Such a Pretty Fat: One Narcissist's Quest to Discover if Her Life Makes Her Ass Look Big, or Why Pie Is Not the Answer (14 page)

I settle into the chair in Monique’s station. She secures a plastic gown over me and removes the towel, then begins to comb and assess. “Hey, Jen; how are you? Your color looks great!”

We look at each other in the big mirror as we chat. “Really? I’m surprised there’s any hair left. Your assistant yanked the foils off like they were live grenades.”

A look of concern crosses Monique’s face. “Sorry about that. We’ve been talking to her about being more gentle with our clients.”

“Does she listen, or does she laugh and tell you you’re funny?”

Monique blows a thin stream of air out of pursed lips and nods. “The latter.”

“Her ponytails are too tight.”

She nods. “What are we doing today? Trim?”

“No, I want to go modern. Think more New York and less Junior League of Central Texas. I want smaller hair so everything else looks smaller by comparison.” As she artfully snips and shears, I tell her all about how I’m going to New York again and my diet. I explain how I’m rewarding myself with treats like haircuts and pedicures for every ten pounds I lose.

“If you’re here, that means you’re ten pounds down!” Monique says.

“Right!”

Sort of.

It’s more like three. But since I refuse to go to New York with visible roots, split ends, and naked toenails, I bent my own rules. Besides, I’ve got
plenty
of time to lose my weight before my self-imposed deadline. No need to go whole hog right this minute.

She begins to smooth my hair with a bunch of potions, and then picks up a blow-dryer and a boar-bristle brush, the resultant sound rendering conversation impossible. After she dries the back, she spins my chair around so I can’t see her working on the front. Twenty minutes later, she’s finished and whirls me back around.

“What do you think?”

I look at my hair, open my mouth—and no sound comes out. Monique hands me a mirror to check out the back. “You love it, right?”

“I . . . I . . . oh.” My hair is shorter, shooting up in the front and kind of bent at a ninety-degree angle at the top, hanging down in odd little waves on the sides. It’s not
framing
my face so much as
sandwiching
it. Picture a cocker spaniel’s ears. On my head.

“It’s chic; it’s modern; it’s just perfect! What a great look! All right. Helena’s waiting for you, so I’ll see you next time. Have a wonderful trip!”

Dazed, I’m led back to the pedicure area of the salon. While Helena works on my feet, I keep running my fingers through the strands, trying to make the do less
rectangular.
I’m fretting so much over what’s happening at the top of my body, I don’t notice when Helena accidentally slashes my big toe with the cuticle nippers—until I get up and try to put weight on my foot. I can barely walk out of the salon.

I drive home and go directly to the full-length mirror in the bedroom. I hobble up to it to take a better look at myself, and a grin spreads across my face like an Italian sunrise.

With my hair cut to look exactly like a Russian fur hat with earflaps and my brand new gimp, no one in that city is going to notice the size of my ass.

“I
hate
New York.”

Stacey gives me an unblinking stare, looking me up and down as I say this, starting with the Russian earflaps and making her way down to the sweatpants, socks, and floppy green Crocs. “Clearly you are a crazy person, and you should probably leave my home before you soil yourself on my couch.” Were it not for her family in Chicago, Stacey would live in New York in a heartbeat.

“Perhaps hate is too strong a word,” I concede.

“Your e-mail said you had a fantastic time.”

“I did—I had a blast. Nothing
specifically
bad happened, except I figured out I am not and will never be a New Yorker. And I’m secretly disappointed. I’ve always considered myself kind of New York-y. Upper West Side, bay-bee.” I flash her my approximation of a gang sign.

“Meaning what in English?” Stacey asks.

“First of all, everyone there is tiny. Not so much as in ‘not fat’ but more like they’re all built to a two-thirds scale. They’re all wee little bird people. Take my publicist, Mary Ann, for example. She’s adorable and totally proportionate—she’s probably five-two or five-three, but she’s really slender. I actually bet her that she weighed less than a hundred pounds. Granted, I lost, but only by six pounds. If she gets the flu really bad, she’s going to be down to double digits. Can you imagine being double digits?”

