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 (7 page)

When Dr. Awesome enters, I tell her all about my arm pains. After a few questions and possibly some whining on my part, she rules out cardiac infarctions and theorizes that the numbness and tingling are much more likely due to carpal tunnel syndrome or pinched nerves in my elbows.

Oh. Well . . . good.

The doctor begins to narrow down potential causes. “Have you had any changes in your activities in the last month, like maybe taking up tennis?”

“I would never chase balls,” I say solemnly, in my nod to all things Cher Horowitz.
⁵²
“I have been reading a lot of
In-Style
in the bathtub, though. It’s their holiday issue, so it’s pretty thick. Do you think that’s the problem? I could switch to a lighter magazine.”

With a quick frown, she continues. “How much time do you spend on the computer?”

“Hmm . . . ,” I say, mulling over the question. The honest answer
is, I cruise the Internet almost every waking moment because the world is anxiously awaiting my expert opinion on all things Tori Spelling and it would be selfish of me not to share it. Oh, that is, except when I’m busy watching TiVo’d episodes of
The Real World: Denver.
And by the way? All the snow dumped on Colorado recently? That was totally God’s way of punishing them for this season’s utterly contemptible cast.

“I’d say maybe an hour or so.”

The interrogation continues, and the doctor pokes, prods, and manipulates my limbs and soon determines the problem. Apparently I bend my arms too much, and to make them stop tingling, I have to remember to straighten them out more often. Dr. Awesome suggests I get wrist guards and also wrap my elbows in Ace bandages, inserting a pen or a ruler as a brace so I’m not tempted to crook them unnecessarily.

Yes.

This is officially the dumbest reason I have ever sought medical treatment, thus displacing the time the squirrel bit me. Fortunately, I
finally
convinced her to prescribe me some Ambien to help me sleep, so I feel as though I’ve accomplished something.

The trade-off is that Dr. Awesome wants to revisit the whole blood pressure business, and she orders a battery of tests. First up? Blood work!

Jen’s Life Lessons #5644-5647: (5644) Those who think I’m a baby about being weighed have obviously never tried to extract any of my fluids; (5645) if Nurse Badonkadonk thought she disliked me before, she had another thing coming; (5646) I’m fat everywhere
except
my veins; and (5647) snappy retorts in the manner of
“Heh; this is why I’m not a heroin addict!”
only serve to prompt more needle-based digging in both my arms. Eventually the nurse has to tap a vein
in my hand
, ignoring my suggestion that perhaps my blood would rather just stay inside me, where it belongs.

Now I’m off to another room for an echocardiogram. Dr. Awesome promises my heart is fine and says this test is just a precaution. I’ve had one of these before, so I’m not as much of a nancy pants about it. Nothing about it is painful, except the thought of someone seeing me
n-a-k-e-d
. As I strip from the waist up, I examine the computer system in here. There’s a small webcam on top of the monitor, and according to the screen saver, it’s used for facial recognition log-in. So cutting-edge! Unfortunately the camera broadcasts whatever it sees onto the screen, and I accidentally turn in front of it while struggling to get out of my bra. I’m treated to an extreme close-up of my own bare rack, and the first thought in my head is
Worst. Porno. Ever.

I put on the flimsy cover-up and engage in more hand cleaning. This time I use the office’s scrub sink, finishing with a couple of generous squirts of their sanitizer. When the nurse returns, she covers me with a bunch of stickers and attaches electrodes all over my arms and chest, including
way
underneath my left
b-o-o-b
and down my legs. I laugh about being glad I shaved and she ignores me. Ugh. One paper gown later and I’m suddenly Henny Youngman. I’m embarrassed for me. No wonder she’s not a fan.

The test is over quickly, and before the nurse leaves, she tells me that there are ten sticky electrodes on me and I can peel them off myself. I search and search but can find only nine. The last one’s probably stuck behind an errant
b-r-e-a-s-t
. Yeah, really looking forward to that twisted little Easter egg hunt when I get home.

