I glower at the pile of stuff on the bed. There is nothing here I want to wear unless it’s a size small. Chances are, the Nutty Professor won’t miracle up a batch of Insti-Slim for public consumption between now and seven a.m. tomorrow, so whatever I choose will have to hide four layers of girdle.
The TV studio isn’t far from our house. I’m supposed to be there at 7:15 a.m. for an appearance at 7:48 a.m., and we’re en route. I’m presently wedged in the front seat like a surfboard because I have so much spandex on, I’ve lost the ability to bend. I’ve built quite the house of cards with my foundation garments—if one layer blows, they’re all going down. I finally settled on a black V-neck and gold wide-legged capris, and I resurrected my London shoes. I’m tidy and nondescript; no one’s putting me on Mr. Blackwell’s list, but it’s TV appropriate.
Since I resolved the what-to-wear dilemma, I’ve begun to ruminate on the interview itself. I hate going into any situation where I don’t already know the outcome, and today is a massive unknown. What if the anchorwoman goes all investigative reporter on me and grills me about sending my neighbors anonymous letters from a fictitious homeowners’ association?105And I accidentally start spewing obscenities and get a million-dollar fine from the FCC? Or what if I turn into Cindy Brady and freeze on camera like on the “You Can’t Win ’Em All” episode? And Cindy wasn’t even wearing restrictive Lycra underwear.
The second we arrive at the studio, I break into a terror sweat. Completely dripping, I check in, and an assistant escorts us to the green room.106There are bagels and donuts and bottles of Fiji water sitting out, but I don’t take anything because of the Girdle Rodeo going on in my pants. Everything’s so tightly bound, I can’t breathe, let alone imbibe. Anyway, even if I were clad in my most forgiving jammie pants, I couldn’t eat because I’m too nervous to swallow. I practice easing myself into a chair—unsuccessfully—and Fletch documents my shame via camera phone.
A producer comes in and explains how everything will shake out on set. She covers the questions I’ll be asked and tells me where to look when we’re rolling.107She gives me a once-over and proclaims me styled nicely and says there’s no need for me to go to hair and makeup. I’m not sure whether to be flattered or disappointed. A tech guy enters and clips a battery pack on my waistband, slipping a cord up the back of my sweater. I bet he wonders why I’ve got a sweaty swimsuit on under my top.
The producer leads both Fletch and me to the set. I’m sent to a small love seat across from the anchor desk, and Fletch is allowed to stand behind the cameraman to watch. While they’re showing the weather forecast, I meet the anchorwoman. Robin introduces herself like the consummate professional she is. As for me, the combination of circulation-cutting underpants and nervous energy proves to be too much. Instead of saying, Hi, I’m Jen; thanks for having me on, I glance down, notice she’s wearing the most adorable Mary Janes with big buckles, and begin to point and squeal.
Something tells me Condoleezza Rice’s interviews do not start like this.
I pull myself together somewhat by the time the weather is over and we cut to a commercial. My face was already sweaty, and now it’s beet red, too.108I perch on the edge of the couch, trying to remember how I sat when I practiced in front of the mirror last night. I discovered there’s a distinct way I should position myself to camouflage the fat rolls . . . and the way escapes me. Something to do with my posture? More slouchy? Less slouchy? Shoulders akimbo? Shit; I can’t remember now. The producer tells us we’ll be on in less than thirty seconds and encourages me to get comfortable, so I propel myself into the seat with such force, I end up arching slightly, leaning backward, chin pointed toward the ceiling, and clutching pillows on either side—exactly the way I’d sit if I were having a cavity filled. The show cuts to our segment, and Robin begins to talk to me, or possibly my neck.
The next four and a half minutes are almost completely blank. I’m vaguely aware of participating in a conversation and am pretty sure I smile, laugh, and nod in the right places, but I could not tell you what I say for a million dollars.
When it’s over, I say thank you to everyone109and practically run off set to Fletch. As we head to the parking lot, he tells me I did a good job. However, we took vows in front of God and the Nevada State Gaming Commission, so I’m pretty sure he’s got no choice but to be supportive. We stop for breakfast at Burger King,110and I’ve inhaled my order of Cheesy Tots before we even pull into the garage.
