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 (9 page)

“Really? You were so gung ho. What happened?”

I hear her take a deep breath. “A Russian family just moved in next door. They were busy unpacking, so I had my kids shovel their sidewalk. To thank us, they brought over this incredible homemade date-nut bread, and it would have been rude of me to not serve it and share some coffee with them, so I broke the fast.”

“Well, I figured drinking nothing but cayenne-pepper water would get old pretty fast. How much did you lose before you ate the bread?”

Another long pause. “None.”

“All that effort for nothing? That sucks. How long were you on it?”

“Um . . . about three hours.”

“Ang, that’s not a fast; that’s skipping breakfast.”

Before she can reply, I hear a sweet little voice in the background say, “Your barn door is open!” before collapsing into a fit of giggles.

“I take it James is home from preschool?” I ask.

“Yep. Someone taught him that last week, and he’s been saying it nonstop. It’s like the funniest thing he’s ever heard. That’s the great thing about little kids—you can tell them the oldest, most hackneyed knock-knock joke, and they think you’re Seinfeld. Anyway, you’ve got to go, and I have to make the little guy soup and a sandwich. Have a good workout!”

“Talk later!” I say, removing my headset.

But I’m not going to have a good workout.

Because all I can think about right now are tomato soup, grilled cheese sandwiches, and buttered date-nut bread. I hate Atkins so damn much.

I’m getting pretty tired of my routine at the gym. Every time I go, it’s the same thing. First, I walk on the treadmill for a while. I try to spice it up by reading a trashy book, as those tend to hold my interest best. Sure, I’d love to improve my mind and body at the same time, but it’s hard for me to concentrate on Dostoyevsky
and
not falling on my ass, you know? My goal is to work hard enough that I get a little triangle of sweat in the V of my T-shirt, which generally takes about half an hour. If I’m feeling adventurous, I might crank up the incline to three or four, but not for terribly long because I don’t like to feel it in my shins.

After the treadmill, I hit the elliptical machine, which requires even more hand-eye coordination, thus no books. My gym has four big plasma-screen televisions, but I can’t read the subtitles while I’m bobbing up and down like a big, fat, well-groomed piston. I do the elliptical for as long as I can stand; unfortunately, it’s only about five minutes at a time, not only because I have no energy but also because I’m bored. The problem is, I normally think I’m the most fascinating person ever to don a pair of Air Nikes, but the second I hit the elliptical, every interesting thought I ever had exits stage left to hang out at the juice bar until I’m done. I wonder if I get an iPod, will my workouts improve? I try to finish up the session on the bike, but only if one’s available. Although my gym has a ton of bikes, only two are recumbent. Since the pointy little seats on the other bikes remind me of that awful scene from
Caligula
, I refuse to ride them.
⁶²
Exit only, thanks.

In an effort to wake up my fitness regime, I try something different. Since I’d rather be
s-o-d-o-m-i-z-e-d
by a bike seat than go to an actual exercise class with real, live people who have the ability to point and laugh, I check out the cached videos that come as part of my cable service. Honestly, I’ve never even accessed this screen before, but as I do, I am pleasantly surprised. My gosh, there are so many choices here! Tae Bo and toning and thin thighs in minutes! Pilates and power core and walking with weights! I can even work out with the Girls Next Door (from Hef ’s harem), but I’m kind of wary of the exercise they might have me do. My concern is
not
how my Kegel muscles look in a swimsuit, you know?

I click through the listings and finally settle on yoga. Everyone likes yoga, right? I see all the stars in my gossip magazines trotting to class lugging their mats . . . which I’ll admit bugs me. Couldn’t the yoga center provide nice, squashy, sanitized mats as part of the price of admission? Or couldn’t folks like Gwyneth Paltrow and Madonna task one of their minions to carry them? Regardless, the idea of having longer, stronger, more flexible muscles appeals, and there’s the whole Zen aspect of it, too. I’m starting to feel Fletch’s job stress, and if I can’t relax myself, how am I supposed to help him stay calm?

