Frowning, Fletch walks over to his closet and pulls out a pair of slick silver and black running shoes and locates an extra-squashy pair of white socks from the mass tangle of clean duds. “You realize you’ll owe me after this.”
“Name your price.”
He cuts his eyes over to the piles and says, “Mount Polyester is gone before bedtime tonight.”
“Done.” I walk over to inspect myself in the full-length mirror and notice a splotch right where an embroidered alligator or pledge pin would go. “Aw, shit; there’s a big butter stain on my shirt. Or maybe it’s olive oil?” I glance over at Fletch. “Oh, stop smirking. At least it’s not chocolate or red wine.”
“Mmm. Thank God,” he concurs.
“Hey, can you grab my New Balance sneaks out of the guest room closet while I search for a different top? I have to change shoes so they match.”
I dig through the piles and toss on a plain white T and my brand-new red mesh shorts. They are both sparkling clean and will do nicely, except now I’ll have to find a different bandana, too. I locate a white one locked in mortal static-cling combat with a fuzzy pair of pajama bottoms. I remove the plaid one and redo the pins just as Fletch returns with my shoes. “Here you go,” he says. “Hey, you’ve got a couple of stickers on your butt. Here, I’ll get them.” He leans down behind me and pulls them off.
“Stickers? What do they say?”
He squints. “2XL and Made in Vietnam.” He folds the papers tacky-side down and flicks them into the garbage can.
“Huh,” I muse. “I didn’t know Vietnam manufactured clothes. Then again, almost all my knowledge of Vietnam comes from a single film I saw in a History of War class in college. Basically all I remember is how wee all the Vietnamese were compared to the American GIs.”137
"Asians are significantly smaller than us. During the last Olympics in Japan, they had to rip out all the seats so they could accommodate our expansive Western asses.” He pumps his fists in the air, “USA! USA!”
I look at myself in the mirror, turning from side to side. “I wonder what those lithe little Vietnamese thought as they were sewing up my big red shorts. They must feel we’re so overindulged and decadent here.”
“Nah.” Fletch giggles. “I bet they waved them over their heads and ran around the factory shouting, ‘Gojira, Gojira!’ and then stomped up and down the aisle between the sewing machines, pretending they were crushing cars and fighting Mothra.” He collapses into a pile of laundry, clutching his sides.
“Nice,” I say. “What an excellent support system you are. You can fold your own damn laundry, mister.” I hear him call out an apology as I clamor down the stairs, but he’s still laughing, so it doesn’t count. “Oh, and by the way, Fletch? If some guy wants to touch your winky at the gym? I’m going to let him.”
I step over the yoga mat where Fletch lies clutching his sides for a second time today. I think Barbie’s free-motion fitness class may well have killed him.
Barbie points at me as I walk up to her. “You’ve been holding out on me, girl! I figured you’d have to modify some of the moves, but you did them all! I’m so proud of you!”
“I know!” I exclaim. “I can’t believe I kept up!”
Barbie glances at Fletch’s prone form. “Is he going to be OK?”
“He’s fine, just settling a little karmic debt. Anyway, that was kind of fun. I liked working out with the sound system—really got me motivated.”
“This is the first time we’ve been together and I didn’t hear you complaining,” she tells me with a big grin.
“Probably a pleasant change for you, right? Frankly, I would have started to whine, but I was too busy trying not to attract attention from the fit people during class.”
“Can I expect this new and improved attitude during our session tomorrow?”
“Oh, Christ, no.”
“Good. Because that would be boring!” We walk out to the reception desk so she can grab her calendar. We confirm our time for tomorrow and she gives me a little hug even though I’m gross. She heads into the office, and I go back to the group fitness room to stand over Fletch, who’s quietly whimpering.
“Hey, sweetie? If you can get up, I can take you home.”
