Jen’s Superfantastic Treadmill Mix
Unwritten/Natasha Bedingfield
Since U Been Gone/Kelly Clarkson
Move This/Technotronic
Straight Outta Compton/N.W.A.
Somebody Told Me/The Killers
(What’s So Funny ’Bout) Peace, Love,
and Understanding/Elvis Costello
Anything, Anything/Dramarama
Bust a Move/Young MC
Feel Good Inc/Gorillaz
Ladylike/Storm Large and the Balls
Funky Cold Medina/Tone-Lōc
Pump Up the Jam/Technotronic
Faith/George Michael
Hey Ya!/OutKast
Pump It/Black Eyed Peas
Do Me!/Bel Biv DeVoe
Push It/Salt-N-Pepa
Shine On/The House of Love
Fletch says I have the musical sensibilities of a strip club DJ, but he’s just jealous. Come on, Kelly Clarkson and N.W.A.? Elvis Costello and Bel Biv DeVoe? Genius!
I have to admit, I’m starting to feel good, even if I don’t look any different yet. Maybe there’s something to be said for these endorphins after all? ’Til now I thought they were one of those largely fictional, Madison Avenue-type words used to sell products.77As a matter of fact, on the way home from the gym today I was in such a pleasant mood, I didn’t even shout at the guy on the bike who cut me off, despite the fact that he caused me to slam on my brakes and spill my skim latte.
Hey, bike messenger dude? People have died for getting between me and my coffee.
I would have been well within my rights to bash him with my car door, but it didn’t even occur to me. Watching him pedal along in the dead of winter didn’t make me question his sanity. Breaking a sweat allowed me to understand that maybe he likes how he feels while riding a bike and he cycles not because he’s a crazy person, but because it helps him stay healthy. Then it occurred to me that you never see fat people on bikes.
I mean, except in Queen videos.
Ooh, I should download some Queen!
Since I’m exercising consistently, that proves it’s all the more possible to conquer the food thing. I just need to find the right way of eating. There’s got to be a plan out there that doesn’t leave me shaky, ravenously hungry, or so packed with cheese that I can never use the bathroom again. There’s got to be a middle ground.
I’ve been asking around, and I’ve heard excellent things about the South Beach Diet, so I begin my Internet research. The very first thing I read is that I’m not supposed to consume any caffeine during the induction phase.
Pfft. Next.
Perhaps a quick glance at YouTube will provide proper inspiration....
I’m resting my eyes for a moment because I kind of watched too much Internet video earlier. Did you know they stream whole television shows on the Web now? When did this little miracle happen? And why didn’t anyone ever tell me how good Survivor: Cook Islands was?78I thought it was all people having to eat bugs, but it’s full of yelling and plotting and all the other stuff that make me love reality TV so damn much. Bless CBS; they have the entire series cached for my viewing pleasure.
I got to the point where Jonathan was voted out, and I had to lie down. I’m almost asleep in the guest room when the phone rings. I check the caller ID, see that it’s Fletch, and answer.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me. It’s official. I’m done. I just wanted to let you know I’m on my way so you don’t have a heart attack when I come home midday.”
I shake my head, trying to clear it. “Wait, what? You’re done? Done done? Did you quit, or get fired, or laid off, or ...”
“I’ll give you the scoop when I get home. Real quick, though, because the valet’s here with my car, I got severance; they’re going to pay our insurance next month; basically everything ended best-case scenario.”
“Congratulations? Or I’m sorry? I’m not sure which is appropriate.”
“I’m pretty happy, so let’s go with congratulations. See you in a few.”
“Um, OK; see you then.”
I get up from my nap. I look from my heeled professional shoes hanging in their little slots on the back of the guest room door over to my computer. The party is over and I’m getting back to work; whether it’s writing or temping is still to be determined.
I turn on my computer and pull up a blank Word document, and I begin to type.
It’s time to stop sweating while I eat.