I eat my Croissan’wich, then go upstairs to peel off my clothes. Released from its Lycra prison cell, my body goes whoompf h like a tube of Pillsbury biscuits being cracked against the counter. At this moment, I decide not to watch myself on TiVo because I’m sure I won’t like what I see.
Instead, I opt to go back to bed because I’ve got to do the whole angling-dressing-nervous-talking thing over again tonight at my book signing.111
“These next two weeks will be like fat camp, except I’ll be the counselor and the camper,” I tell Fletch as we wend our way to the airport through rush-hour traffic. He’s off to Denver for a couple weeks of intensive training.
“Fat camp for schizophrenics,” he muses.
I’m trying to convince myself I won’t miss Fletch while he’s away. “I’m glad you’re going to be gone. I’ll be able to work out for as long as I like without having to stop and pick you up, and I won’t be tempted to eat the fattening dinners I make for you.”
“Ultimately you’ll be more successful if you learn to eat what I’m having in more sensible portions.”
“Keep saying stuff like that, and I won’t miss you. And I’m not asking your opinion. I’m telling you how I’m going to run the next two weeks. Since I’m going to New York again and Philly next month for tour dates, I want to demonstrate some progress to my publisher. I want them to be proud of me. I’ve got to build on my momentum. I’ve lost ten pounds, but I can do better.”
“Don’t you have to do better?”
I’m not going to let myself rest until I’ve lost forty more pounds by the end of August. I figure if people on The Biggest Loser can dump eight to ten pounds a week, surely if I put my mind to it, I can easily hit my number. Doing it in a month would be awesome, but if I go too quickly, I fear I’ll get saggy skin like a shar-pei. “As I was saying, the next two weeks are going to be my boot camp. Here’s what I’m going to do—I’ll be up at eight a.m. every day—”
“And you’ll stay up?” Fletch interrupts.
“Just because I drive you to the office in my pajamas doesn’t mean I always go back to bed.112Oh, I’m sorry, are you having a seizure? Because I know you didn’t just roll your eyes at me. Anyway, I’ll have a healthy breakfast, hit the gym for a couple of hours of cardio, maybe do some housework, and possibly double back to the gym in the afternoon for weight training. That way I’ll be extratired when it’s time for bed and I won’t stay awake all night worrying someone will break in.”
Fletch flips on his blinker and merges to the left. Even though I’m technically taking him to the airport, he’s driving due to my penchant for going forty-five miles per hour in the fast lane.113“Glad you have a plan. Usually you go a little Home Alone when I’m gone.”
"Pfft, what are you talking about? I’m almost forty years old. I can certainly stay by myself without incident. I don’t know why you exaggerate. I’m not a cartoon character.”
“How about the time I had to go to Ohio and you did nothing but eat Lucky Charms and watch TV, and you almost stabbed your coat because you thought it was an intruder? Or when I came back from New Jersey and found your ‘arsenal’ under the covers on my side of the bed? The machete and BB gun I understand, the crab mallet less so. And what was the deal with the duct tape?”
“If I was going to catch someone breaking in, how was I going to hold them after I stabbed them and before the police came? Duct tape. Duh.”
“And the Benadryl?”
I fold my arms across my chest and glower out the window, saying nothing.
He gives me a sideways glance. “Well?”
I mumble something Fletch can’t hear.
He puts a finger to his ear. “What was that?”
“Benadryl would make them sleepy so they’d put up less of a fight. It always knocks me out when I take it.” I glance over at him, and his mouth is all scrunched like he just took a bite of a lemon. I can see he’s fighting the urge to burst into laughter. “You promised not to tease me about that again.”
He wipes away a stray tear and attempts to put on a serious face. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Jack Bauer and the Navy SEALS would give you a merit badge for your resourcefulness with antihistamines.”
“Exactly.”
