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 (15 page)

“For a minute, I thought about joining until I stumbled across a Weight Watchers message board. The very first post I read went something like,
‘There’s a lady in my office who’s very skinny and she does not ever eat in her cubicle. She’s anorexic if you ask me because she does not like to eat. Many of us on my floor are on diets and each Thursday she brings in Krispy Kreme, even though she knows some of us are trying to lose weight. I hate her because I know she is trying to sabotage all my good work. She’s a hypocrite and she is divorced and has a mullet and wears high-waist jeans.’
”

“People like this really exist?” Angie asks.

“Let me guess; she got a dozen sycophantic responses saying
‘She’s just jealous of you,’
right?” Carol says.

“Ooh, gold star!” I cheer. “How’d you know?”

“I’m a Weight Watchers veteran. I’ve heard it a hundred times.”

Angie shifts in the backseat, craning her neck to spot the nearest Starbucks, just in case I miss it. “That’s all they had to say? Pretty shitty advice, if you ask me.”

I reply, “Finally, a voice of reason chimes in on the board and suggests maybe Eighties Donut Lady is just trying to be nice? The original poster replied, no, that can’t be true because Eighties Donut Lady wants everyone else to be overweight so they all pay attention to her, which . . . of course. There’s no other explanation. Eighties Donut Lady gets up early every Thursday, snaps on her high-fastening pants, drives out of the way to Krispy Kreme, picks out a dozen of their best-looking offerings, and hands over her hard-earned dollars to pay for said donuts, but not because she likes her coworkers. And she doesn’t commit this thoughtful act for others because it might make her happy or feel good to do something kind.”

“Yeah,” Angie agrees. “She only takes the time and effort fifty-two times a year
specifically to fuck with you
.”

I slow down to stop at a red light. “Honestly, I’d rather be fat and working a temp job than go to a meeting where I’m faced with this kind of logic.”

Carol says, “What I’ve learned is, though people may comment on your appearance, fat, thin, or otherwise, ultimately, no one really cares what you weigh except for
you
.” She cocks her head and looks thoughtfully at me for a second before adding, “And possibly your mother.”

The day is gorgeous, and I crack my window for fresh air. Unfortunately, as I do so, Angie must catch the scent of coffee brewing somewhere and starts bouncing around the car like Maisy and Loki on the way to the doggie park. She thrusts her head between the two of us in the front seat, exclaiming, “Less talk-y, more drive-y! It’s latte time; let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!”

Two minutes later we’re at the Starbucks at Diversey and Paulina. Angie streaks out of the car and into the shop, not even bothering to check for oncoming cars. An old Accord screeches to a halt, but Angie is singular in her determination.

Carol turns to me while we wait for a passing Volvo. “Problem.”

We place our orders, and they’re prepared quickly. Angie gulps a quarter of hers down before she even gets over to the sugar station to add sweetener. She notices how Carol and I are staring at her, mouths agape, and responds, “I don’t have a problem.”

Riiight, Cornholio.
⁹⁹

We get back in the car and I notice the clock on the dashboard. Oh, my God; how is it after nine thirty already? I say, “You guys—look what time it is. Wendy is going to cut off our legs and send us home in organic, recycled paper bags.”

“Should we call her and tell her we’re going to be late?” Carol asks.

“No—I’ll just drive really fast and try to make up time,” I respond. “Hey, why are you guys giving each other that face? I
am
capable of driving fast.”

“Sure, yeah, of course. I’m curious—have you figured out how to merge?” Carol asks, eyes dancing. She’s referring to an incident that happened in 1983. My family was in Boston for the holidays. My brother and I went to visit our cousins a few towns over from my grandparents’ house, and my brother promptly got drunk, making my fifteen-year-old non-learner’s-permit-having ass responsible for driving us back on the Boston turnpike. Tears may have been involved because I wasn’t a confident driver, particularly on the rudest road in the country. There might have been some cries of “
I hate to merge!
” And isn’t it charming of my brother to trot that story out every single time I see him?

“Like you were both perfect drivers when you were fifteen? ” I accuse.

“No . . . but I knew how to merge,” Angie replies. Carol and Angie collapse into another set of giggles.

We turn off Diversey and go up the ramp to get onto the Kennedy Expressway. I make my way onto the road seamlessly. “See? I’m a fine driver. And by the way? Fuck you both.”