“Any word on your proposal?” Stacey asks. Tonight we’re at her place watching Bravo. Top Design is on, and it’s just not catching our attention like Top Chef or Project Runway .79
“Nope, no decisions yet. I suspect my editor likes it, although she obviously won’t confirm or deny this until after the deal is signed, if we even get to that point. And I haven’t a clue as to what everyone else thinks,” I reply.
Stacey gives me a sympathetic look. With four books under her belt, she’s done this before and knows exactly how nerve-wracking waiting for an answer is. Stacey points the remote at her TV and mutes Top Design. “Any idea when they’ll give you an answer?”
“God, I hope it’s soon. The stress eating is killing me,” I say. I pull a bag of Raisinets out of my purse. “Will my losing fifty pounds count if I gain twenty now?” I offer Stacey some, but she declines. I tear open the familiar yellow package and absently begin popping them in my mouth, one after another. I’m all about comfort foods right now. Candy is good, but I’d kill for something covered in gravy. Unfortunately, mashed potatoes lack a certain portability. If I could come up with a way to serve them on a stick, I’d make millions. “The worst part is, if the book doesn’t sell, not only will I be fatter, but I’ll be fatter at a temp job.”
“How’s Fletch’s search going?”
“He’s already got feelers out at places he used to work, and everyone’s been receptive. He’s had a couple of good in terviews, and overall he’s really upbeat. It’s not going to be like last time, when he was out of work for a year.”
“That’s a relief, yes?”
“Totally. It’s kind of a good thing, actually. If the book sells while he’s home during the day, then I can use the car to go to the gym, since exercise will be a major part of the story. But if he were working and out on appointments, I’d be stranded ’til he got home.”
“You can’t take public transportation to the gym?”
“Not really. My gym is in the West Loop—it’s only a few miles, but to get there I’d have to either switch buses three times or go from bus to train to walking half a mile. There’s no way I’m putting that much effort toward getting on a treadmill, especially since the walk is bonus exercise. Fortunately, Fletch got a decent severance package, and he’s so delighted to finally be done, he granted me a reprieve until the end of the month, which means I’ve got another week before I have to call my old temp agency.”
“Tick-tock.”
I wolf down another handful of Raisinets. “Fuckin’ A.”
“What are you going to do between now and then?”
“I don’t know. Pace? Watch more reality TV on the Internet? Enjoy my last free moments not filling out other people’s expense reports? What I should do is return the million e-mails I got in the past month while I was working on the proposal. Of course, the very first one I opened today said this: ‘Dear Jen, I’m seventeen and I live in Australia. I love Bitter Is the New Black! But I have a question after looking at the old photos on your Web site—you have such a pretty face, but you seem to have let your body go. Have you ever thought about losing weight?’ So . . . yeah. If that’s the kind of mail I’ve got waiting for me, I’m not that anxious to tackle it.”
Stacey strokes her chin in an exaggerated thinking gesture. “Hmm. Are we planning to fly Down Under and stab her in person, or do we hire someone to do it?”
“Normally I’d send her such a scathing response, she’d be afraid to ever pick up a book again, but I get the feeling she was being ge
nuine.”
Stacey snorts. “You should genuinely tell her to call you in twenty-three years and then grill her on how very, very easy it was to maintain the figure she had at seventeen. ”
I stuff another handful of Raisinets in my mouth.80“What gets me is the ‘pretty face’ bit. ’Cause I won’t mind being reminded I’m fat as long as you water it down first. Why not say, Hey, I’m going to insult you, but first I will congratulate your fortunate genetics and appropriate application of Bobbi Brown cosmetics to prevent you from hitting me. Shit; I kind of prefer being called a ‘fat bitch.’ At least it doesn’t pull any punches.”
“You’re right—‘pretty face’ is only used to counteract addressing someone’s weight. Nobody ever says, You have such a pretty face; it’s a shame you’re a whore.”
“Ha!” I bark. “How about, You have such a pretty face; if only you weren’t as dumb as a bag of hair.”
“Ooh, You have such a pretty face; too bad your children were spawned by Satan.”