“Yeah . . . in grade school.”

“When we said good-night, I hugged her, and I was able to pick her up and swing her around. She told me she could totally do the same to me, and I wouldn’t let her try because her spine would snap and then I’d be in trouble. And yet she totally ate and drank everywhere we went. She doesn’t have a problem with food; it’s just that she walks everywhere and can’t put weight on.”

“Tragic.”

“And that’s not even what got me. She and I went out for a late dinner one night down in the West Village, and there must have been a Ford Models party or something in the front of the restaurant. We were in the back on the way to the washrooms, and an entire parade of frigging gazelles loped past us. Seeing them made Mary Ann feel fat because they clocked in at a buck-five and had a good eight to ten inches on her. On what fucking planet is a hundred pounds fat? On planet New York, that’s where.”

“There are models all over the city. They breed there. Like cockroaches. You can’t take a step without bumping into some anorexic Amazon, swinging her ponytail and portfolio. You really want to feel bad, try standing next to one of the fourteen-year-old Brazilian models in an elevator. I’m normally nothing but confident, but when I come face-to-fat with one of them, I wonder if we’re even the same species.”

“Exactly.”
Stacey always gets it. “So we’re at this restaurant and I’m eating a bowl of pasta. It’s a small bowl and I got it with a light garlic sauce and some langoustines, so it was pretty healthy, not to mention totally delish. Yet every single model on her way to the potty gave me a look of horror, like I was supping on live snake or something. Me being me, I started to get mad. Finally, I got all aggressive, like, ‘
Of course I’m eating. I’m in a fucking restaurant. This place exists solely for the purpose of dining. That’s what you do here. You eat. Digestion optional.
’ ”

“You make friends everywhere, don’t you?”

“At that point I was cranky anyway because of all the walking. I limped everywhere because of my stupid pedicure, and I felt like I was being stabbed in the foot. Plus, because I’m vain, I refused to wear sensible shoes and instead wore those cute little black suede Mary Janes I ordered from London, with the pink embroidered flowers on them, and they just made every step ten times more painful. And I ruined them! The constant friction wore all the plastic off the kitten heel, and I ended up wobbling around trying to balance on a tiny peg. Next time, style be damned, I
am
wearing my Crocs.”

“OK, fine, frustrating, but that’s more your fault than New York’s. You can’t let your own poor judgment color your opinion of an entire city.”

“Here’s the crux of it. We went to all kinds of cool places, but every single one of them was just . . . so small. This happened last time I was there, too, but it’s only now I’m able to put my finger on what bothered me. Anyway, the tables were wee. The chairs were delicate. The bathrooms were bite-sized. Everyone there is little because there’s simply no room for their bodies to expand, kind of like they’re all living in an overcrowded fish tank. There was something so Dostoyevsky about the place, like everyone gets their square foot of space, and they can’t take up more than that.”

“Obviously, Jen, space is at a premium there.”

“And I
hate
that. I hate that the only time I was comfortable was when I was in my hotel room or walking down the street. I felt so claustrophobic and, like, even if I wanted to hold my arms out at my shoulders, I couldn’t. Much as I enjoy veal, I can’t abide a veal pen. I just don’t remember everything being so small back when I used to do so much business there.”

Stacey stretches, probably subconsciously glad for all the space we’re afforded here in Chicago. “How’s Fletch doing?”

“Bah, Fletch. He’s another issue. I’m away three days, and when I get home, I find that he’s gone completely feral.”

“He’s normally so tidy and put together.”