“Hey, look; there’s a car from Arizona!” Carol calls and pokes me hard right below my triceps.

“Ow! What are you doing?” I shout.

“The license-plate game. Our family plays it every time we go on a car trip. We just passed a car from Arizona, and I called it,” Carol says.

“Jesus, I hope you don’t poke your kids so hard; it would be child abuse. You practically broke the skin.” I hold on to the steering wheel with one hand and rub my throbbing arm with the other.

“How much fun would that have been if we’d all gone to high school together?” Angie asks.

“Probably not that much,” Carol admits. “Jen and I were nerds in high school.”

I respond immediately, “What, are you kidding me? We were really popular. We were thin and cute. We weren’t nerds; why are you rewriting history?”

Carol pokes me again. “Iowa!” Then she turns to Angie. “I assure you, we were nerds.”

“Wrong. We weren’t A-listers, but people liked us.” Didn’t they?

Poke. “Wisconsin!” Carol’s head swings from side to side. “And yes, we
were
nerds.”

“That really hurts—don’t do that, please. Tell me this: how were we nerds? We wore pretty clothes and we were in a ton of clubs.”

“What kind of stuff did you do?” Angie asks. “Poms? Dance squad?”

Poke. “Connecticut!”

“
Quit it
. No, the pep steppers were boyfriend-stealing skanks. Also, I can’t dance. We were on the newspaper staff, we were in the drama club, I also did radio and yearbook one year, and we, like, practically owned the whole speech team. The team was called the Golden Tongues, and I remember one time I published a headline that read ‘Golden Tongues Lick Competitors.’ It was hilarious,” I tell her.

Angie nods. “Nerds.”

Poke. “Illinois!”

“Stop poking me and navigate, please? When do we turn?”

“Lemme check my palm pilot.” Carol opens her purse, pulls out a little notepad of paper, and holds it up in her hand. “Get it? Fits in my palm? Heh.” She flips through the book. “Take exit 51H. Oh, and by the way?”

“What?” I ask.

Poke. “Montana!”

“That should be right about here.” I check out my side mirrors because I need to cut over two lanes, and quick. I try to pull over, but a white contractor van is positioned in my blind spot and keeps speeding up for no reason. “Hey, come on, pal . . . let me in. Ang, move your head; I can’t see. . . . No, the other way.” The quick influx of caffeine has left her flailing about the backseat and incapable of responding to simple commands. I honk and gesture, but the white van won’t move. I try to floor it, but we’re in an SUV and it’s always been a bit sluggish on the uptake.

“Hey, nerd . . . are there any Starbucks by Wendy’s house?”

Poke. “Indiana!”

“
Stop poking me
. Yes, there are Starbucks, but we have to get there before you can have more coffee. Why didn’t you just buy two like we suggested?”

“Because I don’t have a problem. I’m just thirstier than I thought.”

To Angie, Carol says, “You sound like every alcoholic I’ve ever seen on daytime talk shows.” And to me? Poke. “California!”

“Listen, guys, I’m trying to make this exit, but the ass-munch next to us isn’t letting me.” Our turn comes . . . and goes. “Oh, great, now we’ve got to turn around in the Loop and go back. Fan-frigging-tastic.”

We make our way into the Loop in order to get back onto the Kennedy in order to hit exit 51H again.

Angie asks, “What was Jen like in high school?”

Carol considers for a moment as we cruise down Wacker Drive. “Hmm. Fun. But high-strung. Vapid. Supermodest. If you wanted to make her scream, you just had to say, ‘Vagina!’ ”

“Stop it,” I snap, out of reflex. “And don’t tell Angie stuff she can use against me.”

“I don’t understand how you can swear so much, yet you spell out anything vaguely sexual,” Angie chimes in. “Hey, Carol, we were on the phone last week and she shouted for no reason. I asked what happened and she told me one of the dogs bit her on the
’n-i-p-p-l-e
.’ ”

“Um,
hello
? Driving here? Your lives, my hands? Might want to think about that,” I remind them.

Carol taps her fingers to her forehead. “Oh, I forgot to tell you the biggest thing. She was really, really vain. Way worse than now. We’d have conversations about why she thought she was pretty. Like, she’d want to discuss every feature.
¹⁰⁰
She did have a pool, though. That made up for a lot. Hey, look, Ang; there’s a Starbucks.”

