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 (26 page)

“Yes, there were two kids—”

“Kids? How old?”

“I’m sorry, not
children
kids, but young, maybe late teens or early twenties.” The older I get, the more likely I am to call anyone younger than me “kids,” but I feel the dispatcher will not be enlightened with this angst-ridden ode to my fleeting thirties, so I spare her. “One Caucasian female with a dirty blond ponytail hanging out the side of her hood and one girl with dark, curly hair. I can’t tell ethnicity on the second gal. Actually, I couldn’t see much of their faces because they were obscured by the hoods they’re wearing.”

I do not add “on this sweltering-hot evening” because it’s patently obvious.

“They’re
women
?” The dispatcher sounds incredulous.

“Right.”

“So you want to report . . . what?”

I’m sorry, do chicks never break the law? If that’s true, then why do they have women’s prisons? Just to add sexy scenes to B movies? And how do you explain Bonnie Parker? And that woman Charlize Theron got all ugly to play?

Even if these girls are completely guileless, sitting in the dark right where a speeding car could swerve and run over their feet seems like a terrible idea. Maybe my call won’t prevent a robbery or carjacking. Maybe I’m just keeping two stupid girls from walking with a limp for the next three months. Or maybe I’m paranoid. I readily admit that the camera on my cell phone is completely full of photos I take of bad drivers’ license plates.

Further, I understand the police have a whole bunch of real crimes to pursue, and I don’t want to give the dispatcher a hard time, because she works one of the most stressful jobs in the world. I’ll guarantee you she has better things to do than deal with a highly strung yuppie tooling around in a snappy car she probably doesn’t deserve.

Yet the fact remains, there were more than thirty-two thousand robberies and aggravated assaults in the city of Chicago last year.
¹⁷¹

Stunned, I reply, “I guess I thought two homeless-looking teenagers crouching in the dark by an isolated ATM, masking their identities with sweatshirts on a hot summer night,
might just be cause for concern
.”

“Oh.” There’s a long pause. “We’ll send a cruiser by. Elston and Webster?”

“Yep. Thank you.” I snap my phone shut and shove it back in my purse. I get to the light at Webster and Ashland, and there are two cars idling in front of me side by side, having a conversation through their open windows. Even though the light’s green and there’s plenty of room to pull over, the drivers chat with each other well into the next red light. I honk and shout and seethe and am completely ignored. I may or may not shake my fists, and it’s possible I point angry fingers at them in a threatening manner.

After I get cash, I’m driving down Clybourn, and a bunch of drunk girls stagger into the street, waving their arms like crazy and yelling “Taxi!” I look around to make sure I’m not in the way of a speeding cab and realize I’m the only car for a couple of blocks. They’re yelling “Taxi!” at me.

Did I just get
hailed
?

And as I round the bend to get home, I see an old-school VW bus stuffed full of people and weaving all over the road in front of me, almost clipping off the side mirrors of three separate autos on Fullerton. I slow down to ten miles an hour and give them a wide berth. I flip open my phone again, trying to decide whether I should call the police or take a photo. I wonder whether it wouldn’t have been useful just to stay on the line with the 911 dispatcher so I could narrate my entire trip to the cash machine.

As I pull down the alley and click to open the garage door, a thought strikes me like a van full of hipsters hopped up on Fat Tire Ale and self-loathing. . . .

I don’t belong in the city anymore.

Don’t misunderstand me—I believe Chicago is the greatest place in the world. For the rest of my life and no matter where on the globe I might find myself living, I’ll proudly tell anyone who asks that I’m from the Windy City, damn it. When Fletch and I were unemployed, the reason I struggled so hard to stay afloat was because I couldn’t bear the idea of being away from here. I was so afraid that if we left, even temporarily, we’d never find our way back. After ten full years, I still can’t look at the skyline without losing my breath for a minute. Stand in the bar on the ninety-sixth floor of the Hancock building and soak in Chicago’s majesty, and I guarantee you’ll go weak in the knees. Carl Sandburg was right—this City of the Big Shoulders, my city, is proud to be alive, and it’s strong and coarse and brutal.

But everything I love about this city, everything that makes it so unique and exciting, is also
causing me to be a raving bitch.

I think if I’m going to finally embrace this whole being-a-grown-up business, I have to give up my hackneyed notion of being a hip urbanite. I’ve always enjoyed my smug sense of superiority when telling people, no, I don’t live in the
Chicago area
, I live in
Chicago
. But who cares if I sound cool to some asshole on a plane I’m never going to see again? At this point in my life, I’d rather be uncool and have a lawn requiring more than a set of household scissors to trim.