“I know! That’s what made it worse. On the plane, I read my friend Annabelle’s
⁹¹
book, and she writes about how men have this ‘learned helplessness.’ I felt slightly superior at having a husband who has never once left the seat up, doesn’t watch professional sports, and grudgingly, but fully, participates in all the household chores. Fletch is a whiz at laundry, scrubs a mean toilet, and can always be counted on to whip up something for dinner. Sure, it’s usually inedible, but the effort is there, and that’s what counts.”

“All I ever ask is for effort. Success is a bonus.”

“Exactly!” I pause to take a sip of water. After all the drinking and shouting I’ve done in the past few days, my voice is almost shot. “I’ve gone away before, and each time I’ve returned to a clean, orderly house, regardless of how messy it was when I left. Fletch is always neatly shaved and dressed nicely, and there’s often something bubbling away on the stove. Granted, it may be purple and gelatinous and not fit for human consumption, but again, it’s
effort
. Big snaps for effort,” I croak.

“Do you need some tea with honey? Your voice sounds like hell.” When I grow up, I want to be the kind of gracious hostess Stacey is.

“Nah, I’m OK. I’m almost done and we can start the show. I get back on Saturday, and he must have worked from home while I was gone because he’s got three days of growth on his face, he’s dressed in a filthy Blackhawks jersey, and there are empty pizza boxes and sticky soda and beer cans everywhere. The house wasn’t exactly clean when I left because I figured if I died in the air or somehow crash-landed on an uncharted island between here and New York—”

“Excuse me?”

“Not important. But if I didn’t come back for some reason, I figured he’d look around at the squalor, and cleaning would take his mind off the fact I didn’t make it.”

“Except for the island bit, I actually get that.”

I smile. “I knew you would.”

“Why did he go feral? What was different from your last trip out there? Is this New York’s fault?”

“No, he discovered some stupid Chuck Norris Web site, and ever since I got back, he’s been strutting around saying stuff like, ‘
After a night of drinking, I don’t throw up—I throw down.
’ ”

“Lucky you! But you can’t blame New York.”

“Fair enough. However, this was the first time I didn’t come home wanting to move there afterward. Loving New York has been such a constant in my life that the trip was weird. It’s like I’ve had a crush on New York for years, and we finally hook up and I find out he still reads comic books, has skid-marked undies, and smells like summer sausage.”

“That makes sense.” Stacey aims the remote at the TV. “You ready for Bravo?”

“I am,” I say. “One more thing, though. I was the only person I saw in three whole days wearing anything pastel. Even though it’s spring, New Yorkers don’t wear pink. And that’s just fucked up.”

from the desk of the logan square
-
bucktown neighborhood association

Dear Resident at 2337 North x——Street,

Our office has received numerous calls about your vociferous canine. Some of our residents work from home and find it difficult to complete their tasks when your dog barks all day. Please rectify the situation or fines will be assessed and authorities will be notified.

Best,

Jen Cognito, Association President

CHAPTER TWELVE

Less Talk-y, More Drive-y

"I am fucking
losing it
.”

It’s spring, my windows are open, and Little Dog is up to his old tricks.

“Have you called the city?” Angie asks. “A barking dog is a nuisance, and it’s illegal. Slightly different situation, but once I had a neighbor with a bite-y dog who kept getting out through a hole in their fence and snapping at my kids. I called the mayor’s office, and the city took care of it.”

“I’ve dialed the Chicago city services line so many times, they answer,
‘Hey Jen, who’s bothering you now?’
I’ve filed a stack of complaints and have no doubt the operators at 311
⁹²
make talky-talky hand-puppet gestures and roll their eyes every time they get me on the line. What’s ironic is, I look back at what I wrote about my neighbors a year ago, and I have to laugh. I was worried about people who didn’t mow and had rats thriving in their backyard jungle? Really? That was my problem? At least rodents and rag-weed are quiet. I haven’t written anything in weeks because of the noise.”

“Nothing? Are you worried you won’t meet your weight-loss goal?”

