From: [email protected]
Subject: scat, rat or rat scat—your choice
Yo,
This is the kind of day a gal might get a fat head with the local-media-double-barrel mentions in the Chicago Sun-Times and Chicago Tribune (and a second shout-out in Sunday’s Washington Post).
Of course, I won’t because I spent the morning in the backyard picking up rat poop.
You know, it’s humbling enough to clean up dog mess, cat boxes, and Fletch’s occasional WC misfires. (With his lack of depth perception, I honestly don’t understand how he keeps from walking into walls.) But seriously, rodent doody? That’s a new low and a surefire way to keep me from drinking my own Kool-Aid about the good press.
In other news, I suddenly feel like boiling my hands again.
Later,
the jenster
* * *
The Marquis de Sade in Mary-Kate Clothing
When I wake up this morning, I find myself sweating extra-virgin olive oil and cookie dough.
Wait, I should probably explain.
My book is coming out in a few months, and it’s the first time since the dot-com crash that Fletch and I have had real reason to celebrate. And what better way to rejoice than eating, drinking, and being merry? So, despite my newfound commitment to physical fitness, the past sixteen days have been a blur of twinkle lights, holiday parties, and daring levels of overconsumption.
I ate some variety of cake daily for the better part of December—topped with delectable varieties of mousseline buttercream, chocolate ganache, coconut pecan, and cream cheese. I swallowed my own weight in miniature Key lime cheesecakes and oversized peanut butter balls. On Christmas Eve, I constructed a gingerbread house with fun-sized Hershey bar shingles and M&M masonry and laughed like I’d been possessed by Hansel himself as I ate it down to its cardboard foundation, only pausing to lick the powdered confectionary snow.
If it was sugar-coated, deep-fried, or con queso it found its way into my mouth, as did each horseradish-filled shrimp cocktail, cracked Dungeness crab leg, and drawn-butter-drenched lobster tail that crossed my path. I devoured everything served on a chip or at the end of a toothpick—oceans of guacamole, mountains of Swedish meatballs, a Grand Canyon full of cheese. I could create four food groups based solely on the kinds of sausages I inhaled. I partook of sweetly tangy bacon-wrapped figs, succulent honey-baked ham, spicy garlic mustard pork medallions—pretty much if it came from a pig, I called it dinner. Sure, I had a few vegetables, but only those swimming in beurre blanc or Hollandaise sauce. (Seriously, how do you not feel festive when you’re double-fisting teriyaki-glazed spare ribs?)
I downed turkey legs during A Christmas Story, roasted cinnamon almonds while watching Scrooged, and inhaled an entire section of a six-foot sub during the Married with Children–It’s a Bundyful Life special where Sam Kinison plays the foulmouthed angel.
And I can’t forget to mention the other half of my holiday diet: the liquor. I imbibed vats of champagne, tankards of martinis, gallons of Bailey’s Irish Cream, and snifter after snifter of cognac washing down every single bite of the buffet. I didn’t miss a party, appetizer, or cocktail for sixteen whole days. And you know what? It was fantastic!
However, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror this morning, I realize I look and feel (and let’s be honest—probably smell) exactly like Marlon Brando. My glorious prime-rib-and-wine-soaked Holiday Eating and Drinking Orgy has taken its toll.
The formerly cute ex–sorority girl reflecting back at me is haggard, puffy, and utterly blown out. Her hair is twisted into unbrushable origami from too much sticky product and too many complicated up-dos; the artfully applied sparkle powder is flat and metallic, making the purple shadows under her eyes even deeper from too many nights heavy on food and laughter and short on sleep. The dehydration from swilling whole punch bowls of rum-tastic eggnog highlights every line on her face. Her joints ache from dashing from party to party in jeweled, ridiculously heeled shoes. The delicate skin on her lower lip is burned from a clove—not the cigarette, but the actual spice, hidden in the ham she shoved in her craw directly from the oven. Most disturbing is the way her flesh oozes over the straps of her once-loose cotton nightgown in lumpy blips and blobs. She’s now soft in all the areas where she used to be hard.
She is—or rather, I am—a portrait of excess.
And in desperate need of a shower.
And a salad.
And a StairMaster.
And I will totally seek out those things.
As soon as I locate my liver and my “indoor voice.”1
Oh, wait—the room just got all spin-y. Must lie down first.
I tend to go back and forth on my weight. Most of the time I’m okay with it, partially because of a narcissistic personality disorder, but mostly because Chicago isn’t what you would call a “skinny” city. There’s a reason the old Saturday Night Live “Superfan” skits rang true. You know, the guys who were always downing brats and beers between angioplasties? Shoot, take a stroll through the stands at Soldier Field and the men look a lot more like John Goodman than George Clooney. Part of the issue is there’s no overt social pressure to exercise all the time here like there is in LA or Miami. And if people are dieting here, it’s Atkins, and only because they’re looking to add more beef and bacon to their daily intake. Matter of fact, Chicago was recently voted the Fattest City in America.2 Yay, us!