Come to think of it, I want to go to a grocery store where the meat isn’t either brown or $34 per pound.

I want to open a window without burglar bars on it because it doesn’t
need
burglar bars.

I’d like to have a barbecue and not have to tell guests to tuck their pant legs into their socks due to the nightly Running of the Rats.

I want to drive five miles and have it take five minutes.

I want to stop flushing thousands of dollars down the toilet every year in rent and own a home.

I’ve been so frustrated because I want Chicago to be all these things. If it were, then it would be Mayberry, not Chicago. Maybe part of my process of growing up is realizing the futility of trying to force everyone in the city to change to suit my needs. I can’t make cashiers be polite. I can’t force the homeless to stop trying to wash my windshield with spit and old newspaper. I can’t keep sending anonymous letters to my neighbors hoping my clever words will finally make them care enough to replace their garbage-bag-covered windows with panes of glass. What’s that definition of insanity? When you keep doing the exact same thing and expect different results? Because that’s the hamster wheel I’ve been on for the past few years.

The only change I can control—the only difference I can make that isn’t insane—is to modify my own circumstances. If garbage in the street makes me crazy and it won’t go away no matter how many times I pick it up, I need to live somewhere clean. If I get apoplectic when there’s noise, I should be somewhere quiet.

The solution is so simple.

I pull into my garage. Waiting ’til everything’s locked and lit, I get out of the car and walk into the house.

“Hey, dere!” Fletch greets me with a mouthful of crackers. Little particles fly out, which means I’m going to have to vacuum the living room again tonight, too. “Where were you? You were gone a while. Anything exciting happen?”

“Sure, you could say so. I was almost carjacked. . . . I practically got into a fistfight at a stoplight. . . . I nearly ran over some stupid girls who thought I was a taxi. . . . Oh, and I didn’t get killed by a VW bus full of drunk hipsters, but only because I was paying attention.”

Swallowing hard, Fletch looks at me, dumbfounded. “The heckya mean?”

“I mean maybe next time you should come with me.” I begin to walk up the stairs to grab the vacuum, but when I reach the landing, I remember the most important point. “By the way? You win. I give in. Uncle. We move to the suburbs next spring.”

There’s a pregnant pause, and right before I get to the bedroom, I hear Fletch say, “Real good, then.”

Bang! Bang! Bang!

I wake up to some sort of strange noise outside. I squint at the clock to see what time it is. It’s 8:48 a.m., which means I’ve been asleep for only four hours.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Fletch and I went to bed really late because we were busy making plans for next year. The more we talk about moving out of Chicago, the more sense it makes. We won’t go far; we want to be close enough to take advantage of everything the city offers without feeling like we’re missing out but far enough that the rats can’t follow us.

Bang! Bang! Bang!
What the hell
is
that?

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Groggily, I peek out the window and see a woman in a babushka with a bucket pounding on our front door. Huh. Apparently the cleaning service is two hours and twelve minutes early, a new record.

Suddenly I’m way less bothered by the idea of a topless maid. As long as she’s wearing a watch, I’ll be happy.

Session Thirty-five

Deep in the throes of a summer cold, I’m coughing and sniffling all over the place. And I spent the morning sneezing on my computer monitor, so now I need Kleenex
and
Windex.

I had to miss a couple of training sessions earlier this week because I was too under the weather. I used the time to work on my manuscript, marveling about having gotten to the point where I’d rather work out than write. I’m really excited to be back in the training room right now and am trying to keep my nose-blowing breaks to a minimum.

We’re catching up on our week when Barbie says, “Everyone ’s been kind of out of it. I’ve had half a dozen cancellations. One of my clients came in this morning, and he was so tired and sore, he asked if we could just spend the hour doing some stretching.”

I’m on a stability ball, hands hooked behind my ears, in the middle of doing what I call “Captain Crunches.” “Whoa. Stop right there. You’re telling me a client asked you to take it easy on him
and you did
? Are you kidding me? What the fuck? I’ve asked—no, begged and pleaded—for you ten thousand times to take it easier on me, and you never, ever have. Why did this guy get a free pass and I never did?”

“He’s one of my older clients and he legitimately needed a break.” Barbie smiles and shrugs. “With you? Never. Because I knew you could do it.”