“Nah, I’ve got plenty of time. I still have almost five months to lose the weight and write about it. I could probably even do it in three months if I had to. I’m just annoyed by all the yapping.”

“You wonder if you might be overreacting out of hunger? ”

“More likely I’m cranky because I’m not drinking. I’ve been on the wagon ever since I got back from New York.”

“You mentioned you were considering it, but I figured it was like my fasting. Good for you!”

“I miss wine. A lot.”

“Alcohol doesn’t have
that
many calories. You could have a glass of wine if you wanted.”

“I can’t. Two glasses of wine isn’t what gets me. What’s made me fat is the loaf of sourdough and pint of spinach dip I’ll inhale
after
drinking the wine. Cold turkey’s been the only way to go. I’m not allowing myself any liquor until I see you guys this weekend.”

“You haven’t cheated at all? Doesn’t sound like the Jen I know.”

“I did kind of snap a couple of weeks ago. We were watching movies all night, and Fletch had a few beers. I could smell them and practically feel the effervescence on my tongue. Torture. He went up to bed, and before I knew what I was doing, I ran to the fridge, stole a beer, and guzzled an entire Miller High Life in one fell swoop while standing in the dark in the living room. Don’t know why I felt like I had to sneak it or why I didn’t just sip it slowly and enjoy it. We didn’t have any temperance-type bet, and he’d probably be happier if I were drinking. He keeps telling me I’m being a pill, which is true.”

“How was it?”

"It was the most delicious beer I’ve ever tasted.”
⁹³

The guest room is getting hot, so I lean over the bed and open the window. Of course the neighbor’s dog is outside again.
Yap! Yap! Yap!

“What is that noise? Is that the dog? Whoa, that
is
loud.”

"Welcome to my world.” While we chat, I’ve got MySpace up, and I’m approving friend requests. One requester has a
Leave It to Beaver
family picture up as her member photo, and seeing it makes a little bell go off in my head. “Wait a sec; your neighbors’ dog didn’t stop escaping through the broken fence because you made a call. Your neighbors fixed the hole because you went over to their house all decked out in June Cleaver’s gardening togs. You told his owners you were going to beat their dog with a shovel if he ever bared his teeth at your children again.”

She giggles. “Heh. I know, but if I told you to do the same, you’d probably get shot, and then I’d have no place to stay when I come to visit. I’m dying to go thrifting with the girls, so I lied.”

In my best DeNiro impersonation I say, “You, you’re a giver.” I slam the window shut again, deciding I’d rather be hot than annoyed. “Speaking of, am I going to
like
going to thrift shops? It sounds creepy. Do I really need a bunch of people’s old shit?”

“Wendy has a bead on where all the nice ones are in the western ’burbs, so that’s where we’re going. Last time we went, she got a brand-new pair of Dansko clogs for a dollar.
One dollar
. She picked up some awesome fifties tablecloths and Wedgewood plates for fifty cents, and she got an Ellen Tracy skirt with tags still on it.”

“Huh . . . would I be able to get Baccarat crystal pieces for next to nothing?”
⁹⁴

“If they’ve got ’em, sure. You’ll die when you see what people give away.”

“I’m withholding judgment until we get there. If these places smell like feet—which is my fear—I reserve the right to bitch.”

“Deal.”

Am suffocating again. This room heats up faster than my microwave. I crack the window to a chorus of
Yap! Yap! Yap!
“Great,” I say. “Sounds like it’s going to be another wasted afternoon.”

“Lucky you. Listen, I’ve got to get James at school—I guess I’ll see you Thursday afternoon.”

“Do me a favor?”

“Sure. What do you need?”

“Bring your shovel.”

“Ang, it’s nine a.m. on the dot. We’ve got one hour to pick up Carol and get out to the suburbs. Chop-chop; let’s go.” I bang on the bathroom door.

“Almost ready, I promise! Just finishing up my makeup,” Angie replies.

