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!63Lift, 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. Aw
esome 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.64Touching 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?”
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?”
Such a pretty fat: one narcissist's quest to discover if her life makes her ass look big Page 8