Honestly, I don’t look much different from other Chicagoans, so my recent thoughts of losing weight stemmed from health concerns, not vanity. However, when I find out a celebrity magazine plans to do a feature on my first book, I’m terrified at the thought of my photo near Jessica Simpson’s. Take a picture of me in a crowd at Wrigley Field and I’d be wholly unremarkable. But next to La Simpson? I’m pretty sure I’d look like the parade-balloon version of her, especially after the deliciously disastrous Holiday Drinking Season.3 And that? Is a reality check my fat ass simply cannot cash, so back off to the gym I go, full of good intentions and spandex pants.
I work out at a place called West Loop Gym, and ever since the Biggest Loser audition, holidays notwithstanding, I’ve been really good about going regularly. However, I’d considered joining the chichi East Bank Club, although it’s actually more of an urban country club.4 At a staggering 450,000 square feet, the facility is amazing—their cardio room alone is 20,000 square feet! But the issue is they have so many non-exercise-based amenities that I’d dig—a 60,000-square-foot sundeck, outdoor pools, wireless lounges, dining rooms with gourmet meals, spa and salon services—that I figured the place was a bit too “cowbell,” so I chose not to join.
Okay, that’s a lie.
In a rare instance of putting his foot down and actually meaning it, Fletch wouldn’t pay for me to join. He said I’d go to work out and instead come home with a tan and a manicure. He claimed with my lack of self-discipline, I’d be the first person who got fatter because of her membership. I’d have argued with him…except he was right. So, the West Loop Gym it was.
Regardless, I’m glad—I kind of love this place; it’s exactly what I need. The owners converted an old warehouse and kept the decor kind of minimal; there’s no cheesy neon or checkerboard like in some gyms, just lots of preserved old brick and wood-beamed vaulted ceilings. The floor is made of some weird rubber, and when you walk you get a bit of a bounce in your step. The staff stresses “functional fitness” and their philosophy is to do the kind of exercises that will make you strong for your day-to-day life—like by strengthening your abdominals so if you slip on a patch of ice, your core muscles will help you right yourself without injury.
With their emphasis on personal training, the gym’s kept membership small, limiting themselves to about five hundred clients. This way, everyone gets one-on-one attention. Granted, they don’t have a cedar sauna, but again, if I can sit motionless and read a book, it doesn’t count as exercise. Besides, WLG does have a dedicated staff who routinely patrol the f
loor, happy to answer any technique or nutrition questions—basically, they make me feel as important as Oprah and you can’t put a price on that.5
Not only does each employee know my name when I come in, I also never have to wait for a piece of equipment. Sometimes when I come here during the day I’m the only person in the cardio area. I like to pretend I’m Candy Spelling and this room is actually part of my house.
For the longest time, I was one of those dummies who were embarrassed about being big and working out in a public place. I wanted to tone up before joining a gym because I was afraid the other patrons would laugh at me. Now that I’m here, I realize it’s just the opposite—I’m shocked at how kind and supportive the other members are. The more I chug away on the treadmill, the more people meet my eye and smile. So, a note to all the other big kids out there: If you’re fat, you’re a lot less likely to get mocked at the gym than if you’re holding a Gotta Have It–sized cake-batter cone at Cold Stone Creamery. Think about it.
Anyway, today’s the day I get back in the saddle. I pull into the parking spot closest to the door and enter. I say hi to the nice girl6 behind the desk.
“Jen!” she exclaims. “We missed you! Where’ve you been?”
Okay, sometimes belonging to a small gym has a downside. If you don’t show up for a couple of days? They notice. And they mention it. For your own good. “You do not want to know. Suffice it to say I’ve been busy consuming the whole year’s calorie count in the past couple of weeks.”
Nice Girl laughs and pats her perfectly flat stomach. “Yeah, I hear you. I put on five pounds over the holiday.”
“Ha!” I bark. “Amateur! I put on fifteen and at this point my underpants are cutting off my circulation.” Oh, no. Did I say that out loud? Judging from the look on her face, I did.
“Hmm, perhaps I shouldn’t keep you then?”
“Yeah, I’ve got some sweating to do. Going to change now—see you in a bit.”
I change into a dove-gray pair of calf-length spandex pants, a fuchsia Champion T-shirt, and my cushy Nikes accented with the pink swoosh. I yank my hair back in my madras plaid do-rag and remove my watch.
The pearls, naturally, stay on.
I grab a towel and hit the cardio area. I decide I’m not going to go full force because I don’t want to, you know, die. I select a treadmill with the best view of all four plasma TVs and I start to move, slowly, but gradually more surely. Ellen, CNN, and a couple of sports channels are my only companions in the cardio room. My heart thumps pretty hard, but it feels good.