“And . . .” He begins to choke and sputter a little bit. “And . . . and . . . they’d truly appreciate the homemade blow-torch you tried to create with compressed air and matches.” He howls in earnest now. How was I supposed to know the air would blow out the flame? The warning label said it would potentially ignite. Stupid misleading warning label.
“Listen up; I’ll do so well on my own while you’re gone, you won’t even recognize me when you get back. And you know what? The house will be, like, ten thousand percent cleaner than when I came home from New York last time and found you and the dogs wandering around in your own filth.”
“Okay,” he agrees. “While you’re cleaning, see what you can do with the basement. Maisy’s been peeing on the rug down there, and we’re at a full red alert on the Homeland Stink Advisory System.”
We ease into the curbside check-in area for American Airlines, and I hop out of the car to give him a hug and a kiss. “You just worry about you, because I? Will be outstanding.”
“Outstanding, eh?” He hoists his bags out of the back of our car and then closes the hatch. “I look forward to it. Love you—see you in two weeks!” We say good-bye, and as I pull away, I see he’s still giggling and shaking his head. Jackass.
Oh, I will show him exactly what I can accomplish. Just wait. In two weeks, I’ll be a whole new me.
The first thing I do when I get home is fix myself a big salad with fat-free dressing. Look at me! Eating vegetables! Not Lucky Charms! Ha. And I’m going to clean this house like it’s never been cleaned before.
I start on the top floor, dusting every surface and storing or disposing of anything on the floors or in garbage cans. I make the bed and sort laundry and run the Dyson over the hardwood, sucking up enough fur to create two new dogs, perhaps of the non-basement-peeing variety. Then I attack the bathrooms with enough chemicals and paper towels to make Al Gore cry. I even take down the curtains and run them through the wash.
On the first floor, I vacuum and mop some more, slay dust bunnies, and haul out Great Garbage Bag Mountain, which I wouldn’t have had to do if someone had disposed of the trash before we left like he promised.
Then I take the show outdoors, hauling our little push mower through the house to get to our eight-by-ten patch of grass in front. I’d planned on getting a string trimmer to hit the edging, but when I priced them at Home Depot they were $169. For $169, I will fucking bend over with hand clippers. I weed and neaten my flower beds and survey my work—fabulous!
Accomplishing everything takes the better part of the day, and when I finish I still have energy. Hey, how about that? I guess working out has given me some endurance.
Delighted with my newfound strength, I go to the basement for litter-box maintenance. Fletch was right; it reeks down here. Stockyards and leather tanneries smell better than this. An oil refinery or a tire fire would be pleasant by comparison. How can such sweet and benign little kitties excrete so much . . . horrible? I crack open the windows and cellar door, placing a box fan in the center of the room to move the thick, fetid air around. Blech.
Breathing through only my mouth, I scour boxes and put in fresh clay. I expect this to clear the air significantly, but the basement’s still redolent of Eau de Doody. Then I remember what Fletch said about the rug. Maisy has been using it as a toilet because she doesn’t like the backyard.114I bend to take a whiff to see if it’s the offender, and the smell hits me in the face before I even get a chance to double over. Wow. The rug isn’t stinky—it’s downright stanky. I’ve got to haul this out pronto.
I move the futon, coffee table, chairs, and TV stand off the rug. I’d helped Fletch set up the basement as kind of a man lair about six months ago, but so far the only residents who’ve availed themselves of it are the dogs. I guess my sparkling personality is too much of a draw on the first floor.115
Drawing the deepest breath I can muster, I squat and begin to roll up the rug. Argh, it’s sticky. I try really hard to keep my salad down. After I get it all rolled, I begin to navigate it through the basement and to the cellar door. The rug is way heavier than it was six months ago when we brought it down here, and it’s entirely Maisy’s fault. I get to the screen door, flip up both the locks, and rear back to toss the whole lot out the door. And then a funny thing happens.
I hear a rip.
I check out the door frame to see if the rug got caught on something sharp. Nope; it made it out with no problems. Then I realize the sound came from behind me.
More specifically, it came from my back. Something in my back ripped.
Further, I realize I can no longer stand upright.
Uh-oh.
