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 (25 page)

Session Thirty-four

“Today we’re doing a circuit!”

Barbie bounces out from behind the reception desk. This is a troubling development. Barbie’s enthusiasm is directly proportionate to my workout’s level of difficulty.

“Explain ’circuit,’ ” I say.

“I’m going to have you work through a set of exercises, and once you’re done, you’re going to go through them again.” Barbie doesn’t make eye contact when she says this.

“Isn’t that what we do every time?”

“Yeah . . . ,” she hedges.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“You usually do a total of nine exercises . . . so today isn’t
really
different.”

I notice she’s holding a stopwatch. “And what’s that for? Have you got a burrito in the microwave?”

“Um, instead of doing three sets of three, we’re going to do all nine in a row.”

“You neatly avoided answering the question. The watch is for what?”

“I’m going to time you.”

OK, having
strongs
is one thing. Having my
strongs
timed? Not so much. “
And
?”

“And we’re going to see how many circuits you can do in an hour.”

“How many of these do you anticipate my doing?”

“Um . . . why don’t we start and we’ll find out together?”

“I don’t get a vote here, do I?” She gives me a huge grin and dances into the training room. Against my better judgment, I follow.

Four and a half.

I make it through four and a half circuits. It would have been more like five except we have to modify a couple of the lunging-jumping sets when my left knee begins to howl.

The whole time I’m doing my circuits, a couple of skinny girls work out with weights on the periphery of the training room. Every time I grunt or complain, I keep thinking they’re giving each other a
look.
I recognize this look—it’s a mixture of pity and contempt. I’ve gotten it many times over the past few years when I’ve put cake in my shopping cart or knocked over someone’s wine with my butt. Why are women always giving anyone heavier than them the evil eye? Is it to ward off contagious fat? Whatever, it pisses me off.

I decide not to yell at them. Instead, I pledge to work harder. And I do.

“You did such a good job!” Barbie congratulates me at our conclusion.

“Thank you. I worked my ass off today.” Did those girls just smirk at me? I pretend to ignore them but watch as they finish their strength training and hop on adjacent treadmills.

“See you Friday?” Barbie asks.

“Yeah, but . . . I’m not done yet. I feel a little tight, so I’m going to loosen up on the treadmill.” Barbie squeals with delight and attempts to hug me. “Oh, honey, no. You don’t want a piece of this right now.” My shirt is soaked with sweat all the way down past my bra.

“All right! Keep it up!” She trots off to her desk in the of fice on the other side of the gym.

I mount the treadmill and begin at a slow pace. I haven’t walked on it for a while because I’ve been so busy swimming and training. I input my usual speed and incline, and the conveyor belt begins to roll. Did I always move this slowly? It’s like I’m keeping pace with someone’s grandmother. Using a walker. Tipped with tennis balls.

OK, this is
way
too easy. This machine must be broken, because I was never this slow. I hop off and decide to grab a drink before I switch over. I can feel the two girls’ eyes on my back as I walk to the water cooler. When I turn around, I smile beatifically at them.
Oh, no, bitches. I’m not quitting. I’m just getting on a different treadmill.

I select the same numbers on the second machine, and it’s still easy. How about
that
? My speed is not a fluke; it’s
me.

I coast along for a few minutes, realizing I can continue to go faster and higher. I peek at the numbers the two girls selected and reset my input accordingly. I have a ton of stuff to do today, but I rationalize that if I can do more at the gym, I should.

All right, that’s a lie.

I want to outlast the smirking girls. I don’t care how long they stay on their treadmills, because
I will be here longer.

Fueled by contempt, I kick the digits up another notch and begin a slow jog. I pound the treadmill for thirty-six minutes until the two bitchy girls hop off their machines.

Winnah! Victory! I beat your asses, bitches!

I’m gloating when I notice the girls begin to walk over to me. Oh, great, I’m going to get into a fight here? What am I, forty?

“Excuse me,” the first one says.

“What?”
I bark.

“Are you . . . Jen Lancaster?”

I narrow my eyes. “Yeah. Why?”

