Fletch says nothing, so I continue. “With me, I’m always complaining about the people we live around. When we were in Lincoln Park, I hated the drunk college students. In Bucktown, the yuppies made me nuts. In River West the fat girls and their bitchy boy companions made me want to take a hostage. And these were all entirely different circumstances, and the only common thread was me. Because of the law of averages, it’s almost impossible to believe that every single person who’s lived around me has been a moron, and that makes me doubt myself, especially when I still go around thinking every guy over six feet tall in the grocery store is you.82But then I see this stupid paper doghouse and I realize, at least in this one instance, I am not the idiot here. And suddenly my world makes sense again.”
We finally pull in and begin to gather up bags. The message light is blinking on our phone. I listen to the message while Fletch doubles back to get all the heavy groceries, as I like to carry only the stuff that’s either paper or in a box.
Pink cheeked and ruddy, Fletch returns a few minutes later, laden with soup, spaghetti sauce, and soda.
My brows are knit and my mouth is pulled into a frown. “Bad news,” I tell him.
With a serious expression he asks, “What’s up?”
I point at the phone. “You got a message.”
“And?”
“Looks like you’re about to be the one common factor again.”
“I don’t follow.”
“I’m going to be grocery shopping alone.”
“You’re speaking gibberish again.”
I lose my frown. “Call your recruiter and start polishing your wingtips. You’re going back to work.”
And not a moment too soon.
Between the uncertainty of my proposal and worry about employment, I’ve been abusing controlled substances (that is, if you consider turtle cheesecake to be a controlled substance) .
“Did your celebration include a ‘special hug’?” Angie teases.
“You? Are so not funny,” I reply. My friends think it’s hilarious if they can make me squirm. Last time Carol was here, she and the rest of the girls talked about sex in a manner I found far too graphic.83I threw such a fit, Carol finally acquiesced and asked if it would be easier if she simply referred to anything explicit as “that special hug married people do when they love each other very much.”
“We had celebration cake, thank you very much,” I retort. “With cream cheese frosting and little carrots piped on it. I got it at Whole Foods, and it must have weighed eight pounds.”
“When does he start?”
“Not for a couple of weeks. He’s still got to go through a drug screen and criminal check, but unless parking tickets or traces of boxed wine are felonies, he’s in excellent shape.”
“Did you tell your mom, or are you still incommunicado? ”
At the moment, my mother is mad at me for being mad at her for being a jerk, which may or may not have been caused by my being a jerk. I know; I know. Don’t ask. “Not talking.” I sigh.
“This isn’t the same fight from the spring?”
“No, this is a different fight.”
“I can’t keep them all straight.” Almost every one of our girlfriends is engaged in some level of combat with her mother. How is it we all got along fine with our moms for years, yet the minute we hit our mid-thirties, wham, it’s Adolescence 2: This Time It’s Hormonal. Is it us? Is it them? I don’t get it.
“I figure she’s like the dogs when they get all stirred up for no reason. They lose their minds and run around the house like wild beasts, foaming and biting, bashing into each other and flying over ottomans, but eventually they wear themselves out and they’re fine. I’m just going to wait until she’s exhausted and panting on the big pillow by the hall closet. Then we’ll talk and all will be as it was. But right now? Honestly, it’s a relief to not have to discuss anyone’s unemployment with her. I had a hard enough time dealing with my own anxiety back then, let alone trying to keep Mom from panicking.”
“Your situation is different this time; why would she panic?”
“Because she totally doubts that Fletch and I have the capacity as adults to learn lessons. Do you realize that even though I wrote an entire book about all the crazy stuff I did to get a job, she’s still tells my brother that I secretly was sitting around eating candy, happily racking up debt and waiting to be evicted?”
“You did eat a ton of candy.”