“If we’re late, we’re not getting coffee
and
I’m telling Wendy it was your fault.”

“Shit! No!” Angie practically explodes out of the bathroom, tossing her cosmetic case in her purse. “I’ll finish in the car!”

Normally neither of us would care about being on time, but Wendy is waiting, and I have every confidence she’ll do us all great bodily harm if we’re not there exactly when we’re supposed to be. It’s not that Wendy is rigid or mean; rather, she’s in charge of our shopping expedition today, and everything will have been orchestrated to the minute, and if we’re late, there will be consequences. And I’m not anxious to find out what they might be. Wendy learned to be strict when she taught high school LD classes. Had she shown any weakness, the students would have eaten her alive. She stopped teaching when she had kids, but the toughness stuck.
⁹⁵

Wendy’s a marvel of organization, so much so that she has a gift-wrap closet in which every scrap of paper and bit of ribbon hangs in color-coordinated ruler-straight little rows. Going to her home is like visiting an efficiency museum. She’s not a self-righteous jackass about it, though; she even volunteers to come to friends’ houses to help them. This fall she’s driving up to Angie’s place to help make over her basement with paint and pretty vintage fabric. When I told Fletch about this, he asked if Wendy would paint our basement, but I explained that there’s a difference between sewing pillows and slapping a darker coat of beige on paneled walls and fixing up what looks like Saddam Hussein’s spider hole.

“Hustle, hustle; down the stairs; let’s go!” We dash out the back door and into the garage. I make us both get in the car with the windows up, locks engaged, before I open the automatic garage door. I’ve forced Angie to participate in my elaborate garage security ritual every time we’ve gone anywhere in the past few days.

“I thought we were in a hurry,” she says.

“We are.”

“Then why do we have to go through this ridiculous exercise? ”

“Because you never get a second chance for safety first. There’s danger everywhere.”

“Oh. Danger. All right, then.” She nods slowly and hands me my purse. “Want me to have 911 cued up on your cell phone, just in case?”

“Yes, not being robbed and murdered in my garage is simply hilarious,” I reply, backing out into the alley. There is nothing wrong with employing a bit of caution. “Won’t it be a shame when a bad guy doesn’t stab you in the pancreas and you get to go home whole and healthy on Sunday?”

Angie peers out the windows. “Well . . . I don’t see any potential robbers or murderers, but there are two boys playing kickball in their side yard. Sure, they’re only five years old but they could be packing heat; you never know. Good thing we’ve got our doors locked.”

“Shut it.”

“What about that little blond woman over there and her purse-dog? That miniature poodle could totally be rabid. Shall we get a series of inoculations as a preventative measure? ”

I press my lips together, saying nothing as I navigate backward and then forward.

“I also see a couple of shifty-looking alley cats. You think they’re more likely to rob or murder us? Or maybe just rub up against our ankles?”

“You know who’s not funny?” I ask. “You.” Angie smiles serenely and flips down the visor so she can finish putting on her mascara. “Keep smirking and I will make you listen to Rush Limbaugh all the way to Wendy’s.”

She slicks on lipstick. “And I’ll tell you exactly why he’s wrong.”

Check and mate.

“Um . . . are we going to pass any coffee places? I could use some,” Angie says. She’s been here for less than forty-eight hours and we’ve stopped to get some variety of coffee-based beverage seven times. She’s also pointed out each Starbucks we’ve passed. Because there’s one on every block, the number of times she’s shouted, “Look! There’s a Starbucks! ” has not been insubstantial.

“Jesus, Angie, we’ll be at Jen’s place to pick up Carol in about five minutes. You can wait, right? This way Carol can get something to drink and we won’t have to make two stops, so we’ll be on time and Wendy won’t fillet us.”

“Look! There’s one right there! We could run in if we wanted to.”

I glance away from the road and notice she’s practically trembling with anticipation. “Five minutes? You can’t wait
five minutes
?”