I’m upstairs in the bedroom trying on my new dress, which is sleeveless. I can’t believe I bought a sleeveless dress. For me, sleeveless is the new n-a-k-e-d. But this was on major mark-down, and it was so pretty that I couldn’t help but try it on. I was attracted to it because it’s deep purple, and it’s printed with designs in teals and golds, and there are sparkly beads all over it. Empire waisted, it falls to the perfect midcalf length, but it’s cut conservatively enough to be appropriate on any veranda on Martha’s Vineyard.138I was shocked when I looked at myself in the trifold mirror—where’d all my back fat go?
While I’m busy admiring myself, the phone rings. “Hello?”
“Jen, it’s Kate—I’ve got good news! We got a bid for Bitter rights in Korea!” What my agent means is, someone in Korea wants to publish my first book. Foreign rights sales are the best because as a writer you don’t have to do anything except sign a contract.
“Really? Wow!” Then I remember something. “But aren’t they communists? Why do they want to publish a book about my rampant consumerism?”
I hear Kate take a deep breath, like she often does when we chat. “Ah, no. We’re talking about South Korea. Kim Jong Il did not make the offer, Jen.”
“Oh. Well, that’s good, right?”
“Of course! Congratulations!”
“One question, though.”
“What’s that?”
“How are they going to translate ‘asshat’ into Korean?”
After I finally stop modeling my new dress for myself, I e-mail my mother with the news of the Korean sale, relaying the conversation I had with Kate. My mother’s response?
They read right to left in Korea, so “asshat” is going to be translated backwards. Thousands of Koreans will be trying to picture what a hat for the ass looks like.
Seriously, how do I ever fight with this woman?
Session Seventeen
All of my regular bras are too big—not only are they loose in the band, but I could totally stow a pair of socks in each cup. I’m delighted at this development, but I don’t like how everything clatters around up there now when I’m at the gym. Before I leave for my session today, I dig out an old bra from the bag I’ve yet to remember to bring to Goodwill.
I pull out a nice white racer-back. Why was I giving this one away? Since I’m the perpetual optimist, I never get rid of stuff when it gets too small, although I donate what I’m tired of seeing or don’t use anymore. Last charity go-round, I did a huge suit purge. I had really nice pieces, too, but I haven’t needed anything business-y for years. These suits are going to get a second life somewhere in the corporate world, and that makes me happy.
As I dress, I notice that this bra is snug in all the right places, and I like how much support it has. Plus, I love having a front hook—none of that upside-down-and-around -the-waist business here!139What was my problem? Why would I dump something with such a great fit? I turn and look at myself sideways in the mirror. Very nice!
I’m not more than thirty seconds into the warm-up matrix Barbie has me do prior to each of our sessions when I remember why this bra was in the donation bin. In the middle of my set of weighted uppercuts, bing! My bra flies open. Oh, yeah. . . . It has a faulty hook. The slightest lateral movement and the clasp pops.
“Why did you stop?” Barbie asks.
“My bra came undone,” I reply. “I’m going to duck into the yoga room to rehook it. Stand by.” I’ve developed quite the comfort level around Barbie, so this does not cause the earth to open up and swallow me whole. After all, she witnessed my attempts at squats and lunges on my first day, and nothing could be any more graceless or ungainly than that.
After the minor adjustment, I pick up my weights and continue. “We left off at ten,
so there’s nine, eight, seven, six . . . again?”
I have to dash into the yoga room a second time.
This happens four more times in as many minutes, and now it’s just funny. “Can you check the office for some duct tape?” I ask.
“Good call.” Barbie bounds across the gym and returns a few minutes later with a safety pin and some Scotch tape.
“No duct tape?” I ask.
“This is all I could find.”
I MacGyver my bra closed and continue our session. The pin and the tape hold together so well, I decide to walk on the treadmill afterward. I started doing extra cardio a while back when an older gentleman was training at the same time as me. After he finished his grueling session, I watched as he hopped on the treadmill for a quick jog. I figured if a man in his seventies could do it, damn it, so could I.
