asked, almost all of them said they had never been to Paris, but if they were ever to go, they wanted to go in the spring.

Amy’s anticipation for our pending adventure grew, but her biggest dilemma was shopping. She didn’t want to buy new travel clothes until she lost those final few elusive pounds. The problem was she was running out of time to go shopping. I called her a week and a half before our departure date, and we made plans to shop on Saturday.

“The problem is I’m between sizes.” Amy stepped out of a dressing room with two pairs of jeans in her hands. “I don’t know if I should buy the ones that are a little too tight when I sit down or the ones that are a little too loose. I’m afraid that if I buy the loose jeans, I’ll fill up the extra space with croissants.”

“Buy both pairs,” I suggested. “Wear the loose ones on the plane and other times when we’re sitting all day. Then wear the tight ones when we’re walking around because
they won’t feel tight, and they’ll make you feel good about all the weight you’ve lost.”

“You’re a genius,” Amy said, as we made our way to the cash register.

On the way home she asked if Joel was having any hesitancy about our trip.

“No. All along he’s said that he hopes we have a good time. He did make one request that I haven’t followed through on. He said we should buy travel insurance.”

“Not a bad idea,” Amy said. “I can work on that this week.”

I forgot all about the insurance until the day we left for Paris. Mark drove Amy and me to the airport long before the break of day. As he loaded my wheeled suitcase into the back of their SUV, I noticed two other suitcases already in the open space.

“Are you going with us?” I teased Mark.

He nodded toward Amy, who was looking half apologetic in the front seat. “Those are both mine.”

As I tumbled into the car, Amy explained how Mark had run out the night before and bought her another suitcase. “I was driving him crazy with my packing and unpacking. It’s torture to be between sizes. Life was so much easier when everything in my closet was the same size. It was your suggestion that finally solved the problem.”

“My suggestion?”

“With the jeans. You told me to buy both pairs, and I did. It suddenly made sense last night to pack two of everything. Now I won’t get all the way over there and be bummed out because I can’t manage to fit in the smaller clothes after a day of pastry tasting.”