“You have a gorgeous face, but have you ever considered flossing?”
“You have the prettiest face and the ugliest house.”
“You’re a classic beauty in every way, except for your hideous personality, of course.”
“You’re so lovely, so I wonder why your husband can’t keep his dick in his pants.”
“Nice one!” We exchange a quick high five. “The best part is how people say it like maybe you didn’t notice you had great cheekbones and a huge ass. Or flawless skin and a handful of back fat. I wonder if people think weight is like a piece of spinach caught in our teeth and we wouldn’t have known about if they hadn’t been kind enough to inform us.”
“Nothing would surprise me.” Stacey gets serious for a minute. “Listen, I take total responsibility for my weight. I love food. I love movement a whole lot less. I’m well aware of who I am and what I look like, and I’m happy with the whole package. I have a great life, and I’m thankful for it. I work out with a trainer, but mostly because of how it makes me feel. Yet I admit it can be like a knife to the chest when strangers define me based on digits on scale.”
“Amen,” I exclaim, accidentally spitting out a Raisinet. I pick up the chocolate with a Kleenex and stuff it in my purse. Ten bucks says a month from now I’ll have forgotten about it and will finally have said feared heart attack when I assume a rat shat in there. “I have to say, though, if someone gave me a pill tomorrow that would make me an instant size six, I would stomp through a meadow full of puppies to get it.”
“Then you couldn’t write a book about losing weight the hard way.”
“True. And I am perfectly fine with that.”
She gives me a sidelong glance. “Yeah?”
I grin sheepishly. “No, not really.” We sit for a moment in companionable silence. Stacey appreciates exactly how much I want the challenge of working on a new book. Being able to sit down and put thoughts on paper, knowing these thoughts will be out there for others to read, is the most joyous feeling in the world.
If my proposal sells, this time it won’t just be about writing. Writing this book means I’ll be obligated to change my entire life, and I’m conflicted. I want to change my life . . . except I sort of like it. I mean, I couldn’t be more delighted every Monday night after Fletch goes to bed when I come downstairs, pull up The Bachelor on TiVo, drink Riesling, and eat cheddar/port wine Kaukauna cheese without freaking out over fat grams. I’m perpetually in a good mood because I do everything I want. I love having the freedom to skip the gym to watch a Don Knotts movie on the Disney channel without a twinge of guilt. I’ve figured out how to not be beholden to what other people believe I should be doing, and when the world tells me I ought to be a size eight, I can thumb my nose at them in complete empowerment.
And yet a good part of me wonders if I’m not completely full of shit.
If this book gets green-lighted, I won’t have any more excuses not to make the kind of grown-up modifications to my lifestyle that I should have made years ago.
And that’s terrifying.
And exhilarating.
But mostly terrifying.
TO: angie_at_home
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Help!
The Food and Drug Administration announced they’re going to ban over-the-counter sales of ephedrine-based diet pills, which . . . DAMN.
Now what the hell am I going to do for a Plan B?
TO: angie_at_home
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Never mind
I just heard that Pfizer is coming out with a doggie diet pill to help combat obesity in overweight pets. Maisy would TOTALLY be eligible for it.
Plan B is back, baby!
CHAPTER TEN
Careful What You Wish For
We’re on our way back from the grocery store, where we spent the whole time arguing about how much cheaper food is in the suburbs. Fletch argued the pros of moving to the suburbs, and I argued how the cost of food wouldn’t matter because I’d bake my head in the oven like a Butterball turkey if forced to move there. Give me Libertyville or give me death? I choose death.
As we pull down the alley, Fletch nudges me. “Check it out.” He doesn’t open our garage door two lots down. Instead, we idle behind our new neighbor’s house.
“What am I supposed to be looking at? The car? It’s been up on blocks since the day they moved in.” I shrug. Fine, maybe people don’t put their cars up on blocks in swankier suburbs like Naperville, instead opting for the garage. Which is exactly what I would do. With the motor running.
