I’m not sure which hurt most.
So, I’m walking around the most historic parts of the city in the sneakers I threw in the bag at the last minute. The only outfit I have to go with them is some ugly sweatpants and a too-big T-shirt I brought in case the hotel rooms were too cold. All I need right now to look like the consummate tourist is a fanny pack. This is not the style splash I’d hoped to make on my East Coast debut. I’m buying the Crocs because at least they’ll be cute with the other stuff I packed.
As he works the register, the shoe salesman says, “Why do you need to apologize to Philadelphia?”
“Like ten years ago I had to come out here in the winter, and I didn’t get a very good impression of the city.” It was my first business trip and I was stuck in a crappy hotel in the suburbs for an entire month, learning a job I had no clue if I’d ever master. “But now with everything green and blooming and so clean? I can’t get over how beautiful it is here.”
“Thanks! The city’s done a lot by means of urban renewal over the past few years.”
“It shows.” He begins to pack up my shoes, but I stop him. “Do you mind if I just wear them?”
He hands them over, and I’m on my way.
I’m out on this walk sort of by accident. I meant to go out for a Philly cheesesteak, but right as I was leaving the hotel, I got a text message from Barbie, detailing all the exercises I could do in my hotel room.
“Oh, Barbie,” I texted back. “You are ADORABLE if you think I’m working out on this trip.”
"U CAN DO IT!! ☺” was her enthusiastic reply.
I walked out the door, fuming to myself. Right. I’m on a book tour. I’m allowed to do what I want. This is my week! Who does she think she is texting me when I’m not even in town, giving me instructions on what I’m supposed to do? Tell you what; she’s allowed to train me when I am in the gym. Her dominion over me does not extend to fucking Pennsylvania. This is my personal time right now, and I do not need some Barbie doll telling me what to do. For Christ’s sake, how often am I going to be in Philadelphia with the opportunity to buy an authentic cheesesteak? This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and that little girl is out of her goddamned mind if she thinks I’m going to—
At this point I realized I’d been stomping around on the cobbled streets of Philadelphia, not only for forty-five minutes, but also past a dozen different shops selling cheesesteaks. And I was hot and sweaty, and the idea of greasy meat swimming in cheese didn’t sound that great anymore.
After getting the shoes, I walk some more and I pick up a big salad and an apple at a Cosi on my way back to the hotel. When I get to my room, I pick up my cell phone and text, “I walked for 1.5 hours, so get off my shit.”
Her reply? “WOO-HOO, GOOD JOB! HOW ABOUT SOME CRUNCHES NOW? ☺”
I still hate her.
I’m also beginning to respect her.
I leave Philadelphia with my lips having never touched a cheesesteak. I’m not sure if this makes me angry or happy.
Now I’m off to New York . . . again.
I have nine thousand key lime martinis with a group of fans after my book event at the Astor Place Barnes & Noble.130 Fletch thinks it’s odd that I like to try to connect with people who read my books, but how could I resist hanging out with a group of funny, smart, tan people wearing pearls and looking to share stories with me over cocktails? What’s not to like?
At some point in the evening, I lose my voice (and part of my mind) when I can’t stop loudly exclaiming over how one of the women never saw the movie Footloose. Seriously, how do you make it to 2007 without your RDA of Kevin Bacon? It’s practically criminal.
Most of the evening is a pink-plaid, jeweled-sandaled, vodka-soaked blur, and it goes by way too fast. I end up passed out on my hotel bed, face-first in the club sandwich and French fries my agent bought me right before she deposited my drunk ass in a cab.
I did get to see my family, though, and that was great, too. Turns out they were staying at the Milford Plaza. Woo-hoo?
I didn’t hate New York this time: I didn’t feel quite so claustrophobic. We either went to restaurants with bigger chairs or else I’m a little bit smaller. Either way, it was a pleasant change.
