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 (16 page)

• And next time, I wear Crocs.

• In an effort to make my friends like me again, I will grudgingly agree to participate when Jen offers to teach us belly dancing six hours
¹⁰²
later.

• I am spectacularly, embarrassingly good at belly dancing due to the laws of physics as they relate to the size of my ass.

• Which reminds me; I really have to get serious about this diet, or I’m not going to achieve my goal.

from the desk of miss jennifer ann lancaster

Dear Mom,

I accept your apology. (Was that really so hard?) Let us never speak of this again.

Looking forward to seeing you in New York next month! I’m attaching my hotel information so you guys can all coordinate.

Love,

Jen

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Reaching Critical (M)ass

"Did anyone ever die from nerves? I might be dying. Do you think I’m dying?”

"Um ... probably?”

“Wrong answer!” I swat Fletch on the arm. He’s seated at the computer, and I pace back and forth behind him, scowling at myself in the big mirror on the wall. Every article of clothing I own is currently piled up on the bed, and the dogs are cowering in the bathroom because they don’t understand why the Feeder is suddenly all shout-y. “Nothing! I have nothing!”

“Why didn’t you buy some clothes when you went shopping with Angie and Carol?”

“Like I’m going on TV in a shirt I got for a nickel? Riiight.”
Bright Lights, Big Ass
comes out tomorrow, and my publicist booked me on a local news segment in the morning. Earlier today I was all freaked out because there was confusion and the show thought I was coming to talk about dating in the city. Dating?
Moi
? The last time I dated was in 1994, and I managed to snare Fletch by saying the words guaranteed to drive all men wild:

“There’s gin at my house!”

All day I panicked about going on TV to waggle a bottle of Tanqueray.

Fortunately, we got it straightened out and now I’m having stress-kittens over my appearance. I’m down almost ten pounds, but the camera’s going to put those right back on me. I should be bouncing off the walls with excitement over Mary Ann scoring such a coup, because I’ve wanted to be on TV my whole life. And I’m mentally prepared, as I’ve practiced interviewing myself in the bathroom mirror for years. Yet I can’t get past the thought of my blubber being broadcast across the Greater Chicago area. I’m proud to have claimed a spot on the show without having done something spectacularly stupid—always a possibility—but my elaborate bathroom broadcast fantasies never entailed me wearing a girdle.

I’m so mad at myself—I’ve known for a year I’d have a bunch of events in May; why didn’t I try harder sooner? Why didn’t I do crunches all those times I parked myself in front of
Idol
and
Veronica Mars
and
Lost
? If I couldn’t get to the gym, why didn’t I just take the dogs out for vigorous strolls? Why did I let myself “celebrate” with cake, wine, and Whoppers whenever I went off my diet?
¹⁰³
And why is it that anytime something good
or
bad happens, I gravitate toward anything fried, breaded, or
con queso
? I’d be much better off if I trained myself to celebrate or lament with an apple.

Generally I’m pretty happy with how I look, and there are only a handful of instances over the course of a year where I actively wish I were thinner. Tomorrow is one of those days. I’d kill for some sort of drug that would give me the illusion of being a size eight for a few hours. Like, I’d take it, and poof! Ten percent body fat! The weight would come back once I ate or drank something, and that’s totally fair. The Insti-Slim
¹⁰⁴
would work just like those dinosaur sponges that expand to four times their size when you drop them in water, only in reverse.

I glower at the pile of stuff on the bed. There is nothing here I want to wear unless it’s a size small. Chances are, the Nutty Professor won’t miracle up a batch of Insti-Slim for public consumption between now and seven a.m. tomorrow, so whatever I choose will have to hide four layers of girdle.

The TV studio isn’t far from our house. I’m supposed to be there at 7:15 a.m. for an appearance at 7:48 a.m., and we’re en route. I’m presently wedged in the front seat like a surfboard because I have so much spandex on, I’ve lost the ability to bend. I’ve built quite the house of cards with my foundation garments—if one layer blows, they’re all going down. I finally settled on a black V-neck and gold wide-legged capris, and I resurrected my London shoes. I’m tidy and nondescript; no one’s putting me on Mr. Blackwell’s list, but it’s TV appropriate.

