We started this tradition about ten years ago, after Fletch and I got out of college. We both had entry-level jobs and were required to be at work the day after Thanksgiving, too. My parents would have spent the day with my brother’s family, but we lost them about twelve years ago. Don’t worry—they’re fine. That was the year my mom decided to extend her fat, salt, and sugar moratorium to Thanksgiving. I’m not sure if it was the accidental turkey jerky or the yeast-roll baseballs that dealt the killing blow, but my brother and his wife ran back to her family’s butter-drenched, chocolate-covered celebration in southern Indiana and never looked back. (If they had, they’d have seen a pile of unsalted, unbuttered, untouched carrots.)
Instead of spending Thanksgiving alone or in the car for eight hours, we improvised, and a tradition was born. However, my relationship with my mother can be volatile, and we generally end up missing every third holiday because we’re not speaking to each other, as was the case this year.
“Nope, but my sister-in-law’s family didn’t celebrate until Saturday, and now that my parents and brother live within walking distance of each other, they spent the day together. Since we were here, Fletch decided he’d cook.”
“Uh-oh. Was the fire department involved?”27
“Not this time. We followed a menu from this guy on Food Network, and it was great.”
Angie’s a budding Martha Stewart, and everything she prepares is delicious, homemade, and perfectly nutritionally balanced. But there’s always a chance she’s hiding a flask and a Nixon-esque Enemies List in her pinafore apron, which is exactly why we’re such good friends. “I love Food Network! Unfortunately, the kids turn up their noses whenever I serve anything even remotely gourmet, so I don’t try too often. Get this—last week James was on a play date and the other kid’s mom fed them SpaghettiOs. James never had them before and he just went crazy! He kept telling the mom, ‘You’ll have to give my mother the recipe for these!’ ”
“Stories like that make me reconsider my whole children-are -the-devil stance.”
“Yeah, I imagine I’ll think twice before selling them into white slavery.” I can practically hear Angie smiling through the phone. “Anyway, from what I saw this year, if we hadn’t gone to my grandmother’s house, I’d have done Tyler Florence’s meal.”
“Hey, that’s exactly what we chose! Except I couldn’t get his name right, so for a whole week, I kept telling everyone we were having a Tyler Durden Thanksgiving.”28
“I don’t get it.” With four kids under thirteen, Angie doesn’t see many R-rated movies. For her, it’s pretty much anthropomorphic penguins and Ellen DeGeneres starring as a cartoon fish.
“Not important. All you need to know is, when Fletch and I work together, we do a good job. Our dinner was fantastic, although we used two pounds of butter cooking the turkey alone.”
“If you’re going to do Atkins, that’s not so bad.”
Before I can respond, my caller ID clicks and I glance at the number; it’s my doctor’s office. “Hey, Ang, I’ve got a call on the other line. Can I ping you later?”
“No problem. Have a good day!” Then Angie hangs up for an afternoon of laundry folding . . . or possibly of brokering a lasting peace agreement in the Middle East. You never can tell with her.
Last month when Angie was visiting, we had some of our mutual friends over and the conversation turned to stress management and therapy. By the way, how great is it that mental health is no longer a taboo subject? Ten years ago we’d have never had this conversation.29Turned out practically everyone in the room takes some sort of medicine for either depression or anxiety—Paxil, Prozac, Effexor, Zoloft, Valium, Ativan, Xa na x . . . the only side effect seemingly being that suddenly everyone’s a pharmacologist.30
As we spoke, I began to realize that our systems are struggling more and more to cope with daily stressors, which led me to think about evolution. Since the days of the caveman, our bodies have changed to adapt to their environments. Seems like we should automatically produce more serotonin or endorphins or whatever feel-good juice it is we need to function, but this seems no longer to be the case, hence our need for medical intervention. Then it occurred to me that the problem may be that advances in technology have happened so quickly that we’ve totally lapped the natural progression of human evolution, which just seems . . . wrong.