I select the video and press PLAY. I’m ready with my own nonskid yoga mat, yoga straps, and yoga blocks, all laid out perpendicular to the (yoga) television. I’m wearing my yoga pants, and since I don’t have a yoga top, I just threw on one of my big Champion workout tees. I light a couple of sweet-smelling candles in order to make the room more ambient, and draw the curtains. Then I undraw the curtains because it’s too dark, plus it’s the middle of the afternoon on a Thursday and we’ve already received the mail. Unless anyone comes to the door—which isn’t happening—no one from the street can see me.

OK, let’s begin. The video’s new age-y instructor starts with deep breathing. She’s all ropey and leathery. For someone who’s supposed to be a paragon of fitness, her body certainly looks like a bendy strip of beef jerky. Whoops, wait; I forgot to breathe while I was snickering. Yes. Let’s breathe! Breathing is nice. In. Out. In. Out. I’m “scooping out my abs” and “pressing into my sitting bones,” which I assume means “suck” and “tuck.” In. Out. Look at the rise and fall of my chest. In. Out. In. Out. The instructor wants me to really
feel
my breath. (What does that mean, exactly?) In. Out. Innnnnnn. Ouuuuuuuut. Very nice. She says I’m getting rid of my toxins. Lovely! Perhaps I can breathe out all the wine I accidentally drank last night when I forgot I was on Atkins.

And I was so close to getting to level two, damn it.

Innnnnn. Ouuuuuuut. Terrific. That bottle of wine is practically evaporating every time I exhale. There’s some whale music playing in the background, and combined with the sugar-cookie-scented candle, it makes the whole room feel entirely pleasant. Look at me, breathing with the best of them!

Time to stop sitting on the floor? Alrighty. I use the couch to help hoist myself up. (There may or may not be some grunting involved here.) So, now I’m supposed to do some sort of flop-over-type move. With my legs in a V, I lunge forward with the instruction to “open up my chest,” which . . . gross. How’s the idea of my splayed chest cavity supposed to be relaxing? Ick. I lunge and splay, lunge and splay, being careful to stay centered, which I’m interpreting as “don’t tip over.”

We move on to a pose called Warrior. I like that.
Warrior
. Yes, I am a warrior and my enemy is Fat! I shall splay
your
chest cavity, Fat! Look at me, lifting my pelvic floor!
⁶³
Lift, lunge, lift, lunge, to the sky, to the sky. Yogi Beef Jerky says I’m supposed to feel the nature swirling within as I tuck my tailbone. Huh. All I feel right now is the Riesling swirling within. I’m going to have a hard time vanquishing Fat if I accidentally spew semisweet German wine.

We’re on to Downward-Facing Dog. Dumb name. I guarantee you my dogs have never stood on the tips of all their paws, arching their ample rumps in the air. You want a dog pose? Then either wipe your mouth on my pretty pink bedspread or drag your butt across a freshly steam-cleaned carpet. Actually, this pose looks way more like the way my cats stretch, right before they run to the basement to poop in a box and then dash back up to walk all over my counters. (The stretch cool-down includes napping on my cashmere sweaters, with sharpening claws on the new couch optional.)

Perhaps there
is
something to calling this move Downward -Facing Dog, because not only have Maisy and Loki woken up, but they’re fighting over who gets to lick me on the face while I press into the floor with my hands and feet. I push them away, and they come right back at me with cold, wet noses. Shove and extend. Shove and extend. Extend . . . extend . . . and
Aaah! Stop fucking goosing me!

I have to pause the video while I corral the dogs in the other room. They howl in protest, and I tell them they are harshing my mellow and Yogi Beef Jerky’s going to be pissed. I rewind and get myself into Downward-Facing Dog. Damn, this is
hard
. It uses all my nonexistent push-up muscles, and I’m totally shaking as I try to hold the pose, made a jillion times more difficult because my big cottony T-shirt keeps bunching up around my head and suffocating me. Push and extend and spit out cotton, the fabric of our lives. Frustrated, I finally rip the whole damn shirt off and throw it across the room, leaving me in nothing but yoga pants and a particularly ugly bra covered in faded pink cabbage roses.