“Come on,” she cajoles. “It’s right there! And there’s an open spot—pull in!
Pull in now, damn it!
”

“Honey,” I say gently, patting her on the knee. “Take it down a notch. I think you may have a small caffeine addiction. ”

“Yeah, Jim says that, too. I wonder why.”

“Hmm . . . maybe because everyone at the new Starbucks in your town already knows your name and they begin to prepare your drink when they see you pull in?” I ask.

“Maybe. Did I tell you about the ass who works the drive-thru there? His name is Dustin, and I hate him. He needs to learn to keep his piehole closed. Shut up! I don’t want to have a conversation; I want to place an order. Every time he welcomes me, I get a monologue about the day and the weather, and when he’s finally done and gets around to asking me how I am, I tell him,
I’m venti skim vanilla latte, thanks.
My kids are mortified. They think I’m rude.”

“Aren’t you? Sounds like he’s trying to be friendly. I’d kill for a cashier who wasn’t openly hostile. Really? I don’t know what a cheeseburger served without loogies even tastes like.”

“No!
He’s
rude because he’s wasting my time. I’m in the drive-thru because I’m in a hurry. If I wanted to chat, I’d go inside. The last time I pulled up, he had his big, thick head completely sticking out the window, resting his chin in his hands like he was all smitten with me.”

“Maybe he was. You look way younger than you are, your hair is pretty, and you’re got nice skin. You’re a bit of a MILF. Better yet, you’re like Stacy’s mom in that song! You’ve got it goin’ on!”

As a mom, Angie’s more used to giving out compliments than receiving them. “What
ever
. Anyway, I picked up my Altoids tin and pretended I was talking into it, and I waved him off when he greeted me. Oh, remind me—Wendy said she’d paint little buttons on my tin to make it look more like a cell phone.”
⁹⁶

Before I can respond, we arrive at Jen’s place. “Can you run up and buzz to let them know we’re here?”

“Sure! And then we’ll get coffee, right? You won’t forget? ” Fueled by her suddenly remembered need for no less than four shots of espresso, Angie hurls herself out of the car and begins to mash the buzzer repeatedly.

Carol comes out about a minute later dressed casually and comfortably for a day of thrifting. Angie forbade me to wear Crocs, so I’m stuck in a pair of loafers with zero arch support. I fear I will regret this decision later.

They greet each other, and then Carol hops in the front seat because she’s been to Wendy’s place more often than I have and she’s got the directions. “Good morning! So happy to see you!” After we hug, she jerks a thumb in Angie’s direction. “Why aren’t you letting her have coffee?”

I suck air in between my gritted teeth. “I didn’t forbid her; I even offered to make it at home, but she insisted on Starbucks and I thought stopping on the way would be excessive. ” I lower my voice and lean in. “I think she has a problem,” I say.

Carol replies, “That’s what I’ve been telling her.”

“You’re both full of shit,” Angie shouts from the backseat.

I mouth the word “problem” to Carol and she nods.

Carol asks, “Jen, how’s the diet going? You look—”

I stop her. “I look exactly the fucking same. I’ve only taken off six pounds and I’m really trying; I swear I am. I’m going to the gym,
⁹⁷
I’m eating right,
⁹⁸
I’m not drinking alcohol . . .” I throw my hands up. “I’m starting to worry it’s not going to happen.”

“What about a diet center? I did Weight Watchers after each of my pregnancies and the flab came off. Takes a while to do it their way, but it’s not hard,” Carol says. At forty, Carol looks more like Rene Russo now than she did in high school. Bitch.

“I don’t know,” I sigh. “Weight loss is a private thing. You’re
supposed
do it alone . . . like going to the bathroom. I wouldn’t wipe my ass in front of strangers, so I’m not going to sit in a room and discuss how birthday cake makes me
feel
.”

“The meetings can be a little too group-therapy for my liking. Sometimes you have to go to a couple to find the right one,” Carol admits.