“Not the point. The problem is, I have no credibility within my family. Zero. For example, I was down at their new place and I noticed a really strange smell, like the air was musty and damp. It gave the whole house kind of an old-lady whiff. So I said something about it with an eye toward problem solving, like, ‘Hey, did you get this place tested for mold?’ My mother was furious that I was being negative and did nothing to address the strange odor. Then, a couple of months later, my niece was there with a little friend, and the little friend says, ‘Your grammy’s house smells like an old lady’s house.’ Right after, I get an e-mail from my mom saying, ‘Oh, the house smells a little off—there must be a problem. We’re going to get it checked out immediately.’ So the opinion of a five-year -old stranger carries more weight than mine.”
“That’s some serious annoyance. With my mother, I could tell her any fact, like the sky is blue, and she wouldn’t believe me. I could show her documentation, charts, graphs, whatever, and no dice. I could quote experts from NASA about atmospheric conditions. I could go all Bill Nye the Science Guy and detail the concept of Rayleigh scattering and bouncy air molecules and shit, but she’d never buy it. Yet if my brother were to say the sky is green and offer no proof, she’d suddenly be president of the Green Sky Club.”
“On the plus side, at least you only have boys and there’s no chance in thirty years your daughter will be tooling around in her hover car, bitching on her space phone about things you do.”
“I’ll probably have daughters-in-law at that point. But they’ll expect me to torment them.”
“And you won’t disappoint.”
“You got that right.” Angie cackles. “What else is going on with you? Any book news yet?”
My call-waiting clicks, and I check the display. Of course my agent is on the other line. I’m just going to add “psychic” to Angie’s ever-growing list of abilities. “Dude, Kate’s on the other line. We may be about to find out. Gotta fly.”
"Good luck.”
Yesterday my agent told me there were no updates.
My offer didn’t come until today.
Woo!
I try to call Fletch and tell him the good news, but he’s at the gym. I consider dialing the reception desk directly and having them grab him from the free-weight room, but I’m probably a bit too screamy to talk to anyone at the moment.
I know I’ve done this a couple of times before, but each time a book sells, it feels like a miracle. The experience is so surreal. This kind of stuff doesn’t happen to me; it happens to people in movies. I want to call my publisher and ask, Are you sure? You’re really interested in what I have to say? And you’re willing to write me a check to do so? And then you’ll take these thoughts—asinine as they may be—and put them in a format that will live on in the Library of Congress forever? 84
Unbelievable.
I’m dancing around the kitchen with the dogs and a fat slice of carrot cake when a thought stops me in my tracks.
I sold a book.
Correction, I sold a book, the contents of which depend on my decision to change my body, my health, and my life.
The hard way.
Without surgery or drugs.
In terms of the deal, I’m not bound to lose a certain amount of weight; rather, my publisher is interested in the process, and if I happen to get positive results, all the better. Failure can be just as funny as success, sometimes even more so.
But let me be crystal clear here so there’s no misunderstanding:
I am not about to have my inabilit
y to stop eating Ding Dongs documented for eternity in the Library of Congress.
This is the push I’ve been waiting for.
This is the rent check I’ve written that must clear.
No one is challenging me here except for myself. The only one throwing a gauntlet is me. For this book, I see myself in Houston at Ground Control, wearing a handmade vest and a pocket protector, an old-school headset resting on my buzz cut, barking out with the utmost confidence, Failure is not an option!
Yet I’m pretty sure Penguin would be happy if I told funny stories about plodding along on the treadmill with a piece of pie tied to a string dangling from a stick on my head.
I’m better than that.
I can do more.
I didn’t become a vice president because I followed the rules and met my goals; I pushed myself relentlessly.85I was never satisfied with good enough. Now writing is my career, and I can’t let myself be lazy.
Plus, there’s no way I’m earning myself a seat on Oprah’s couch if I don’t approach this with one hundred percent intensity.
Now, how the hell do I get started?
If I’m going to do this—wait, there’s no “if” here—I need a real baseline of how much I weigh. I can’t just rely on my inner carnival barker; I actually need to see numbers on a scale. I have too much pride not to do this right, and that means getting an honest assessment of where I’m starting.