Other than the exploding underwear, I’m pleased about the work I did today. I’m starting to feel really energized during my sessions, and I daresay I might even be enjoying them. This is entirely Barbie’s doing. It took me weeks to realize that during the hardest parts of whatever we were into, she’d start talking about either celebrity gossip or my writing. Until she finally admitted it, I had no clue she was intentionally distracting me with my favorite topics.
Strong is the force in this one.
I’m down another five pounds this week, exactly the amount I’d hoped for. However, I’ve been conducting an experiment with my eating. This week I ate Jenny Craig meals only about half the time. The other half, I ate whatever I fixed for Fletch, portioning out smaller servings of meat, pasta, and fats, and loading up on vegetables.
Jenny Craig has a formula I’m supposed to follow when preparing meals on my own, but it’s confusing and entails math, so I based my decisions on a straight calorie count. My intention is to go off the Jenny meals because they’re kind of a crutch and they aren’t meant to be a long-term solution. Besides, I’m really, really sick of the food. The more I eat it, the more I find fault. At this point I’m getting the same four lunches, four dinners, and three breakfasts each week, and my palate is about to go on strike. Boredom is exactly why so many diets are unsuccessful, and I don’t want monotony to tempt me back into my old way of eating. I feel too good.
I’m in my regular meeting at Jenny with Little Miss Birthmark and I mention for the third week running that I’d really like to transition onto nonfrozen, nonboxed food. I don’t tell her how much menu planning I’ve already been doing on my own.
“Sure, we’ll talk about that next time. For now, you should appreciate what great results you’re getting on the Jenny Craig meals,” she says.
Wrong answer, Señorita Carcinoma. Wrong answer.
Session Twenty
Today’s my third training session in as many days because Barbie’s going out of town for the Fourth of July. The more I do, the better I get at this, and the last sixty minutes have been grueling. I pushed myself so hard this afternoon, there’s barely a dry spot on my T-shirt. Funny, but I used to base my self-esteem on nothing but designer labels and fancy handbags, yet now I’m positively beaming over a saturated gray T-shirt.
“Check me out!” I exclaim. “There’s even a big line of sweat where my fat roll is!”
“Don’t call it a fat roll,” Barbie scolds. “Let’s call it a two-pack. You only have four to go to make it a six pack! And you did so good today! You going to hit the treadmill now?”
“I am.”
“Way to go! Listen, I’m out of here—I’ll see you next week, all right?” She bounces off, hair swinging, and it makes me smile. How is it I ever contemplated cutting off her ponytail and stuffing it in her mouth so she wouldn’t be able to say, “Four more! Let’s go!”?
I hop on the treadmill, and as I move forward, my steps begin to feel lighter and lighter. I keep walking, but my usual 3.0 mph speed seems like a turtle crawl. I bump it up to 3.2, and that’s still really poky. I add another .4 and I’m up to 3.6, barely breaking my stride. Then I really dial it up, selecting 4.5. The conveyor belt springs to life under my feet, and I have to stand on the rails to keep from shooting off the back of it. OK, that’s fast enough.
Gingerly I step back on and begin to power walk in a most unbecoming fashion, so I jump on the rails again. I want to go this speed, but I can’t walk that fast.
What if I were to run?
No. I can’t run. I mean, I run to the store. I’ll run for the phone. I run out for ice cream. I run my mouth. When I accidentally kicked myself with my London shoes, I put a run in my trouser socks. But I can’t run run. I tried to run once with the dogs about f ive years ago, but I was too out of shape and they kept tripping me with their leashes.
I can’t run. I have bad knees. A weak back. And I’m totally fat. And I just can’t do it. I’m not a run-away person. I’m a stand-and-fight person.
But what if I were to try anyway?
I can’t run.
I am wearing running shoes.
No. I’m not a runner.
I bet running would burn a shitload of calories. Maybe if I ran, I could have a banana daiquiri over the holiday.
Running . . . ridiculous!
How will I know for sure I’m not a runner if I don’t try it, at least once?
But I’ll look like an ass.
Then again, since when has that stopped me from doing anything?
Running . . . that’s crazy talk!