I know my book tour is truly over when the plane comes alive with the happy noise of 164 cell phones springing to life at the same time. I quickly dial Fletch. “The eagle has landed. The eagle, of course, being me.” Fletch is hovering around the periphery of the airport somewhere. Although we’re well past the pick-you-up-at-the-airport phase, he’s still very much in the will-drive-the-new-car-to-hell-and-back stage and thus volunteered to collect me. “Great! Call me when you have your bags and tell me what door you exit.”
I snap my phone shut and retrieve my carry-on, and within five minutes I’m out of the plane and back in O’Hare. I make my way to baggage claim, ignoring how my pretty silver thong sandals fail to absorb any sort of shock from walking. I was going to wear my Crocs, but I figured these are the kind of shoes that get you an upgrade . . . except they didn’t. I briefly consider explaining my dilemma to one of those red-vested golf-cart guys in the airport to see if he’ll drive me to baggage claim, but decide doing so will probably put me on a terrorist watch list.
As I clomp along, pain shooting up my spine with every (adorable!) step I take, I think about how this is the first time in days I’ve laid a paw on my own luggage, instead choosing to pass out five-dollar bills131like Halloween candy. New York and Philly were nothing but skycaps, bell-men, and taxis, and it was heavenly. I don’t care how fit I get; I will always delight in someone else carrying the heavy stuff.
My easily spotted pewter suitcase is among the first off the conveyor. I notice that at some point between New York and here, someone slapped a HEAVY sticker on it. For a second I panic and assume American Airlines is passing judgment on me and not my bag, and then I remember I’ve stuffed it full of the free books I begged for when I visited the Take Room at my publisher. Stuffed to bursting, the bag easily weighs seventy-five pounds.
I quickly dial Fletch and take myself out to the curb. Within moments, Fletch pulls up and pops the trunk.
“Hello!” I call, waving furiously. Fletch waves back, gesturing to his BlackBerry. Looks like he’s wrapping up a call.
I stand on the curb and wait with my bag.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Oh, boy, Fletch is going to really struggle getting this puppy into the trunk! AA was right—it is heavy.
Waiting.
While I wait, I examine the damage this week’s done to my manicure. My coral-colored polish has held up nicely, and I’m pleased. I got the bottle free with a coupon because I spent more than $100 at Ulta3 last quarter. I congratulate myself on my ability to be thrifty.
Waiting.
I wonder whom he’s talking to.
Waiting.
I take a closer look at the HEAVY sticker on my bag. The airline has kindly informed anyone who comes near it to lift with her knees and not her back. Or, in this case, Fletch should lift with his knees.
Waiting.
Isn’t that nice of American Airlines? Certainly I don’t want Fletch throwing out his back because of me and my free-book habit.
Waiting.
I glance down at my traveling outfit. My black Lacoste and green cargo capris have survived the journey well.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Horns honking.
Waiting.
I again admire my shiny silver thong sandals. Even though they hurt, I really dig the practically flat stacked heel, and the shiny baubles and attached pearls are just too cute.
Waiting.
Shiny!
Waiting.
Sparkly!
Waiting.
Honking?
Waiting.
Honking with a side of mild profanity.
Fletch really must be on an important call.
Waiting.
&nb
sp; At this point, an airport security guard approaches and very loudly tells me to, “Stop fucking standing there looking at your feet, lady. Get in the car or move on!”
Ahh! I can’t wait for Fletch! Damn it; I knew I’d somehow end up at Gitmo because of this trip! And I even wore sandals so no one would think I was a shoe bomber! Shit!
I grab my heavy, heavy suitcase filled with all my hoarded books and attempt to jam it in this very small trunk.
There’s sweating, swearing, shoving with a side of nail breaking, shoe scuffing, and pants smearing.
I finally stuff it in and am far worse for the wear when I get in the car. I yell, “Hey, asshole! You made me load my bag myself!” We quickly pull away from the curb . . . and angry security guard.
I continue. “And it was heavy!”
“Uh-huh,” Fletch replies.
“And I scuffed my beautiful shoes!”
“Uh-huh.”
“I am so not giving you five dollars!”
Fletch nods. “I’ll get over it. Oh, and by the way? There’s a mountain of dog shit in the backyard with your name on it. You might want to change your shoes before you attack it.”