Who’d have guessed she was right?

After my session, I’m home and showered. When I dress, I choose the khaki shorts I’ve practically worn out this summer. They’re a couple of sizes too big, but I like them and they look cute. The interior plastic button popped the first time I wore them because they were too tight, so now each time I put them on, it feels like a huge victory. I zip them and do up the two metal snaps. Nice and roomy!

I’m supposed to be working on my manuscript, but I keep procrastinating. I decide I can’t
possibly
start writing until Angie and I have chatted. We talk for about an hour, and then I realize I can’t
possibly
do any work until I have a venti iced latte
¹⁷²
running through my system. I grab my purse
¹⁷³
and head to the Starbucks in Target. Besides, I need more Kleenex and maybe some throat lozenges, so it’s not a wasted trip.

I place my drink order at the counter and am waiting for the baristas to make it when an old Mexican grandmother begins to cry, “
Mira! Mira!
Look!” She bends over and picks up a praying mantis that’s somehow found its way into the store. Everyone watches as she holds the bug up and shows her granddaughter, and then the security guard. I’m not grossed out because I find praying mantises fascinating and I wonder how he ended up here. I don’t think Target is their natural habitat.

I scan my internal database, trying to remember what other information I have on praying mantises. I know they eat roaches and gnats, and as I take in the overflowing garbage cans in the food court area, I suspect that’s the answer to my
Why here?
question. I once read that they hiss, pinch, and bite when pissed off, which is probably why I like them. We’re kindred spirits.

Aren’t they a protected species, too? I vaguely recall a story once about a family keeping one as an exotic pet somewhere Asia-y. Aren’t they supposed to be good luck? Or, like, a good sign? One time I was visiting my brother and sister-in-law and their kids and I spotted a praying mantis on their front porch. I warned my niece and nephews to leave it alone because it was a “good” kind of bug. Then I tried to nudge a soccer ball out of the way so one of the kids didn’t inadvertently kick it into the mantis and I accidentally did just that. The sickening crunch could be heard all the way to the mailbox, and I felt so bad. Not long after, I got laid off.

While I ponder the coincidence of the gruesome mantis death and the end of my career in corporate communications, my sinuses and throat begin to tingle and I can feel a massive sneeze coming on, and . . .
a-choo
! The force of my sneeze causes me to bend over so quickly, the paltry little snaps on my shorts give out and the zipper flies open.

It takes me a second to realize why there’s a breeze where thick cotton khaki should be. Or once was.

Apparently my pants, without the benefit of the excess rolls of fat, and due to the laws of gravity, have fallen down.

Me.

Pants.

Off.

In the middle of goddamned Target.

Daytime talk shows often feature these grizzled old topless dancers telling their stories about having fallen into a life of stripping accidentally. I figured they were full of shit, not ever realizing, until this moment, that it’s possible to unintentionally strip. Good thing I don’t have on that stupid racer-back bra or impossible-to-keep-buttoned madras-plaid shirt, or I’d really be in trouble. I mean, one minute I’d be all queued up for a latte, and one sneeze later, I’d be guilty of public indecency. Me, the person who has trouble even saying
n-a-k-e-d
. The gal who locks the bathroom door even when she’s home alone. The chick who never once skinny-dipped in her pool in the twenty-seven years her parents owned that home.

So here I am, standing with my shorts about midthigh and my baggy striped underwear waving hello to all the fellow coffee lovers.

And not a single person notices.

Thank God everyone’s attention is focused on Abuela Entomology and no one sees me with my pants down, nor do they see me yanking my shorts back up. One knobby green bug just saved me from never being able to walk into that Target again.

Two things to note here: (1) from now on, I’m definitely counting the praying mantis as a good-luck charm, and (2) it’s time to buy smaller pants.

I’m speed walking to the park in order to arrive before lap swim begins. When I got in my car a few minutes ago, I noticed our street was blocked with construction. Fletch isn’t home and I don’t want to miss or delay my workout, especially since I’m going to Stacey’s house later. The park isn’t far, so the easiest thing to do is walk.

The streets are still so smoldering from the day that my Crocs go a bit soft, almost like they’re melting into it. That water’s going to feel extranice tonight. Because it’s so warm, I’ve forgone my usual T-shirt over my bathing suit. This is the first time I’ve left my house sans sleeves since the nineties. What liberation! I have abdicated wearing shirts! (At least for the next hour.) I’ve also got on a pair of mesh gym shorts, I’m wearing goggles around my neck, and my towel is looped around my shoulders, so you can’t really see my naked shoulders, but they are indeed bare.