Since I resolved the what-to-wear dilemma, I’ve begun to ruminate on the interview itself. I hate going into any situation where I don’t already know the outcome, and today is a massive unknown. What if the anchorwoman goes all investigative reporter on me and grills me about sending my neighbors anonymous letters from a fictitious homeowners’ association?
¹⁰⁵
And I accidentally start spewing obscenities and get a million-dollar fine from the FCC? Or what if I turn into Cindy Brady and freeze on camera like on the “You Can’t Win ’Em All” episode? And Cindy wasn’t even wearing restrictive Lycra underwear.

The second we arrive at the studio, I break into a terror sweat. Completely dripping, I check in, and an assistant escorts us to the green room.
¹⁰⁶
There are bagels and donuts and bottles of Fiji water sitting out, but I don’t take anything because of the Girdle Rodeo going on in my pants. Everything’s so tightly bound, I can’t breathe, let alone imbibe. Anyway, even if I were clad in my most forgiving jammie pants, I couldn’t eat because I’m too nervous to swallow. I practice easing myself into a chair—unsuccessfully—and Fletch documents my shame via camera phone.

A producer comes in and explains how everything will shake out on set. She covers the questions I’ll be asked and tells me where to look when we’re rolling.
¹⁰⁷
She gives me a once-over and proclaims me styled nicely and says there’s no need for me to go to hair and makeup. I’m not sure whether to be flattered or disappointed. A tech guy enters and clips a battery pack on my waistband, slipping a cord up the back of my sweater. I bet he wonders why I’ve got a sweaty swimsuit on under my top.

The producer leads both Fletch and me to the set. I’m sent to a small love seat across from the anchor desk, and Fletch is allowed to stand behind the cameraman to watch. While they’re showing the weather forecast, I meet the anchorwoman. Robin introduces herself like the consummate professional she is. As for me, the combination of circulation-cutting underpants and nervous energy proves to be too much. Instead of saying,
Hi, I’m Jen; thanks for having me on
, I glance down, notice she’s wearing the most adorable Mary Janes with big buckles, and begin
to point and squeal.

Something tells me Condoleezza Rice’s interviews do not start like this.

I pull myself together somewhat by the time the weather is over and we cut to a commercial. My face was already sweaty, and now it’s beet red, too.
¹⁰⁸
I perch on the edge of the couch, trying to remember how I sat when I practiced in front of the mirror last night. I discovered there’s a distinct way I should position myself to camouflage the fat rolls . . . and the way escapes me. Something to do with my posture? More slouchy? Less slouchy? Shoulders akimbo? Shit; I can’t remember now. The producer tells us we’ll be on in less than thirty seconds and encourages me to get comfortable, so I propel myself into the seat with such force, I end up arching slightly, leaning backward, chin pointed toward the ceiling, and clutching pillows on either side—exactly the way I’d sit if I were having a cavity filled. The show cuts to our segment, and Robin begins to talk to me, or possibly my neck.

The next four and a half minutes are almost completely blank. I’m vaguely aware of participating in a conversation and am pretty sure I smile, laugh, and nod in the right places, but I could not tell you what I say for a million dollars.

When it’s over, I say thank you to everyone
¹⁰⁹
and practically run off set to Fletch. As we head to the parking lot, he tells me I did a good job. However, we took vows in front of God and the Nevada State Gaming Commission, so I’m pretty sure he’s got no choice but to be supportive. We stop for breakfast at Burger King,
¹¹⁰
and I’ve inhaled my order of Cheesy Tots before we even pull into the garage.

I eat my Croissan’wich, then go upstairs to peel off my clothes. Released from its Lycra prison cell, my body goes
whoompf h
like a tube of Pillsbury biscuits being cracked against the counter. At this moment, I decide not to watch myself on TiVo because I’m sure I won’t like what I see.

Instead, I opt to go back to bed because I’ve got to do the whole angling-dressing-nervous-talking thing over again tonight at my book signing.
¹¹¹

“These next two weeks will be like fat camp, except I’ll be the counselor
and
the camper,” I tell Fletch as we wend our way to the airport through rush-hour traffic. He’s off to Denver for a couple weeks of intensive training.

“Fat camp for schizophrenics,” he muses.

I’m trying to convince myself I won’t miss Fletch while he’s away. “I’m glad you’re going to be gone. I’ll be able to work out for as long as I like without having to stop and pick you up, and I won’t be tempted to eat the fattening dinners I make for you.”