Dog shit? Moi? With these hands and this manicure? I sputter, “But, no . . . but . . . I’m . . . I’m an author. . . . I went on tour. . . . I sign autographs . . . and have fans . . . and . . .”
Fletch pats my now-filthy knee and smiles. “Welcome back to reality, Princess.”
You know what? Even without professional luggage management and with a husband who makes me touch doody, it’s still damn good to be home. Now’s there’s nothing between me and my goal until the end of the summer.
TO: order_fulfillment
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Quality Control
Dear Order Fulfillment,
I’m not telling you how to do your job; I’m simply asking you to exercise a little bit of common sense.
When your plus-sized customer orders three pairs of extra-extra-large gym shorts online, do you really think two pairs of XXL shorts and one 32 Barely A training bra is the most appropriate substitution?
Attached you will find a photograph of me wearing this bra on my head because it is the only part of my body that it fits.
Please fix,
Jen Lancaster
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Gym Dandy
Here I am, firmly residing in reality again. Last week was a total blast, with cocktails and club sandwiches and cabbies who’d happily haul my bags. Somehow I forgot I’d be coming back to my regular life (and my real-life baggage), which is why I’m in the lobby of Jenny Craig, debating whether I should take off my underpants and bra before I hop on the scale. I’m desperately afraid to see the damages last week wrought.
While I was away, I tried to fill up on vegetables and fruit when I could,132and I got a handle on portion control. When I was at the airport, I got a low-fat yogurt parfait with strawberries and granola and threw it away when I’d finished only half. I hated wasting the food, but better in the trash than on my ass, right? Plus, I did have Barbie’s annoying little voice in my head, so I probably exercised more than I normally would have done. However, I scarfed down everything on the table at Mario’s, and each time I ordered room service, I requested two glasses of wine because, really? Wine pairs perfectly with French fries.
I’m aggravated with myself for not having better control, and I will be blissfully happy today if I haven’t gained more than two pounds. Fortunately, I’m confident I can shake off any book-tour gain by doing time on the elliptical trainer after my session with Barbie. Whatever the news is, I’ll simply deal with it by exercising harder.
An entirely new counselor named Veronica comes to get me before I have the chance to ditch my foundation garments. We go directly to the scale, and I step on, shut my eyes, and hold my breath.
“Ohhhh-kay! Looks like four point five pounds,” she says cheerfully.
“Damn. I didn’t think I gained that much,” I say, stepping off the scale with a heavy heart.
“You didn’t gain four point five pounds. You lost it.”
“What? No, I didn’t. Your scale is wrong. Weigh me again.” This time I hop back on the platform. I watch as the loss registers, and I can’t stop myself from shouting, “Now, that’s what I’m talking about! ”
I’m elated, and I float back into Veronica’s office to discuss my week.
Yet I can’t help but wonder how I lost the most weight during the week I was responsible for choosing my own food.
I’ve been to the gym often enough to notice some stuff I don’t like about the other patrons’ gym etiquette. From now on, I would like everyone to please abide by the following principles.
Jen’s Life Lessons, Gym Edition
Think CSI: West Loop Gym—The towels here are free and plentiful. Please use them to clean up all the DNA you’ve left on the equipment. When I put my shoulders in the squat machine and the bar slips off because you left it sweaty, I will scream, “Gross!” And you will be ashamed.
It’s a Locker Room, Not Your Bedroom—Hey, I love the feeling of community and personal service at this gym, too. But that doesn’t mean I’m so comfortable here that I’m happy to simply drop my clothing all over the bench and floor before toddling off naked into the shower. Also, please never leave your dirty underpants sunny-side up again.
Shut the Fuck Up—People are here lifting heavy things. Not me, of course, but others, and that requires concentration. When you squawk about your mother-in-law loud enough for others to hear it in the Spinning room, we have a problem. Inside voices, people. Inside voices. Mind Your Funk—No one’s saying you have to come to the gym showered, shaved, and sparkle powdered. But a little Speed Stick never hurt anyone.