I’m just about finished with Downward-Facing Dog when I hear a noise that makes my blood freeze. No, it’s not the crack of a gunshot or the tinkle of an ice cream truck; it’s the sound of feet clattering up my front steps. Before I can pull myself up, I come face-to-ass with the UPS delivery man, and I peer at him shirtless, backward, and upside down from between my legs, over the spare tire that is forcing my cabbage-rose-clad rack up around my neck, and through my uncurtained window.

And this? Right here? Is why I hate exercise.

The UPS driver turns ten thousand shades of red and drops the huge box, sprinting away from the door and required signature. He’s already down my street and back on the expressway in the seconds it takes me to stand up and throw on my shirt.

Mortified but curious, I open the door and bring in the box. It’s about the size of a coffee table, and it’s addressed to me from . Huh. I don’t remember ordering anything recently. The reserves from my royalty check are dwindling, and I’ve been really, really careful about spending money. I enter the kitchen, pushing aside the doggie gate, releasing the beasts, who promptly show their gratitude with more goosing.

I root through the junk drawer until I find a box cutter. I slit the box open along the seam and . . .

Aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!

Head!

Box!

In!

There’s a motherfucking human head inside this box!

Which means a serial killer read about my fear of lifting a toilet seat and finding a severed head and
he’s sent me one
!

I am too freaked out right now to figure out how he’d (a) get my address and (b) convince Amazon to ship this to me. Sweet Jesus, a head,
a head
, oh, my God, I’m going to diiiiiiiiiiiiieeeee!

The room gets dark and spinny and I feel my knees go out underneath me. I grab on to the box as I go down, and right before I hit the floor, I spot a soothingly familiar shade of pink.

Wait.

Severed heads aren’t pink.

With sparkly earrings.

And golden blond tresses.

And shimmery rose pink lip gloss.

Upon closer inspection, I realize it’s not a human head at all. It’s a Barbie Fashion Fever Grow ’N Style hair-styling head.

What the ... ?

How did ... ?

I pace around the kitchen, gingerly holding the head at arm’s length as I work out the details. I scan the receipt and see that it was me who ordered this, but I have no memory of that. I check the date on the order and cross-reference it with the white-board calendar we keep on our fridge.

Wait a sec; I ordered this the day I started on Ambien. Dr. Awesome did warn me about rare instances of people sleep-eating and sleep-driving while on Ambien, but she said nothing about sleep-Barbie-ing. At the moment I’m almost grateful at being busted by the UPS guy while doing downward-facing flab-hang, because this? Is
way
more embarrassing.

I stuff the box in the little den off the kitchen, saving all the packing receipts so I can send the damn thing back. I mean, really; I’m almost forty—what the hell am I possibly going to do with a
Barbie head
?

After taking another Ambien last night, I wake up in the guest room again this morning, and notice that
someone
during the night has not only retrieved and unpacked the Barbie head, but also styled her with a big back-combed updo, thick black eyeliner, off-white lipstick, and a Pucci-style head wrap.

Well, how about that?

My shame looks exactly like Nancy Sinatra.

TO: angie_at_home

FROM: [email protected]

SUBJECT: To carb or not to carb, that is the question

Hey,

Help me out—I’m trying to figure out whether or not I should shitcan Atkins and try something new. Here’s what I’ve come up with by way of pros and cons.

PRO QUITTING ATKINS :

100% less crying when Fletch eats a plate of cookies and a glass of milk

Having my veins filled with blood again and not just bacon grease

Peeing in the toilet rather than on my hand while holding a ketosis stick

Using the same soiled hand to cover up my stinky ketosis breath

Booze, sweet, sweet booze

Not having the urge to primal scream when encountering once-beloved cheese counter

All things french fried, cottage fried, waffled fried, mashed, scalloped, au gratined, hash browned, totted, boiled, chipped, Lyonnaised, puffed, broiled, parsleyed, and baked

CON QUITTING ATKINS :

[crickets]

[crickets]

Yeah, that’s what I thought.

But if I end Atkins, then what do I try?

Jen

P.S. Three more Barbies arrived in the mail today. WTF is wrong with me?