There’s a hairline crack running the length of my ceiling over the couch. I’m aware of this because I’ve been lying on this couch for a week and a half, looking at it. I’ve replastered it a million times in my head because that’s about the only thing I can do other than watch television and fend off dog nudges.
I’ve injured my back before—once in college I had to have physical therapy and I missed weeks and weeks of work. And class. Technically I was allowed to go to class, but I wanted to be extrasure. Who knows what negative impact a boring eight thirty a.m. French 201 lab may have had on my strained sacroiliac?
This time I’m taking pain meds and muscle relaxants by the handful. At first I tried to down them with the salads and other low-cal items I’d stocked the fridge with, but I kept getting lightheaded and nauseous. I finally broke out an emergency portion of macaroni and cheese to coat my stomach so the pills wouldn’t make me sick, and I’ve been eating much heavier items ever since.
Normally I’d be delighted to have a back injury—it’s a lot like a personal snow day. I’m permitted, no, required to lie around and watch daytime court shows and drink cocoa, and no smart-assed husband will mock me, because I’m legitimately out of commission. However, this time is different. I honestly wanted to step it up in regards to exercise and diet. Instead, I’m prone on this couch, being prodded by wet noses, and feeling like a complete washout because I’ve gained back every pound I fought to lose in the past few months.
A major part of my ridiculously inflated self-esteem comes from having done what others said was impossible, e.g., becoming the first female executive officer at the investment relations firm where I used to work, or making a living as an author. The whole less-food / more-activity paradigm seems so easy, it’s like something I should be able to do in my sleep . . . yet it’s been a constant struggle. My failure to excel here makes me question all my past successes; was I really talented, or did I just get lucky? Is my rosy self-concept based on nothing but a fluke?
This time if I can’t lose the weight, not only am I going to be jeopardizing my health, but I feel like it will be a big career misstep. Sure, it’s OK with my “people” if I give them a lighthearted book about unsuccessful dieting. Or I could write something more serious about learning to live with my body image. But my friend already wrote a really poignant book on this topic,116and it was so good, I know I’d never do the subject the same kind of justice. The bottom line is, I said I’d lose this weight, and I want to lose it just as much as I don’t want to go back on my word. And I’ve thought about nothing else for the past week and a half.
Since we’re on speaking terms again
, I want to call my mother and have her tell me what to do. I’ve always gone to her when things have gotten too tough, and this is why I’ve been stuck in a perpetual adolescence. Until we stopped speaking, I never completely resolved issues on my own before. This is the problem with our relationship and the root of why we end up fighting—I’m almost forty, and I’ve been forcing my mother to actively parent me far past the point when she should have to worry about me. And then after she’s helped me and gotten enmeshed in whatever my problems are, I get defensive when it feels like she’s overstepping her bounds. I realize now that I’ve put her in a lot of unwinnable situations, and I am sorry.
So I can’t ask her help, for both our sakes. I’ve got to figure this out on my own. Maybe that’s the whole point of this exercise? And maybe my weight isn’t only because I eat too much and don’t move enough—maybe I’m heavy because I just haven’t been ready to act like an adult? I see plenty of people my age buying fat-free cheese and jogging along the lakeshore in the morning. I wonder how many of them do these sorts of things not because they want to, but because they have to. Many? Most?
To protect my health and, by extension, my career, I need to actively start making decisions like a grown-up, but I don’t know how to be an adult.
I do have experience being a professional, though, and that’s a reasonable facsimile. How would a professional handle my situation? If I break things down into business terms, perhaps the answer will present itself ?
Say I owned a coffee shop—how would I handle it if my espresso maker broke? The wrong thing would be to ignore it and attempt to convince my customers they’d rather have tea, although that’s exactly what I’ve done with my body. No, if I had a broken machine, I might give it a once-over to see if there were any glaring items I could fix myself. But I’d understand that the espresso maker was a central part of my business and I’d call a professional to fix it as soon as possible.
Bingo.
I need a professional.
Correction: I need professional diet help.
Such a pretty fat: one narcissist's quest to discover if her life makes her ass look big Page 16