“Look closer. I’ve been meaning to show you this for a couple of days, but we kept driving down the alley the other way.”
“Their dog can’t be out, because there’s no barking.” Our new neighbors have a small white dog that looks like a Muppet. We don’t know his name, so we call him Little Dog. He’d be cute except he’s outside all the time, so he barks All. The. Time. Normally this would simply be an annoyance—hardly surprising for this ’hood—but this month has been bitterly cold, and his constant exposure is dangerous. Since Fletch and I are home during the day, we’ve been calling the Anti-Cruelty Society every time he’s out for more than twenty minutes. Last week we watched the Anti-Cruelty van pull up to their house and we quietly cheered while the animal control people talked to the residents. Lately, they’ve been good about leaving the dog outside for reasonable amounts of time.
“Guess again.”
“Rats? Are there more rats? At this point I’ve seen so many that unless they’ve got top hats and have formed a kick line, I can’t even muster up the interest.”
“Check out the box in the garbage.”
I squint out my darkened window. “Torro Electric Snow-thrower. They bought a snowblower; what of it?”
“Jen, don’t read it—just look at it.”
“Am I looking for the price?”
“Nope. Look again.”
“Make and model?”
“You’re going micro—think macro.”
“Um . . . there’s a hole in it?”
“Yes! You’re getting warm.”
“I see some painter’s tape on it.”
“Uh-huh. Warmer. Keep going. What do you notice about the hole? What purpose is the tape serving?”
Am I this annoying when I make him try to guess things?81“The hole is . . . argh, I don’t know. Just tell me what I’m supposed to see, damn it.”
“The hole is cut in a perfect arch. The top of the box is notched, and the seams are covered with painter’s tape. Don’t you see what this is?”
“A snowblower box.”
“No! It’s a doghouse!”
“What?”
“Those idiots built a house for their dog out of cardboard. After Anti-Cruelty talked to them, this was their solution. To stick the dog in a damp paper box. Held together with painter ’s tape. During the coldest weather we’ve had in years.” Fletch shakes his head in wonder.
“According to that guy’s bumper sticker, he’s a union carpenter. Why wouldn’t he use wood? How is a paper box supposed to protect his dog from the elements? No one uses paper to keep warm—it’s a terrible insulator! That’s why buildings have fiberglass pumped into their walls, and not just old term papers.”
“Exactly.”
“And the roof on that thing is caved in—it must not have been able to withstand the weight of the snow.”
Fletch gives me a sly grin. “Perhaps he should have used load-bearing tape.”
“Their half-assed attempts at taking care of Little Dog are even worse than when they weren’t trying at all.”
“Yep.”
“Did you see they shaved Little Dog? First thing I thought was, I guess someone got themselves into beauty school. Then I got mad. It’s ten degrees below zero out here, so why is now the time to divest this creature of his only protection against the elements?”
“Obviously because they were building him a deluxe doggie palace—out of cardboard—so he didn’t need a fur coat.”
“I’ve seen them playing with Little Dog. They’re not vicious; they’re dumb. We have to call Anti-Cruelty again. This type of stupidity has to be noted.”
“Already did it,” Fletch says.
“Cool.” Fletch backs up to our garage. “I feel bad for the dog, but the doghouse is validating.”
“How so?”
“Everyone has a friend who consistently has the worst job ever. She has a terrible boss and terrible coworkers, and her assignments are terrible. So she quits and gets another job, and everyone there is awful, and the stuff she has to do is either too hard or too easy or too something. It’s like everywhere she goes, it’s always worst-case scenario, you know?”
Puzzled, Fletch replies, “Not really, no.”
I rub his shoulder affectionately. “That’s because sometimes that friend is you.”
“Hey—” he begins to protest.
I wave my finger at him. “Tut-tut, this isn’t a you-centric example. My point is, sometimes you look at this friend and think, the one common factor in all your terrible employment scenarios is you.”
Such a pretty fat: one narcissist's quest to discover if her life makes her ass look big Page 11