CHAPTER SEVEN

I Wish I Could Quit You, Olive Garden

’m heading to New York tomorrow for some meetings, and I’m almost beside myself with anxiety. The thing is, I’m not worried about my appointments even though they’re important. Rather, I’ve spent the last week agonizing over the flight. I’m particularly nervous this time since I haven’t flown anywhere for about four years. Intellectually I understand I’m much safer “up there” than on the road and can quote the stats inside and out. The issue is that I’ve yet to convince my central nervous system that I’m not going to die in that aluminum tube; hence, terror sweat.

I used to handle flying just fine, but that was before a plane I was on ran out of gas and we had to make an emergency landing at Midway because we couldn’t make it to O’Hare.
⁶⁴
Touching down to refuel at a different airport didn’t scare me—what did was seeing the line of ambulances and fire trucks lined up waiting to extinguish/resuscitate us. I was also on a flight where we made an unscheduled stop because the passenger right behind me had a heart attack, and I’ve experienced turbulence so rough the flight attendants cried, so at this point I’m a bit surprised when any flight goes as planned.
⁶⁵

Naturally, I’ve driven Fletch crazy with my constant obsessing.

“Hey, honey?”

Fletch glances up from the eggs he’s poaching on the stove. Ugh, eggs. I can barely stand them anymore. I’ve eaten so goddamned many eggs, it’s only a matter of time until I grow feathers and a beak. “What’s up?” he asks.

“I’m worried about the flight.”

He struggles to remain patient. “Really,” he states. “Why this time? Is it because you’re not sure you can take out a terrorist by swinging your heavy purse at him, or are you back on the I’m-worried-we’re-going-to-crash-in-the-Andes-and -the-other-passengers-will-want-to-eat-me thing from yesterday?”

Admittedly, I may have been more than a tad fixated on this for the past few days.

“Well, yes, of course I’m still worried about those things. But what occurred to me this morning
really
terrifies me. What if I’ve gained so much weight since I last flew that my seat belt doesn’t buckle and the stewardess has to give me one of those extenders? Or, oh, God, worse yet, what if the employee at the check-in desk takes one look at me and says,
I’m sorry, ma’am; you’re going to have to buy a second seat to get on this flight.
Then I really will die. From shame.”

Fletch switches off the burner, covers the sauté pan, and sits down across the table from me. He takes my hand and gazes lovingly into my eyes. “I’m just curious,” he says. “At what point did you lose your fucking mind?”

“What do you mean?”

“Up until recently, you were the most confident person I knew. You’re the one who says everyone else is too thin and you’re just right. Now that you’re actually losing weight, you’re completely fixated on body image, and you never were before. Doesn’t make any sense.”

I consider this for a few moments before responding. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s because before I started dieting, I never thought about my weight or what I ate.”

“If you keep obsessing, you’re ultimately going to fail because no matter how much weight you lose, you will never think you’re thin enough. That’s a recipe for unhappiness right there. Anorexia, too.”

I snort. “From your lips to God’s ears.”

All right, all right; I’m aware that eating disorders are diseases and people die from them and they’re no laughing matter. They’re scary, and so many young women legitimately suffer. In my own circle of friends, I’ve seen lives ruined in the relentless pursuit of perfection, and it’s so sad. But, still . . . could I please have one for a week or so? Just to get a nice start? Back in the day when I briefly considered bulimia, I could never bring myself to stick my fingers down my throat. I tried to do it mentally by picturing greasy liver and onions served in a dirty ashtray, but my imagination’s not that good. I was all about the binge, but I could never master the purge.

Fletch sighs and returns to cooking. Taking a slotted spoon from the ceramic crock next to the stove, he gingerly picks up each egg, pausing to let the water drain. “I’m serious, Jen. You’ve got to be a little more Zen about everything. Give yourself credit for the progress you’ve made and you’re going to feel much better. Ditto on flying. Get a grip—everything is going to be fine.”