“I told you it was her,” the second one says. “We just wanted to tell you we saw you talk at Printer’s Row and that you look really great. How much weight have you lost?”

“Um . . . quite a bit,” I stammer.

“Well, keep it up!” says Number One.

Number Two adds, “We can’t wait to read your next book!” They walk away toward the locker room.

Argh. I’m down forty pounds, but I’ve yet to lose what makes me a big ass.

Jen’s Life Lesson #1985: If I stop looking for fights, I’ll probably stop finding them.

I’ve logged three hours of sweat-inducing housework when I realize I don’t have any cash to pay the lady from the cleaning service when she comes tomorrow morning.
¹⁶⁶

As an aside, I absolutely understand exactly how clichéd it is to sweep and scrub the night before the professionals arrive. I’m not doing this because I’m neurotic.
¹⁶⁷
I want the cleaning lady to be able to actually get to the stuff that needs cleaning, rather than moving all our detritus around for two hours until she gets to a clear surface. I feel obligated to help, since making this place sanitary is no easy task given the seven fur-losing, hairball-barfing, happily whizzing-on-the- floor mammals living in this house. (I’m counting Fletch in that sum.)

Maybe I
am
neurotic in not wanting the maid service to think we’re completely vile, dirty people. Plus, Fletch engaged in his quarterly “manscaping” this week, and even though he says he cleaned up afterward, the master bath still looks like the floor of the barbershop on the first day of army boot camp. No one not married to him should have to deal with this. Or possibly I’m running around with a Swiffer mop and a can of Pledge because I’m cheap and don’t want to pay for more than three hours of Magnificent Maids’ time. Yes, sounds more like it. FYI? My pride costs exactly $20 per hour.

“How much money do you have?” I call down the stairs to Fletch, who’s watching
Fargo
for the hundredth time and eating Wheat Thins. Another wild Friday night at our place. . . . Man, when did we get so lame? Shouldn’t we be drunk or
b-u-s-y
at this point, possibly both? Barring that, at least I should be doing something other than vacuuming Fletch’s shorn back hair off the faucets. Yet I’m content. Huh.

“Why?” he answers.

“Because I’m running off to join a cult, and I need to buy a track suit and some Nikes,” I yell.

I can hear him munching on the Wheat Thins from the second floor. “OK. Eight dollars enough?”

“Nope, I’ll never catch a ride on Hale-Bopp with less than ten bucks in my pocket. I’m going out to get some cash. Come with me?”

“No, thanks. I’m just about to the point where William H. Macy has his meltdown when Marge comes to interview him.” In his best Brainerd accent, he says, “ ‘
I told ya! We haven’t had any vehicles go missing!
’ I’d rather stay here. And why are you venturing out now? It’s midnight. Go tomorrow.”

To assuage my bourgeois guilt over paying someone to do housework, I hired the cheapest possible provider.
¹⁶⁸
When I researched companies, I couldn’t believe how much some places charged. Shoot; I’ll happily clean
your
apartment for seventy bucks an hour. Call me! I do windows! Then again, when I placed an ad for biweekly housekeeping services on Craigslist, the only folks who responded were offering erotic housekeeping, so my choices were limited.

Magnificent Maids, the place I finally settled on, does an efficient, fully clothed job, but the problem is, their concept of time is fluid. No matter when I schedule them, they show up at least half an hour early. If I plan on them being here at two, they’re ringing my bell at one thirty. I keep telling them, if they need to be early, no problem, we’ll just schedule them earlier, but please let me know in advance so I can make sure the dogs and cats are all squared away. (And also so I’m not still asleep when they arrive, because then I
really
feel guilty.) Tomorrow they’re supposed to come at eleven, so I’m going to be up by nine thirty, just to be sure.

“I don’t want to be obligated to dash out of here in the morning to get money. And if I don’t go now, I’ll probably forget anyway. No big deal.” I grab my purse and keys and open the door. “If I’m not back in seven minutes, avenge my death.”

From his horizontal position on the couch, he says, “Sure; you betcha.”