Finding no plausible solution, I decided screw it and had another margarita, quietly noting that I should discuss cake-free methods of stress control with my internist.31
That Monday my doctor put me on a course of Zoloft. At the same time, I came down with a horrible cold32and was out of commission for about two weeks. But even after my symptoms cleared up, I couldn’t shake the fatigue. I barely left the house because even the idea of climbing the stairs to shower was exhausting. I found that I couldn’t sleep at night, but that’s only because I couldn’t get out of bed until noon.
The thing is, I wasn’t stressed or anxious—far from it. Mentally, I felt terrific. It was such a relief to get rid of the constant blathering that goes on in my head, and Fletch remarked about how much calmer33I was. Yet I was sleeping sixteen to eighteen hours a day and I couldn’t figure out why. I even missed a doctor’s appointment because the idea of walking to the corner to get on the bus at the godawful hour of eleven thirty a.m. was too much to bear. Obviously a trip to West Loop Gym was out of the question.
I got up one day at the crack of ten thirty a.m.34and promptly fell back asleep on the couch. A few hours later I woke up to the sound of a garbage truck idling in front of my house. The damn thing was parked there for almost an hour, and I could barely hear my TiVoed episode of Extreme Home Makeover, or, as Fletch calls it, The Ty Pennington Paints a Wall and Makes You Cry Show. I kept looking out the window, thinking I am vaguely annoyed.
Then it struck me—when am I ever vaguely annoyed? I’m generally a mad-as-hell, want-to-beat-you-with-a-nail-studded -plank, track-you-and-your-kids-down kind of annoyed. And where was my bizarre assumption that the truck had been sent by some waste-management goons to harass me? Or that a group of Chechen rebels had stolen it, had packed it with homemade explosives, and were going to destroy a piece of the adjacent expressway as soon as they finished their coffee? I mean, at no point did I even think about calling Homeland Security, currently the third preset on my speed dial after Domino’s Pizza and the place that delivers Philly cheesesteaks.
I realized that although I was totally copasetic, some essential element of me was missing. I didn’t have the nervous energy making me apeshit crazy, but I also didn’t have the nervous energy making me dash off ten pages at a time about my current obsession.35
Where the hell were my obsessions anyway? I mean, not once since I started taking the pills did I put on camo makeup, lie on my stomach, and stake out the weirdos next door with binoculars. I took big sips of my canned soda, never once worrying I’d choke on a fingertip or a syringe; nor did I cautiously peer inside the toilet before sitting down to make sure there was no alligator inside. What was up with that?
It finally dawned on me that the meds were the culprit, and I stopped taking them cold turkey.36I figured whatever the withdrawal symptoms might be, they couldn’t be worse than losing the essence of what makes me me, however flawed that may be.
But now I’m having trouble sleeping again, so I’m off to beg for new drugs.
I love my doctor! She’s the first one I’ve ever had who I don’t actively dread going to see, which is likely because of her bedside manner. I mean, outside of a social situation, how many doctors have you met who insist you call them by their first names? Plus, her personal style is to die for. If I saw her on the street, I would think she was incredibly cool and con fident, the way she carries off her spiky blond Annie Lennox haircut. Last time I was here she was clad in a vintage Pucci dress and baby pink motorcycle boots. Wonder what she’ll be in today?
In the waiting area of her office are paintings by local artists and a bunch of signed phot
os—looks like she’s treated Cameron Diaz and Sean Penn and a ton of famous athletes. I dig going to Chicago’s version of the doctor to the stars.
Of course, it’s not accidental that I’m here. Years ago I worked in health care and learned how to check out a physician ’s practice history. Dr. Awesome’s credentials could not be more flawless, so I’ve never questioned or second-guessed her judgment.
Exactly on time, she calls my name, so I follow her to the examination room. We enter an immaculate space, and she gestures for me to sit in the chair next to the computer rather than on the exam table. I dig how she conducts herself—it’s like we’re going to have a conversation and not some scary, impersonal exam.