He plates up our food—I’m having Atkins-approved poached eggs with a side of Canadian bacon, and he’s eating the same thing, except he’s also having a side of multigrain French toast. I watch as he puts a neat little pat of the extra-rich European butter on each slice, and then covers the stack with pure maple syrup. He heated the syrup first, so the butter melts instantly and the heady combination begins to ooze down the side of the toast. I feel myself salivate as he slices into his first bite, and my eyes follow the trajectory of his fork from plate to mouth and back again. I would kick kittens for one small taste right about now.
⁶⁶

Fletch notices me staring at his breakfast with naked lust. “I’m sorry—do you and my French toast need a moment alone?”

God, I am the worst dieter ever. Here I am on a plan that allows, nay,
insists
on plenty of protein and enough volume to never feel hungry, yet all I want is the six-month-old frost-laden French toast Fletch found at the back of the freezer. Even though I’d be allowed to eat ten rib eyes or an entire wheel of Tillamook cheddar, I would give up my favorite triple-strand pearl necklace to drink the syrup puddle on his plate.

“No, no; I’m fine.”

“Excellent.” He continues to tuck in to the stack.

“Hey, it looks like there’s a light powdering of cinnamon and sugar on the crust.”

He turns his plate to examine its contents. “Yeah, I guess there is. Now, what else do you have to do before you leave? You have your ticket, and your hotel is confirmed?”

“Yep. Everything’s set, and I’m even done packing. All I have to do in the morning is stash my makeup in my carry-on. ” I pause to choke down a bite of my Canadian bacon. “Is that as good as it looks?” I gesture toward his plate.

Fletch raises a beleaguered eyebrow at me. “No. It’s kind of stale, if you want to know the truth.” He takes another bite, and a bit of butter-syrup drips off the side. I feel something on the side of my mouth, and I think I may actually be drooling. Shameful. “Are you looking forward to tomorrow? This is your first trip back to New York in how long?”

“Six years.” I break the yellow part of my poached egg and make yoke swirls with my knife. “So, your French toast . . . is it, um, lightly crunchy on the outside but all soft and warm inside?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Anyway, what’s the plan? You land at LaGuardia, take a cab into the city, and then what?”

“I check into the hotel, and then I go to my publisher’s office to meet up with my editor and publicist. And then we’re all going to go out for drinks with my agent.” I’m going on a temporary Atkins vacation while I’m there, but I’m totally going to watch my fat and calories.

“You know where yet?”

“No.” I gaze longingly as Fletch dips a piece of Canadian bacon into Lake Deliciousness, its sweetness providing what I’m sure is a wonderful contrast to the ham’s saltiness. “How’s the European butter in combination with the syrup? Would you say it’s a flavor party in your mouth and everyone’s invited? Is it richer and nuttier than regular butter?”

He lays down his fork in disgust. “The only thing nutty in this kitchen right now is you. Here.” He slides his plate over to my side of the table. “Have a bite if you want it, but if you don’t, then stop grilling me. Either way, we’re going to have a conversation that doesn’t include carbohydrates, agreed?”

“I’m sorry; I’m sorry. I won’t say another word, I promise. ” I slide his plate back over to him . . . after I decide against licking it.

“What else is on your mind?” he asks gently.

“Other than imagining myself hurtling to the ground in a flaming metal shell and landing on a desert island with Kate, Jack, Sawyer, and Locke, and . . . Hey! Come back! I promise to stop.”

Reluctantly, Fletch returns from the living room, but now he’s got his laptop with him. He’s working from home today because he wanted to spend a little more time with me before I left. I bet he’s regretting that decision right now.

“I am never discussing plane crashes with you again. Or bread,” he says.

“I can’t—”

“Not pumpernickel, not rye, not seven grain, not hot-cross buns. Understood?”

“Bread is all I think about.”

“
You must stop Atkins.
Every time you’re on it, you make everyone around you crazy and you gain back more than you lost.”

“This is the last time, I swear. I need its quick success before I go tomorrow. When I get back on Saturday, I’m going to start cooking meals from the Weight Watchers cook-book. ”

“Sounds reasonable. I went through it, and I like a lot of what they suggest. Are you going to join, too?”

“Ugh. No way. The last goddamned thing I want to do is sit around and listen to people talk about their
feeelings
about birthday cake.”

“Yet you’ve discussed nothing but your fear of death and donuts around here for the past three days.”