“Ultimately you’ll be more successful if you learn to eat what I’m having in more sensible portions.”

“Keep saying stuff like that, and I won’t miss you. And I’m not
asking
your opinion. I’m
telling
you how I’m going to run the next two weeks. Since I’m going to New York again and Philly next month for tour dates, I want to demonstrate some progress to my publisher. I want them to be proud of me. I’ve got to build on my momentum. I’ve lost ten pounds, but I can do better.”

“Don’t you
have
to do better?”

I’m not going to let myself rest until I’ve lost forty more pounds by the end of August. I figure if people on
The Biggest
Loser
can dump eight to ten pounds a week, surely if I put my mind to it, I can easily hit my number. Doing it in a month would be awesome, but if I go too quickly, I fear I’ll get saggy skin like a shar-pei. “
As I was saying
, the next two weeks are going to be my boot camp. Here’s what I’m going to do—I’ll be up at eight a.m. every day—”

“And you’ll
stay
up?” Fletch interrupts.

“Just because I drive you to the office in my pajamas doesn’t mean I always go back to bed.
¹¹²
Oh, I’m sorry, are you having a seizure? Because I know you didn’t just roll your eyes at me. Anyway, I’ll have a healthy breakfast, hit the gym for a couple of hours of cardio, maybe do some housework, and possibly double back to the gym in the afternoon for weight training. That way I’ll be extratired when it’s time for bed and I won’t stay awake all night worrying someone will break in.”

Fletch flips on his blinker and merges to the left. Even though I’m technically taking him to the airport, he’s driving due to my penchant for going forty-five miles per hour in the fast lane.
¹¹³
“Glad you have a plan. Usually you go a little
Home Alone
when I’m gone.”

"Pfft
, what are you talking about? I’m almost forty years old. I can certainly stay by myself without incident. I don’t know why you exaggerate. I’m not a cartoon character.”

“How about the time I had to go to Ohio and you did nothing but eat Lucky Charms and watch TV, and you almost stabbed your coat because you thought it was an intruder? Or when I came back from New Jersey and found your ‘arsenal’ under the covers on my side of the bed? The machete and BB gun I understand, the crab mallet less so. And what was the deal with the duct tape?”

“If I was going to catch someone breaking in, how was I going to hold them after I stabbed them and before the police came? Duct tape. Duh.”

“And the Benadryl?”

I fold my arms across my chest and glower out the window, saying nothing.

He gives me a sideways glance. “Well?”

I mumble something Fletch can’t hear.

He puts a finger to his ear. “What was that?”

“Benadryl would make them sleepy so they’d put up less of a fight. It always knocks me out when I take it.” I glance over at him, and his mouth is all scrunched like he just took a bite of a lemon. I can see he’s fighting the urge to burst into laughter. “You promised not to tease me about that again.”

He wipes away a stray tear and attempts to put on a serious face. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Jack Bauer and the Navy SEALS would give you a merit badge for your resourcefulness with antihistamines.”

“Exactly.”

“And . . .” He begins to choke and sputter a little bit. “And . . . and . . . they’d truly appreciate the homemade blow-torch you tried to create with compressed air and matches.” He howls in earnest now. How was I supposed to know the air would blow out the flame? The warning label said it would potentially ignite. Stupid misleading warning label.

“Listen up; I’ll do so well on my own while you’re gone, you won’t even recognize me when you get back. And you know what? The house will be, like, ten thousand percent cleaner than when I came home from New York last time and found you and the dogs wandering around in your own filth.”

“Okay,” he agrees. “While you’re cleaning, see what you can do with the basement. Maisy’s been peeing on the rug down there, and we’re at a full red alert on the Homeland Stink Advisory System.”

We ease into the curbside check-in area for American Airlines, and I hop out of the car to give him a hug and a kiss. “You just worry about you, because I? Will be
outstanding
.”

“Outstanding, eh?” He hoists his bags out of the back of our car and then closes the hatch. “I look forward to it. Love you—see you in two weeks!” We say good-bye, and as I pull away, I see he’s still giggling and shaking his head. Jackass.

Oh, I will show him exactly what I can accomplish. Just wait. In two weeks, I’ll be a whole new me.

The first thing I do when I get home is fix myself a big salad with fat-free dressing. Look at me! Eating vegetables! Not Lucky Charms! Ha. And I’m going to clean this house like it’s never been cleaned before.