Now I have to go next door to the radiology center for chest X-rays. Again I’m required to strip to the waist. Aarrggh. Aren’t they using, like,
lasers
or something? What’s the difference between seeing through my polo shirt and sensible bra and seeing through a gown of the same thickness? As long as they note that the little alligator-shaped blob over my heart is a logo and not a tumor, what’s the big deal?

My argument falls on deaf ears. The technician excuses herself while I disrobe
again
, and when I’m done, I lie on the big table in front of a large donut-y tube with my book until she returns.

"Ma’am? This is a
chest X-ray
. You have to stand over there,” she says. “And naked from the waist up means you have to remove your pearls.”

Pfft
. Not in my world, lady.

I comply and hold as still as I can while she snaps images from behind the big shield. As I hug the chilly metal plate, it strikes me that this is yet another wake-up call. I hate anything vaguely medical, and everything I’m doing today has been garden-variety and relatively noninvasive. What if I really were having a heart attack yesterday and not just an adverse reaction to compulsively looking at cat pictures online?

What if my bad, lazy habits cause heart disease or a stroke? How will I handle going through the related (and braless) medical procedures? Shoot, I’m afraid of getting BriteSmile and Botox—there’s no way I’ll have the fortitude to deal with something real like a stroke or cancer. Although I like to think of myself as tough, my actions today speak volumes. There’s a world of difference between shouting at people in traffic and facing a wasting disease with dignity and maturity. I mean, I lost my shit over standing on a scale. What if something were really wrong?

When we’re done and I’m dressed and sanitized again, I keep replaying the day’s unpleasantness while I head to my car. I’ve lacked the motivation to do something about my weight because I’ve been convinced I both look and feel good.

I’m starting to wonder if I’m not operating on a false premise here. Honestly, maybe I
don’t
feel all that great. I get winded carrying laundry up from the basement. And I sort of don’t like bending because it makes my pulse throb. Walking from the parking lot to the store shouldn’t be a challenge, right?

Thoughts racing, I unlock the car and climb in. I suspect if I were living a life where I truly felt good, the possibility of a heart attack wouldn’t have crossed my mind yesterday.

But it did.

Shit, I can’t have a heart attack. Heart attacks happen to
old
people. And how can I be
old
—I’m still breaking out on my chin, for Christ’s sake. Yeah, I’m going to be forty, but forty is the new thirty! Forty should be about buying a house and a snappy new car, not about interviewing private nurses and buying hospital beds.

This is all wrong. How did I even get here?

I place my hand on the gearshift and notice a small black smudge near my knuckle. I rub it, but it doesn’t go away. I’m so distracted by the swirling vortex of thoughts, I
lick
the offending spot to remove it.

Uh-oh.
That’s
going to cost me. Ten bucks says I’m about to come down with a serious case of Hand-Lick Fever. Outstanding. Can’t wait to hear what Dr. Awesome has to say about
this
bit of stupidity, as I’m sure I’ll be back with flulike symptoms in the next week. I artfully dodged her on my way out of the office, so I spared myself the tail end of the Why You Should Be Less Fat Lecture, Part Infinity . . . at least this time.

As I pull into the garage, I lift my gigantic handbag out of the car and feel the same tingling numbness in my arm. I swap the bag over to the other side and the same thing happens. I calculate and realize I’ve been carrying this heavy-ass bag
exactly
as long as I’ve had the arm pain.

Today just keeps getting better and better!

After I recover from my bout of the flu, I decide I prefer being healthy and feeling good, if only because I’m not spending my disposable income on medical supplies. This time it was just Kleenex and Vicks VapoRub, but who knows the expenses heart problems entail?

Changes must be made.

But the only way I’m going to be able to enable change is if I get a real measure of where I’m starting. In my head I know how much I weigh, but I should probably hop on the scale to confirm it.

Clad in only my underwear, I loom in front of my scale for fifteen minutes. Each time I place a toe on it, my whole foot jerks back as though the scale’s on fire.

Try as I might, I can’t bring myself to stand on it.

Shit.

I
have
to weigh myself to get a baseline measurement so I can track my progress . . . or do I?