“Oh, please; this is totally different. Remember when I went to Weight Watchers when we lived in Lincoln Park?” I ask.

Fletch taps something out on the keyboard of his BlackBerry.

Mmm . . . berries.

“Not really, no.”

“About ten years ago? Remember? I wanted to shake off the twenty pounds I’d gained since graduation?”

“Not ringing any bells.”

“I went because my friend Terri in New Orleans was doing Weight Watchers at the time and she really liked it. Remember? She dropped quite a bit of weight and was still able to go out for drinks occasionally, so I thought,
Hey, sign me up
. I went and it was kind of ridiculous. Seemed like everyone in the meeting blamed their weight on someone else, and the entire discussion centered on how evil it was when someone had a birthday at work and brought in dessert. I only went the one time.”

He snaps his fingers. “Yes! I vaguely remember you flailing around the apartment afterward, screeching, ‘Cake, cake; oh, God, not cake!’ ”

“The meeting was a Janeane Garofalo bit come to life.”

“And you’re ‘above’ all of that?”

“No, I want to see what I can accomplish on my own. Weight Watchers seems like a last resort for people who can’t control themselves. And that’s not me.”

“Five minutes ago I thought I’d have to wrestle a sticky plate away from you.”

“I can control myself—when I choose to. I’ve simply chosen not to.”

“If you say so. But it seems like the sooner you seek help, the easier the whole process is going to be.” Fletch’s cell phone rings, and he glances down at the display. “Sorry, I’ve gotta take this.” He walks into the den and shuts the door.

Whatever. I’m doing fine, and I see no need to employ any sort of help. I gained the weight on my own, and I can lose it on my own. Besides, my immediate concern is, what happens if my plane crashes and I live and I don’t have a blow dryer and everyone on the island thinks my stupid natural curl makes me look like Hurley?

I eat and drink my way from Morningside Heights to Tribeca. There are no carbohydrates left in Manhattan when I finally leave the island. And when I try to fasten my seat belt on the plane on the way back, I struggle for five minutes before I can click it into place.

Whatever weight I lost over the past few months has found me again.

Sigh.

Jen’s Life Lesson #301: Never watch food commercials when dieting.

Every time I see an Olive Garden ad, my Pavlovian response is to drive to their nearest location as quickly as possible. This is shameful on so many levels—first, there are eleventy billion better, more authentic
⁶⁷
Italian restaurants out there; second, many of them are within city limits, and third, the fact that we’re in this car headed to the one in Schaumburg means I’m totally off Atkins. A-fucking-gain.

I’m never, ever going to make it out of the induction phase.

I wish I could quit you, Olive Garden.

What’s worse is, I’m contemplating everything I’m about to stuff in my mouth, so I’m really not tuning in to whatever it is Fletch is saying.

“. . . which is so wrong, because a true pilsner has a pale body and a crisp,
dry
finish, not sweet,” says Fletch. “So Joel says, ‘
A sweet finish? And you call yourself a microbrewer
?’ ”

“Wait, what? Joel
⁶⁸
is back? I thought he was in Iraq until this fall.”

“He
is
. I was talking about an e-mail I got from him. Were you even listening?”

No, I was thinking about breadsticks.

“Yes, of course! Joel. Beer. War. Yes.” Joel was on leave over New Year’s, and he and his wife came to our house for what was supposed to be a classy dinner party but eventually turned into a bourbon-fueled, mildly homoerotic wrestling match. My pretensions were painfully short-lived as I was forced to host in a pair of sweats, having grown too fat for all my pants. By the time Fletch challenged Joel to a duel at four a.m., wrasslin’ seemed like the most appropriate way to welcome in the New Year. But before stuff got too boozy, I totally grilled Joel about his confidential assignment in Baghdad. You’d think five kinds of cheese would loosen his tongue, but not so much.
⁶⁹

“Speaking of Joel, I saw this story on the news about an organization that sends care packages to combat troops. And they don’t just send them to Iraq and Afghanistan—they also ship them to places like Djibouti and—”

“Wait,
where
?”

“Djibouti, and I had no idea we had troops stationed there. Anyway, they ship candy and books and—”