I cut through the playground and I’m getting close to the field house at the pool when I hear someone behind me. “Hey! Hey! Hey, lady!” I stop in my tracks, spin around, and come face-to-top-of-the-head with a small woman dressed in a dirty-tennis-ball yellow tank top.

“I’m sorry, were you talking to me?” I ask, an eye toward the pool. The lifeguards are going to open it up for lap swim any minute now, and I want to make sure I’m ready to go when they do. Last night I made it up to twenty-nine laps in the allotted time, and I’m dying to see if I can do thirty tonight.

“Yes, lady. I want to tell you I . . . like your towel.” I peer at this woman, taking in her wild eyes, filthy hair, and the tiny red bull’s-eyes all over her spindly arms, shoulders, and legs. She’s heroin chic, minus the chic.

“You like my towel? You stopped me because you were desperate to tell me you like
this
?” I hold up the battered piece of terrycloth. My mom bought this towel in South Carolina ten years ago. White and now almost threadbare, the towel sports a faded blue dolphin and the words MYRTLE BEACH stitched onto the end. The only reason I’m using it is that all my other beach towels are dirty because I’ve been swimming so often. I had to dig it out of the top of my closet and fend off Fletch’s attempt to turn it into a car-polishing rag.

“Yeah . . . it’s nice.” Although it’s broiling out here, the woman is shivering and clutching her elbows.
¹⁷⁴

“Quick question—is there any chance you might be moving to Wheaton in the next year or two?”

She looks confused. “Um . . . no?”

“How about Saint Charles?”

"Where?”

“Geneva? Batavia? North Aurora, home of the new mall that features a Kate Spade outlet store?”
¹⁷⁵

Now she’s shivering and confused. “Kate who?”

“Tell me, do you have family out in the western suburbs you might visit, say, in downtown Naperville or one of the surrounding lower-cost subdivisions? Maybe whichever one is filled with starter homes?”

“What?”

“Glen Ellyn? Downers Grove? Lisle?” She shakes her head in response to my rapid-fire line of questioning. “All right then; sounds like you’re not going to be my neighbor anytime soon, so let’s cut to the chase here.”

“OK?”

I take a deep breath and begin my assault, pointing a still-somewhat -plump finger. “You didn’t stop me because you like my towel. You stopped me because you want me to give you something for no other reason than the fact you’re standing there. Number one, I’m not giving you a dime so you can continue slowly killing yourself, and number two, even if I were to take pity on you—which I’m not—I’m wearing a bathing suit and running shorts. Where exactly do you think I’d be storing my Money for Junkies fund? In the coin purse up my ass?”

“No, I . . . I . . . ,” she stammers.

A bead of sweat rolls off my forehead, down the side of my face, and into my cleavage. Yuck. “Listen, you: I’m hot, I want to swim, and if there’s no chance you’re going to be living next door, I’m not obligated to try and be nice to you. This newfound-maturity thing? Even I have my limits. This conversation is going to end with me giving you exactly nothing except for the advice that you grow up and start taking care of yourself. OK? Bye!” I hear the whistle blow, and I sprint to the locker room in the field house.

I throw my old glasses and shorts into a locker and dash out to the pool. When I get there, I see a small tennis-ball-colored blob on the other side of the fence. “Hey, lady!” the blob calls. “Lady! Hey! You’re a . . . you’re a fat bitch!”

I study my reflection in the clear blue water beneath me. Despite all this dieting and working out, I’m not yet thin. As a matter of fact, many parts of me are still pretty thick. My arms could be smaller, my legs more toned, and my stomach less bloat-y. There’s no longer an ass-teau behind me, yet I’m not even close to having a shapely little melon butt. My cheeks are round, and my wrists are far from dainty.

But I can carry laundry up two flights of stairs, and I can run for the phone or on a treadmill.

I don’t sweat when I eat anymore, and when I do eat, it’s not cookies for dinner.

My blood pressure is now normal, my cholesterol is out of the danger zone, and I don’t even have to take Ambien, because obesity no longer causes my insomnia. And my doctor doesn’t hand me a death sentence when I walk in her door anymore.

I laugh in the direction of the fence and adjust my swim goggles before replying, “No, honey. I’m a
fit
bitch. You don’t know it, but there’s an ocean of difference.”

And then I dive in.