I close the heavy oak door behind me and double-lock it. The second I enter the yard, our security lights flash on, flooding the whole neighborhood with light. It’s so bright, we could perform surgery out here. Or at least play a televised major league baseball night game.

I cut through the yard and notice that at some point this evening, a ginormous spider web cropped up in front of the door to the garage. I smile and recall that old Far Side cartoon where a couple of industrious spiders build a web at the bottom of a playground slide and one says to the other
“If we pull this off, we’ll eat like kings.”
I gently nudge the web aside with the end of a pooper-scooper—better luck next time, little guys—and I’m on my way.

I could go to the Amoco right down the block and use their ATM, but it’s after midnight and my defenses are down. Their food shop stocks every variety of Dolly Madison and Hostess product, and I don’t want to be left alone with them and a handful of twenties, still warm from the machine. I have willpower now, but there’s no reason to force myself to confront temptation.

Also, the gas station is skeevy.

I drive down Elston Ave to the Harris Bank branch by Kohl’s. A new building is coming in between the store and the bank, and it’s wrapped in a giant green construction canvas. Completely innocuous in the daylight, after midnight it looks cavernous and foreboding. The entrance to the bank is temporarily altered due to the construction, and to get to the ATMs, I have to drive down a narrow path and circle back in the darkened parking lot.

As I slowly swing around, out of the corner of my eye I see something out of place in the shadows just on the other side of the ATMs. I look closer and see two women sitting huddled together with their sweatshirt hoods pulled up, faces tense, clutching backpacks to their sides.

Back when I worked retail, it wasn’t all selling prom dresses, swiping ice cream, and spitting out brownies. I learned an awful lot about how shoplifters behave. A normal shopper comes into the store and looks at the merchandise. Shoppers pay attention to sale signs and fancy displays of banana clips and artfully stacked sweater pyramids they insist on pawing through, even though
all of them are exactly the same size and color, and please stop unfolding every single freaking crewneck, for the love of God
!
¹⁶⁹

Even if shoppers acknowledge the clerk with a “just looking, thanks,” the one thing they don’t do is make eye contact, because there’s no reason to—why look at the clerk when there are
three
racks of bathing suits to inspect? And sun-dresses on the clearance rack? Plus, accidentally make eye contact with the clerk, and he or she will go into sales mode. Suddenly you can’t get away because you’re trying to be polite and there’s a likelihood you’ll find yourself talked into a pair of stirrup pants or an acid-washed denim vest.
¹⁷⁰
Shoplifters, on the other hand, watch the clerk’s eyes and avert their own when the clerk looks back.

The two women in the hooded sweatshirts are doing exactly this.

In the four seconds it takes me to drive past them and up to the ATM, thoughts race through my head.
Why are they in this parking lot? Why are they sitting in the dark? What’s in their backpacks? Why are they clutching them like that instead of wearing them on their backs? How come they look nervous? And, since it’s still almost eighty degrees outside with a zillion percent humidity, what the fuck is up with the hoods?

I pull directly through the ATM, and when I pass the support post the hooded two were hiding behind, they’re both on their feet and are lingering an arm’s length from my window, right on the other side of the pole.

Our eyes meet again and I give them both a jaunty single- fingered wave. I step on the gas and the car explodes out of the ATM lane like a shot. I drive away like I’m making an escape, even though they didn’t actually threaten me.

Then again, I wasn’t about to give them the chance.

As I head to a different ATM in a more well-lit area, I dial 911.

“Chicago Police. What’s your emergency?”

"Hi. I’m at the corner of Webster and Elston and I’m just leaving the Harris Bank branch. I’m calling to report suspicious behavior.”

“Suspicious behavior? What kind?”

“Um, technically this isn’t an emergency and I don’t want to waste your time on a call.” Shouldn’t there be 611 for stuff that’s important but not life threatening? “I just encountered something odd and I wanted to make you aware of the situation.” I briefly explain my experience to the highly disinterested dispatcher.

“Did anything transgress?”

“Well, no. But it seemed suspicious, and I thought you’d want to know before it turns into a problem.”

“Can you describe the people you saw?”