We settle into our respective seats, and Dr. Awesome asks me the reason for my visit. I explain how I’ve been having trouble falling asleep because of stress and I’d like to do something about it.
“Is the stress you feel new, or has it been ongoing?” she asks.
Back when I was a salesperson, I worried about making my numbers and completing projects. The stress I felt when I was unemployed was obvious, and when I started temping, my anxiety was linked to a combination of boredom and misplaced aggression. (I dare you to try to keep smiling when a high school graduate details a three-point process of stapling documents together and then quizzes you on it.)
Now that I’m writing professionally, the anxiety is more free-floating because I have no control over the business portion of bookselling. What if someone else writes a story like mine first? Or better? What if everyone hates my work? Or worse, completely ignores it?
“Yes and no,” I reply. “Here’s the thing—back when I was doing sales, if my numbers were low, I could channel my stress by working harder. I could make more phone calls, give more quotes, take more meetings, create more proposals, but in my new career as a writer, there’s no set of rules to follow to guarantee success. It’s a big, fat crapshoot, hence the insomnia.”
“I understand. Tell me, Jen, what’s your activity level like?”
Just shy of cadaverous?
“Um, it’s OK. I was doing really well last year going to the gym. I even had a trainer for a little while, but for Christmas she gave me a size medium sweatshirt—like that would ever fit me—and a bill for six hundred dollars for sessions we hadn’t even had, and I stopped seeing her. Then I got busy with my second book, and . . . well, here we are.” Vanity had previously driven me to hit the gym when I thought I was going to be featured in some magazines as part of a publicity push. Turns out everyone just used photos of the book cover. Regardless, I still look pretty good right now. I mean, I’ve got a glowing tan and a faboo haircut, no less than four shades of blond perfectly showcasing said tan, and the whole package is tied together nicely with proper accessories and well-tailored pants. What’s not to like?
Dr. Awesome scans her computer screen and furrows her brow, tapping a finger to her lips. “Your weight troubles me. According to your chart, you’ve put on more than thirty pounds since last year, and that’s without weighing you today. Do you feel like the gain came on because of the stress, or is the stress causing you to gain? Or would you say it’s your lack of activity?”
I would say it’s the ten pies I’ve eaten in the past two months.
“Um, the stress is causing my gain?” I totally sound like I’m guessing. Which I am.
“For a course of action, we need to up your activity level immediately. I believe your weight and your stress are linked, and ...”
Ugh. I don’t want to hear this. Avoiding her earnest eyes, I look down at my feet.
And then I look at her feet.
And then I shout, “Oh, my God. You’re wearing leopard-print Manolo ballet flats! I didn’t know those existed outside of my dreams!”
And here’s where we get to Jen’s Life Lesson #1012: Never interrupt your doctor to discuss her taste in designer footwear.
A flash of recognition crosses my fun, stylish doctor’s face. Suddenly she doesn’t want to dance around my feelings about my anxiety or hear how I camouflage my weight with pretty hair, cute shoes, and shapely ankle-revealing capri pants. Her entire demeanor changes. Her spine stiffens, and she leans forward in her chair, delivering what amounts to a death sentence.
She talks way too candidly about the danger presented by my high blood pressure and elevated cholesterol level. She delivers a long, blood-curdlingly descriptive monologue about diabetes and gallstones, moving on to the horrors of coronary heart disease and stroke, with a side of breast cancer and cirrhosis of the liver and, for good measure after taking in my savage tan, squamous cell carcinoma.
In painstaking detail, Dr. Awesome describes the number of agonizing, wasting ways I will die if I don’t change my eating and fitness habits, like, immediately.
Dude.
Dude.
Ouch.
Tough love sucks.
But tomorrow I begin to change my life.
For real.
from the desk of the logan square- bucktown neighborhood association
Dear Resident at 2331 North x——Street,
Our office has received numerous calls about the state of the front of your home. Although we encourage the recognition of national holidays through tasteful adornment, it is now December, so we respectfully request that you dismantle your Easter décor, like, immediately.