My workout progresses nicely. I spend half an hour on the treadmill and do ten minutes on the elliptical machine. I get my heart rate into the fat-burning zone and break a decent sweat. Yay, me! I do a ten-minute cooldown on the bikes, deciding to skip the weight training for another day. Satisfied, I return to the locker room to change.
I’m congratulating myself for a job well done when the unthinkable happens.
I bend over to remove my sneakers and my pants explode.
Let’s milk it, shall we?
My.
Pants.
Explode.
Kaboom.
I struggle to remove what’s left of the dove-gray material and hold it up for examination. The back side appears to have been taken out by a Scud missile. Or possibly the aftereffects of inhaling six pounds of creamy, nutty, imported Gouda at Shayla’s pre–New Year’s Eve New Year’s bash. I shake my head and say to myself out loud, “The camel’s back? Just broke.”
I throw on my street clothes and march up to the reception desk. I hate myself for what I’m about to request, but it has to be done. It is time.
“Jen! Happy New Year!” Mike, a friendly kid with massive shoulders, is now working the desk. “I didn’t see you come in. Hope you had a great holiday! So, how are you?” Not only does he know our names, but he knows all about us—like about Fletch’s job,7 our dogs, the new house, etc. He always asks how my writing’s going, but I have no time for his pleasantries today because I Am Resolved.
“Resolved,” I tell him.
He bends his head and holds a finger to his right ear while turning down the gym’s sound system. “I’m sorry, Jen. I didn’t quite catch what you said.”
Louder, I repeat, “I said I’m Resolved. It pains me to do this but I need to”—I grit my teeth and straighten my spine—“schedule ongoing sessions with one of your personal trainers.”
“That’s great!” He’s really enthusiastic about people getting fit and it would be adorable if it didn’t make me want to kill-self-comma-others. He cheers and attempts to give me a high five, but I’m having no part of it. I’ll suck it up and work out with a trainer, but damn it, I will not celebrate that fact. I hate that my lack of willpower over the buffet table has brought me to the point I need to pay someone to get me back on track. “Any specific goals you’d like to achieve?”
I hold up the spandex tatters. “Yes. I’d like to never explode out of my pants again.”
He pauses for a moment, looking thoughtful. “So…weight loss?”
“Obviously. And thank you for not laughing. Now I won’t have to gut you like a trout.”
“Lemme take down your info for Tim.” He writes my daytime phone number on a Post-it note for the owner. “Have you got a preference of who you want to work with?”
Without hesitation I tell him, “I want someone mean.”
“Come again?”
“Mean. M-E-A-N. As in the opposite of nice.”
“Okaaayy.”
“Mike, please write this down. Tell Tim I can’t train with someone who’s going to offer me cheery ‘You can do it!’ platitudes. I’m not motivated by positive reinforcement. I need mean. I require yelling. I want boot camp. Think drill sergeant. Better yet, think Nazi drill sergeant. And if he can holler at me about my deplorable eating habits, too? Even better.”
Mike looks thoroughly confused. “So—”
I interrupt because I’m on a roll and I’ve got to get this out before I lose my nerve. “In order for me to be successful, I must have someone breathing down my neck, screaming at me that I’m worthless and weak if I can’t give him ‘one more effing squat!’8 He needs to shout at me until the tendons stick out on his neck. Because if my trainer doesn’t do this, I won’t give one hundred percent. And I need to give one hundred percent or else I’ll be a fatty at my book events and that means Jessica Simpson wins.”
“Um—”
“Seriously, I wrote and sold my book not because of the people who told me I could. Rather, I wanted to show up everyone who told me I couldn’t. Make me mad enough and I’ll be unstoppable.”
“Wait—”
“Really? If I could hate my trainer? That would be ideal. I’d prefer to despise that person with the fire of ten thousand suns. So when I walk—nay, crawl—out of here at the end of my workouts, I want to lull myself to sleep by picturing my very talented and inspirational trainer getting hit by a bus. A bus that I am driving.” I pause to take a breath, having not done so in the past five minutes. “Hey, are you getting all this down?”
“Well—”
“Anyway, there’s a whole bunch of publicity already lined up for this spring and when OK! magazine writes up my book, I’d rather they not have the option to reference my gigantic ass. And thus, I need a trainer, because this getting thin business? Is obviously not happening on my own. So, can you guys set me up? Find me a trainer who fits my parameters so I can in turn fit my pants? Can you make it happen?” By the time I finish this diatribe, I’m in full-on, I-Am-Woman-Hear-Me-Roar mode, legs akimbo and hands on my hips. I defy this kid to tell me no.
Mike opens his mouth to speak a couple of times before sound actually comes out. “Um, well…yes. We can make this happen. That’s what we do.”
Bright Lights, Big Ass Page 26