The bathroom is directly off the room I use for my home office, and when I glance at my desk, I notice my digital camera. I quickly put on a pair of Lycra workout pants and sports bra and yank my hair out of its ponytail. I apply a sparkly coat of lip gloss, contour my cheeks with a dark blush, and don my favorite string of pearls because I’m going to document my weight loss
photographically
! This is genius, especially with the advent of digital cameras, because it means no pockmarked teenager can make fun of me from the confines of his or her photo-developing booth. And how great will it be to arrange all the pictures together once I’m done, like a flip-book? I’ll call it
The Incredible Shrinking Jen
!

To begin, I have to figure out where I should stand and how to work the camera’s timer, but before I do I take a long, hard look at myself in the mirror.

I look . . . nice.

My teeth are superwhite,
⁵³
my hair is bouncy, and if I saw me on the street, I’d totally think I was cute. If I were single, guys would want to date me because I wouldn’t be the kind of pain in the ass who orders the lobster, takes a bite, and declares herself full. Clean-plate club, baby!

Sure, there are a couple little lines around my eyes, but they’re small and positioned in such a way that when I smile, they enhance my grin rather than detract from it. Moving down, I can’t see the collarbones I worried so much about in my composite photo anymore, but at this point I imagine everyone ’s tired of looking at starving starlets’ clavicles on the cover of
Us Weekly
, so this is no great loss.
⁵⁴

My shoulders are broad, and I look like someone who doesn’t need the bag boy’s assistance getting her groceries to the car, thank you very much, even if my arms aren’t as round as I’d like. My chest is well proportioned to my frame, and I imagine with a few less pounds and the right corset, I could dress up as the St. Pauli Girl next Halloween. (That is, if I didn’t detest costumes.) And sure, gravity’s been a bitch, but that’s why I invest in good bras.

Then there’s my stomach, where much of my weight is carried. I should hate it, but it’s smooth and brown and solid, kind of like . . . a perfectly baked loaf of bread. And who hates bread? Certainly not me! Yeah, my midriff is
fat
, but it’s not blobby, dimpled, rippling fat. It’s . . .
pretty
fat, if that’s possible.

I continue my inspection, and I get to my hips and butt. I’m not a fan of my new ass-teau, but it’s behind me, so it’s not like I have to look at it all day, and besides, that’s why God invented girdles. Plus, it’s proportionate to the rest of my body, which I much prefer to being pear-shaped. Everyone likes apples more than pears.

I take in my legs next. They are, in a word, powerful. My father was thisclose to being a professional football player, and I’ve inherited his fantastic legs. They’ve never been slender or dainty; rather, they’re incredibly well muscled. Sure, once you get north of my knees they’re squashy, but my calves look strong enough to win any ass-kicking contest.

Smiling at my reflection, I give my hair another good shake before placing the camera on my makeup table. I set it and pose in front of the chocolate brown doors to my bedroom closet. Using my best posture, I suck in my gut and tilt my head slightly down and to the side in order to capture the best light. I hold the pose for another ten seconds until I see the flash go off.

I check the camera’s display, but it’s so small and blurry, I can’t see anything. However, if my initial assessment is on target, I bet I look pretty good. Shoot; maybe I should consider plus-sized modeling. After all, I’ve got the clichéd such-a -pretty-face—maybe I could even make a few bucks? Or possibly get free clothes? Or
handbags
!

Sometimes they have famous plus models visit the girls on
America’s Next Top Model
. How cool would that be? I love both Mr. Jay and Miss J., and Tyra Banks would so want to be my best friend, even if I will have to break it to her that she is
not
the new Oprah. But friends are obligated to tell each other the truth, right? We could drink margaritas together and eat ribs and then drop by Miss Janice Dickinson’s house, where the fun would really begin!

Anxious to begin my television career, I rush back into my office to download the photo. I can barely sit still while my computer takes its sweet time. Come on; come on!

After what feels like hours, the image appears on my monitor. It’s showtime!

And . . . now all I want to know is this: how the
fuck
did Jabba the Hutt get into my bedroom, and why is he wearing my pearls?

So now I don’t feel good
or
look good.