Really? Spitting? Really?—The fact that you belong to an urban gym tells me you don’t live in a barn. Start acting like it.
Keep the Tunes Low—If I can hear Coldplay coming out your nose, your iPod is too goddamned loud. And how do you work out to Coldplay, anyway? They make me want to lie on a fainting couch, discussing how very gauche Americans are. What’s up with that?
Stop Marking Your Territory—The nice thing about this gym is that it’s never, ever crowded. So there’s no need for you to drape your towel on one machine, then place your water on another and your magazine on a third. Jesus, why not just pee on everything?
Thanks in advance for your participation.
Session Seven
This is the first day I don’t have to nap after a session.
Session Eight
Barbie asks me if the weight is too heavy and I say, “No, it’s actually a little too light,” so she adds five pounds.
How did that happen?
Session Ten and a Half
“Barbie promised it would be fun,” I say, pulling on my pale blue Nikes with the electric lime swoosh, neatly mirroring the acid green of my baggy V-neck. Someday I’ll have a whole wardrobe of those superfitted moisture-wicking Lycra workout tops, but not until I have considerably fewer rolls. Tight gym shirts are a privilege to be earned, and I haven’t yet. Until then, I suffer in a variety of thick pastel cotton T-shirts that nicely conceal the lumps in my topography yet feel like a sweaty bedsheet by the time I finish a workout.
“Explain to me again what it entails,” says Fletch. He sifts through the baskets of clothing on the bed. I should probably admit here that I have a bit of a laundry problem. I will sort, wash, and dry all day long, but when it comes to folding, I lose steam. You could ski down the massive slopes of clean socks and towels stacked up in our bedroom most days. Fletch hates having full baskets of clean, unfolded clothes, but I’ve yet to come up with the proper motivation to spend an afternoon turning someone else’s underpants into origami. If I hold out long enough, he’ll eventually tackle the folding himself.133Fletch continues to paw through reams of sheets and pillowcases, and he bypasses the attractive moisture-wicking tops I got for him. He finally opts for a grungy o
ld concert T-shirt with cutoff sleeves.134
I yank my hair back into a ponytail and adjust my madras do-rag, smoothing it and securing it in place with a couple of bobby pins. I love this particular bandana because it serves a dual purpose: not only does it keep my bangs from falling in my eyes when I’m huffing away on the treadmill, but also all the pretty colors in the plaid tie the various hues of my shorts, shirts, and shoes together.135
“I don’t know exactly; I’ve never been to one, either. But Barbie told me it’s strength training and we’ll do resistance-based exercises with bands, barbells, and stuff. That doesn’t sound bad, right?” I catch the furrow in Fletch’s brow and cut him off before he can complain. “For God’s sake, I promise it’s not a ballet class. We’re going to be working with weights, not disco dancing, OK?”
Fletch has a bizarre phobia about people thinking he’s gay, which is way more ridiculous than my finding-a-severed-head -in-the-toilet fear. If you find a severed head, that’s patently terrifying. What’s the worst that would happen if someone thought he was playing for the home team? He might get a free drink? Or have a conversation about some shoes? He loves drinks and shoes! I guarantee no one’s first thought when they see the guy with a military-grade hair cut in the Metallica T-shirt—especially with his wife—is going to be, “Oh, yeah, total flamer.”136
Fletch begins to waver. “Jen, I’m kind of tired, and this doesn’t—”
“No! You have to come! I can’t go without you because I’m afraid I won’t be able to keep up, and if I’m the only fat, lazy person in the class and I’m alone, then I will die of shame and you will be forced to wash your own damn drawers.”
Fletch considers this. “You want me there not because you’re concerned about my health, but because you don’t want to be alone?”
“Exactly. Also, I’m banking on your lack of endurance. You never do cardio, so there’s a good chance I’ll last longer than you because I’ve been training. You’ll make me look better by comparison. Wait, I said that out loud, didn’t I? What I meant to say was pleeeeease?”
Such a pretty fat: one narcissist's quest to discover if her life makes her ass look big Page 19