Why am I suddenly so afraid?
I strip down to my sensible underpants and utilitarian bra and enter my guest bathroom. This is normally such a happy place; it’s where I sit in a tub scented with tea-tree oil and read good books. This is where I do my hair in the giant trifold mirror. Look at the festive plaid shower curtain—bad stuff can’t happen in here, right?
I’m confident I already know what number’s going to come up. Pretty? No, but probably manageable. And it’s nice to know that whatever number it is, it won’t be that high again anytime soon. In my proposal, I said I’d like to drop fifty pounds. With this loss, I’ll be back at a normal weight, and then, damn, I will really look good.
I take a deep breath and step on the scale. The scale I have is all old school with a spring-loaded dial. I’m greatly dismayed at how fast the needle dives to the right once I step on.
I’m even more dismayed when I see where it lands.
No.
Wrong.
This number is obviously a mistake. I step off so the scale can reset itself, and I hop on again. The same number, the same awful, horrible, completely devastating number, comes up again.
I step on and off a third time with the same result.
I don’t weigh this much. I can’t weigh this much. I’m a cute ex-sorority girl, not some six-foot-four, corn-fed line-backer from Nebraska. I belong in a pedicure chair, not on a football field, trying to keep the quarterback from getting his ass handed to him.
This weight is wrong. Wrong. I’m not a professional wrestler. Or a baby beluga. Or a barrel full of butter.
I step on and off a fourth time.
Why? Why is the scale lying to me? And what of my inner carnival barker? She’s never off by more than a minute or a dollar or a degree; there’s no way she could be off by almost fifty pounds.
Fifth time up to bat and I honestly expect it will be different, but it’s not. How am I fifty pounds heavier than I thought? I love me—I would never let myself get this kind of fat. I would never, ever weigh this much. Ridiculous! I’d sooner dye my hair orange with a box of color from the grocery store. I’d sooner wear frosty white eye shadow. I’d sooner sell s-e-x stories to Penthouse Forum. This is impossible.
A lightbulb goes off and I smack my hand to my head. Of course! The scale is wrong. That’s what it is. Silly old-school scale! You should be digital and accurate and not lie to the pretty, vibrant girls who stand on you. Because telling them they weigh this much is mean. Cruel, even. Showing them this kind of wrong number will make them cry. Why do you want to make me cry, scale? I’ve been so good to you, letting you sit in the corner of my bathroom for years, gathering dust and making you work only once or twice a year when a random guest steps on you.
Liar. That’s what you are. A terrible, terrible liar. Telling this kind of lie is exactly what’s going to get you set out with the next round of trash. Obviously I don’t eat like someone who’d weigh this much. I don’t drink like a huge, huge person. I move often enough to not weigh this . . . right? I went to the gym three times in a row! People who go to the gym three times in a row can’t possibly put up these numbers.
Stupid scale. Stupid, lying, inaccurate scale.
Hate you.
So much.
The only thing to do is to go to Fletch’s bathroom, use his digital scale, and figure out what I really weigh. Yes, genius!
I trot down the hall—which I can do because I’m not completely obese—and try to calm myself down. I’m totally overreacting here. I am fine. I know I’m fine. Whatever I weigh is just a number. I’m fun and smart and I can perfectly blend three shades of eyeliner. I enjoy my own company and I make myself laugh. I dress well, even on a budget while wearing Crocs, and no one makes a banana daiquiri like I can.
I sit on the edge of the bed and take a number of deep breaths, trying to slow my pulse. Ahh, OK. I can do this. Think sand. White sand, warmed by the sun. Palm trees. Trade winds. The scent of Coppertone and coconuts in the air. A tin drum plays in the distance. Relax . . . relax. A shady harbor. Calm blue waters. Gentle waves lightly buffeting the shoreline. Tide comes in, whoosh. Tide goes out, whoosh. Pretty shells left in the wake of the wave. Sparkly. Calm. Relaxed. Lovely flat sea. A sea in which I would never drown because I’m so fucking buoyant.