You know what else is crazy? Standing here on the rails, the treadmill zipping away underneath me, having an argument with myself.
I take a deep breath. Do or do not.
Again, I choose do.
Every single bone in my body is jarred. My knees in particular are screaming and need to be iced, like, right this second. I don’t even want to think about how my back is going to feel tomorrow.
Yet I don’t care.
Because I ran.
TO: angie_at_home
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Jen-Point Quiz
Imagine you’re in your basement sorting your work clothes so you can take them to the dry cleaner. While sorting, you run across your wife’s favorite bathing suit drying on a rack.
What do you do next?
a. You put it right back where you found it because your wife expressly instructed you to only grab your work clothes. And as this is plus-sized women’s swimwear, you’re pretty sure you’ve never worn this piece to the office. Also, she yelled at you the seventeen times you accidentally washed and dried it last year.
b. You put it right back where you found it because your wife expressly instructed you to stay the hell away from her laundry as she’s still pissed off you shrunk most of her polo shirts when you washed them in boiling water and dried them within an inch of their lives last week and thank fucking God she’s a little thinner and can fit into them because otherwise they’d be ruined.
c. You put it right back where you found it because your wife begged you to please, please, please ask her if you ever have any laundry-based questions. And, really? Since you work hard, maybe just leave everything for her because she promises you she doesn’t mind washing all the clothes, especially since nothing gets ruined that way.
d. You take the bathing suit directly to the dry cleaner.
Try to guess how Fletch answered this question.
Here’s a hint—it involves a sheet of clear plastic and a hanger.
Arrggh.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Et Tu, Valerie Bertinelli?
When I get back from the store, there’s a message on my voice mail. I drop my shopping bags and punch in the access code, and Angie’s voice comes across the speakerphone. “Hey, it’s Ang. You’re not home, so possibly that means you found somewhere to wallow. Hope that improved your mood. Call me when you’re dry.” I quickly stow the light rum and banana daiquiri mix and dash upstairs to return her call. She answers on the second ring.
“Yo, Happy Fourth of July!” I shout.
&nb
sp; “Your spirits have improved considerably,” she replies. “Did your plotting work out? Did you get yourself invited to a pool party?”
I spent an hour last night complaining to her that this was the first Fourth of July in decades I wouldn’t spend submerged, as my parents sold their home with its in-ground pool last summer. I hate that they no longer have a body of water in their backyard.
Technically, they have a lake, but it’s a nonswimming lake, and please don’t even get me started on how you can have a lake and not be able to swim in it because it’s a freaking lake and that’s madness, I tell you.140
I’d have other stuff to do and wouldn’t be so f ixated on swimming if Fletch were home, but he’s in Texas. During our millionth we-should-move-to-the-suburbs argument, he brought up the idea of moving to a smaller city since we both can do our jobs anywhere.141We did a ton of research and decided Austin could be ideal for a variety of factors, not the least of which is how many people we know down there. Fletch is currently a guest at his best friend’s house, and he’s having a blast running recon missions. He’s already done the most important legwork—checking out the grocery stores. Two thumbs up for Central Market!
When he gets back, I’m sure we’ll go to Oak Street beach. For now, I’m fixated on my old pool. It’s not just the loss of a place to swim that had me so wound up when I talked to Angie last night. There was always something magical about this time of year at my parents’ house. Somehow the Fourth was the one time my brother and I could declare a détente. Regardless of how much we fought the rest of the year,142 we always put our differences aside enough to have fun for a couple of steamy midsummer days.
Except for the addition of a wife, a husband, and three grandchildren over the years, our holiday was always exactly the same. We’d get out of bed and change directly from pajamas to swimsuits and have breakfast on the patio, finding common ground in ridiculing my mother’s terrible coffee and burnt toast. (Perhaps those days weren’t quite so magic for my mom? Regardless, after sixty-plus years you’d think she’d know not to put the bagels in the oven on high for thirty minutes.)
Such a pretty fat: one narcissist's quest to discover if her life makes her ass look big Page 20