“Cool! Can we stop? I already finished my latte.”

“No. It’s Saturday and we’re in the middle of the business district. Starbucks is closed and we’re so late that Wendy ’s going to plant her foot firmly in each of our asses.” I then address Carol. “I wasn’t that vain, and if you only liked me for my pool, we wouldn’t have been friends in the winter months, too. And I
was
cute. So there.” I blow a raspberry at her.

To Angie, Carol says, “That doesn’t mean she wasn’t a handful. If Jen were over and I needed a minute to get ready, I could just say,
‘Hey, Jeni, here’s a mirror!’
and she’d amuse herself for half an hour.”

“It was an act. I was trying to make you laugh.” We’re back on the expressway and should be able to take our exit any second now.

“Of course you were.”

It
was
an act. I think.

“I can see you mouthing the word ‘no’ to Angie in the mirror,” I growl. As I take in the signs, I realize I got on the expressway too far south and we’ve completely missed our exit again. “Oh, fuck me! I did it again!”

“Did you mean that in a sexual sense? If so, wouldn’t you have had to say
f-u-c-k
me?” Carol asks.

Angie adds, “Distracted by your own reflection?”

Naturally, this is very, very funny to everyone in the car.

Except me.

Poke. “Florida!”

We turn around again and drive back on the same road we just traveled. Before Tweedledum or Tweedledee can say a word, I tersely explain, “Yes, it’s the same Starbucks, and yes, it’s still closed!” Their amusement isn’t making me like them more.

We’re back on the expressway. “FYI, if I don’t make the turn this time, I am dropping you two off at the train station and you can locomote your asses out to Wheaton to buy up other people’s old crap without me. Now, I am going to try to get in the right lane and you both are going to be quiet.”

“OK, OK; sorry,” they both mutter.

Poke. “Illinois!”

Urge to kill rising.

We’re almost at the exit, and
another
white contractor’s van is the only thing standing between me and safe passage to Wendy’s house. I turn on my signal, honk, and try to nudge my way over, to no avail. “Help! Motion to him he needs to move, please!”

Poke. “Another Illinois!”

“Less poking and more motioning, please! Do you want to get to Wendy’s or not?”

Trying to merge . . . trying to merge . . . unsuccessful . . . unsuccessful . . .

Poke. “A third Illinois!”

And that’s the final straw.

“Of course it’s an Illinois plate! They’re all fucking Illinois plates because we’re in fucking Illinois, which as of now shall be known as ‘the fucking Starbucks state.’ ”
I lay on my horn, slam on the brakes, and wrench the steering wheel, miraculously squeezing into the gap between the contractor’s van and the Toyota behind it with maybe a millimeter between bumpers.

The car is completely silent for the next five minutes.

Carol speaks first. “She still hates to merge.”

Angie adds, “And she’s probably had too much coffee. Or maybe she just needs a good
f-u-c-k.
” Slowly but surely, their little gasps of suppressed glee turn into gale-force laughter.

“Yuck it up all you want. When you’re finished, you guys can call Wendy and tell her why we’re late.”

A frisson of fear shoots through the passenger seats. Finally satisfied, I give Carol’s arm a solid poke.

“Illinois.”

Jen’s Life Lessons, Thrifting Edition

• I am not a good thrifter. At all.

• The western suburbs in DuPage County are gorgeous, but I’d still rather have a honey enema at the Country Bear Jamboree than live there.

• In the nice thrift shops, the Real Housewives of DuPage County will cut you for looking at the Baccarat crystal.

• In the shitty ones in Cook County, patrons will cut you just for being there.
¹⁰¹

• There are six Starbucks on Wendy’s top secret thrifting route.

• We hit all of them.

• Angie has
a problem
.

• The troops will mutiny and demand Wendy commandeer my car when I jump the curb trying to parallel park in front of her house. Joke’s on them because I’d rather be a passenger.

• Thrifting involves walking. A lot.

• Apparently the amount of walking I am forced to do in stupid loafers is directly proportional to the amount of complaining I do.

• Which is why none of my companions told me about the possibility of thrift-store hats harboring
lice
before I put the cute straw cowboy one on my head.

• Am still itchy.