Trying to relax isn’t helping. The only way I can fix this is by accepting it as reality.
I step on Fletch’s scale.
A different number comes up.
It’s two pounds more.
I’m not sure if I want to throw up or buy a third scale. I can’t believe this is true . . . although it would explain a lot. Possibly this is why I sweat when I eat. Perhaps this is why I don’t care to bend. Maybe this is why I can’t climb a flight of stairs without sucking wind and why I peter out so easily at the gym. Conceivably this is why my mother clucks about my health whenever she sees me.
Is it possible my raging self-esteem has kept me from confronting this truth? I guess I’ll find out in the next six months.
The worst thing is that if this number is accurate—and I’m grudgingly beginning to believe it may be—even when I lose fifty pounds, I will still be fat.
Shit.
from the desk of miss jennifer ann lancaster
Dear Ice Cube,
Dude, um . . . what happened? You used to be all scary and badass, singing about how today you didn’t even have to use your AK. Like, your life in Compton was so hard-core, you were all surprised you didn’t need your AK. And that gave you credibility and made your music so powerful. Yet now I’m seeing movie trailers starring you and a wacky deer and a station wagon full of precocious, scene-stealing kids.
It hurts my heart to think you’re all grown up and living in suburbia, minus your AK (because of block association rules). On the other hand, you’re probably really rich now, so I guess it’s not so bad?
Best,
Jen Lancaster
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I Like New York in June; How About You?
I’ve been to the gym what feels like a thousand times in the past week, although it’s really more like four. Now that this is my job, I’m literally and figuratively attempting to work my ass off.86
The problem is, the more I do, the more I hear the same damn songs on my iPod, and I’m beginning to tire of my superfantastic treadmill mix. Although it remains superfantastic, I need to add some new superfantastic music because I am superfantastically sick of all its superfantasticness. I’ve listened to these songs so many times, they’re no longer effective at keeping me going. I’ve gotten so
bored with all my favorite tunes that lately when I’m midworkout, I’ve been making up new lyrics.
For example, “Straight Outta Compton” now sounds like this on the turntable in my head:
Straight outta Bucktown, crazy motherfucker
named Jennifer
This goddamned treadmill gonna be the end of her
Now she’s pissed off, she wanna sit down
Eat up the chocolate cake ’til her body is
completely round
“Faith” has morphed into:
Well, I guess it would be nice
If I could thin my body
Too bad not everybody
Metabolizes like you
“Somebody Told Me” new lyrics:
Well somebody told me
That you had some Trimspa
But that would be cheating
And nobody buys books penned by a fibber
Just look at James Frey
He told a fat lie
And enraged Miss Oprah Winfrey
And my favorite, “Do Me,” Jen style:
Backstage, overweight, with a cocktail
How ya doin’? “Drunk,” I replied
And sighed . . . “I’d like to order pizza
Extra cheese please,
Hot and fresh, and don’t forget
The O, the L, the I, the V, the ES
And maybe Diet Coke.”
After yet another yawn of a workout, I go directly upstairs to my computer, not even stopping to reward myself with a little snack, because the best treat in the world would be to never hear Kelly Clarkson again. Seriously, I hit a wall at the gym today, and I cannot listen to this mix one more time. It’s hard enough just getting my ass on the treadmill; being bored with what I’m listening to just makes it ten thousand times worse, and I run out of patience before I run out of steam.
I need new music, better music, more stimulating music, or, failing that, possibly just some songs that won’t make Fletch laugh at me. I sit down in my sweaty clothing and begin to trawl playlists on iTunes to find more inspiration to supplement my perspiration.
I’m a solid hour into my search when Fletch returns from his new job. I talked him into taking the train today so I could use the car to go to the gym. He comes upstairs looking very professional in his suit. He also looks extraordinarily aggravated. He’s scowling and wagging a finger when he enters the guest room.
Such a pretty fat: one narcissist's quest to discover if her life makes her ass look big Page 12