Best,
Jen Cognito, Association President37
P.S. Throwing down a cylinder of Morton table salt is not the new “shoveling.” Kindly attend to the snow on your sidewalk, or fines shall be assessed.
CHAPTER FOUR
Two Fat People Admit Defeat
"Since when is macaroni and cheese diet food?” Fletch asks as he closes the front door behind a retreating army of service professionals.
“Um, hello? Near-death experience? I’m supposed to comfort myself with lettuce? I think not,” I reply. I tuck back into the melt-y, breadcrumb-crusted plate of happiness in front of me after pulling a quilt fashioned from old college sweatshirts around my shoulders, trying to fend off the arctic wind currently blowing through my living room.
Not long ago we started running the heat when fall finally turned to winter. I noticed an odd smell coming from the basement, and Fletch explained that all gas furnaces do that. I disagreed vehemently, and we squabbled about it until today, when I couldn’t stand it anymore and called the HVAC guys.
Apparently our chimney has caved in, and all sorts of loose bricks and mortar are blocking the gas our furnace is supposed to vent. The toxic fumes can’t escape, and what I’ve smelled is the paint melting inside our furnace, and had I actually listened to Fletch, we’d have been exploded or poisoned at some point in the very near future!38
I continue, “I figured if I was going to die this weekend, I was not heading to the afterlife with nothing in my stomach but broccoli, so I broke out one of the servings of macaroni and cheese I froze for just such an emergency.” I keep a number of emergency rations in the freezer. Fletch looks down at my plate and back at me. “Okay, fine. Two servings. Whatever. We almost died, you know.”
“We’re not in danger anymore,” he counters.
“Maybe we’re not right this minute, but my system is in the delayed kind of shock only Italian ham and three kinds of melted cheese can fix.” I’m anxious to change the subject. “What did the furnace guys say?”
“One of two things—either we get a whole new furnace that doesn’t need to be vented through the chimney, or we hire a chimney sweep to clean out all the debris. They suggested we try that first.”
“How much will that cost?” I take another bite of the creamy concoction, and it’s smoky and delicious. The key to really perfect mac ’n’ cheese is pancetta. Dice and sauté it first; then set it aside to mix with the elbows and cheese sauce before it goes in the oven. Use the pancetta drippings as a base for the roux and whichever mild white cheese you prefer, but whatever you choose, do your taste buds a favor and toss in some fontin
a because there’s almost nothing that melts more smoothly and—
Fletch interrupts my reverie. “Are you listening to me, or are you thinking about your macaroni?”
Busted. “Um, I’m listening. Of course. You were saying it would cost how much?”
“About six hundred dollars.”
“Ouch.” Although I presently have such house lust, I actually dream of escrow and have already picked out paint colors and backsplashes, at times like this I don’t mind being a renter. I fear I lack the responsibility homeownership requires. I mean, last week I gave myself food poisoning eating pie left over from Thanksgiving—twice—and still buy cereal based on the prizes inside. Plus, there’s no way we can buy a home in the city as nice as where we live now. Our place is a hundred-year -old row house that’s been completely renovated39and filled with top-of-the-line appliances and fixtures. We’ve got a full basement, a garage, three bathrooms, and a gourmet kitchen with no less than forty-seven pristine white cabinets, fortunate considering our barware situation. Better yet, we have a small, grassy front lawn and a twee little backyard that I’ve turned into a tropical paradise with $2,000 worth of landscaping and my own backbreaking labor. If we didn’t live next door to idiots who patch their broken windows with plastic bags from the grocery store, this place would be perfect.40
More important, we have the first landlord I’ve ever liked, so I refrain from cackling Gee, that sounds expensive! in the background while Fletch describes the possible solutions to her on the phone. I return my attention to lunch and my daily dose of FOX News. I hear him brief our landlord and then call the chimney sweeps before returning to the living room.
Such a pretty fat: one narcissist's quest to discover if her life makes her ass look big Page 4