After breakfast we’d jump in the water, which had finally grown warm in the July sun, to rinse off the bits of bagel carbon, and we’d have our first Funnoodle battle of the day. Todd could hit much harder, but I was better at treading water, so we often ended in a draw. Then, working together, we’d take the metal table and umbrella off the patio and place it in the shallow end, complete with all the matching metal chairs, and we’d spend the rest of the day using it as a swim-up bar, never once leaving for biology breaks.143
During the course of the afternoon, we’d have daiquiri-making contests—mine were always the sweetest, and Dad’s tended to be so booze laden they’d tear all the skin off our lips. There’d be naps in the sun and trashy books read while sitting on the pool’s wide, smooth cement steps or balanced on one of the many air mattresses from the pool house. Later, there’d be another Funnoodle battle royale and grilled meats, and my mom would serve her red, white, and blue Jell-O flag cake that no one liked, except we’d always demand she make it because it was tradition. We’d cap off the evening with fireworks, and eventually we’d all pass out, still feeling the rippling of the water underneath the floats we’d lounged on during the day. Yet now some random family is enjoying my pool.144
Anyway, this year I figured I had two choices. Plan A, I could go down to my parents’ house with a backhoe, some cement, and a better attitude, or, Plan B, I wangle an invitation to someone else’s pool because I like wallowing and reading and drinking daiquiris a lot more than trying to dig a big hole. I made a concerted effort to charm everyone I know with access to water and . . . nothing. Either no one got the hint, or they assumed I’d go to their house and mock their bagels.
For the moment I’m happy because I came up with Plan C. I just picked up a copy of Will Smith’s Independence Day at Target, and I have banana daiquiri fixings.145
But if I don’t get access to a pool soon, something very bad is going to happen.
Fletch is back from Austin, and turns out what sounded great on paper didn’t match up to reality. He says it’s so hot down there, I’d spontaneously combust the second I stepped off the plane. Plus with humidity turning the air as thick as oatmeal, my hair would always be a disaster.
So Austin’s out.
Save for two daiquiris, this week I follow the Jenny Craig plan to the letter. I’m rewarded with a .2-pound weight loss. Which means if I hadn’t peed before I left the house, I’d be at scratch. After three training sessions, four additional cardio hours, including running, I’m down .2 pounds? What are those, ounces? Percentages of a pound? No one even knows because the sum is so negligible. We’d have to send it off to NASA for them to figure it out. And Gorbachev wrote the number down on my chart like I’d done something great.
This is bullshit.
I’m aware that muscle weighs more than fat, so I ask them to take my measurements. I want tangible proof of my efforts. I’m confident that what I’m doing is working because when I woke up today, I had only one chin, and my knees don’t have fat buttresses on either side of them anymore. Yet it would be nice to see some numbers side by side so I can have my yay, me, three inches! moment. But according to Betty Birthmark, they do the tape measure only once a month, and today’s not my day.
While I was waiting to go into my session and find out about my whopping .2 pounds, I browsed the celebrity magazines in the lobby. A People magazine was marked, and I opened it to read about Valerie Bertinelli’s success on Jenny Craig. Turns out she celebrated her son’s big day not with triple-layer fudge cake and thick mocha icing, but with a plate of Jenny mac ’n’ cheese, which only highlighted how rigid I find the eating plan. Why would I want to continue with a diet that doesn’t take real life into account? I understand birthday cake every day is a bad idea, but birthday cake never? That’s not a world I want to live in.
I am surly and withdrawn for the course of our post-weigh -in pep talk, and by the time I’m halfway home with my hateful groceries, I make my decision.
“Fletch . . . Fletch? Where are you?” I call, dropping my bags on the counter.
He pops into the kitchen. “I’m here. Do you need some help?”
“No, not with carrying stuff. I need an opinion. I look different, right? Thinner? I feel good on the inside, but can you see a difference from the outside?”
“Yes! Absolutely! You’re much more”—he makes a packing motion with his hands—“compact. Streamlined. Why do you ask?”
“I’m considering quitting Jenny and doing something else, like Weight Watchers’ online program.”
“How come?”
“Because I read an article where Valerie Bertinelli couldn’t eat a piece of cake at her son’s birthday party.”
“OK, then.” Sometimes he doesn’t even want the back-story.
“Yeah. I’m quitting. I’m not eating this stuff anymore.” I motion to the boxes splayed all over the table, slowly defrosting. “Again, I look good, right? You’d be honest with me?”
“You look great. But to confirm, you’re done? No more boxed food?”
“I am.” I take an orange out of the fruit bowl, wash it, and begin to peel.
He raises a lascivious eyebrow. “All right. Then there’s been something I’ve really wanted.”
What? There’s daylight! And we’re in the kitchen! And there’s no wine! But I am thinner, and I do look good. . . .
Fletch begins to reach. His arm encircles me . . . before he plunges it into one of my bags of food. He digs around and fishes out a box of silver dollar pancakes and veggie sausage.
"Mmm,” he says. "Breakfast!”146
“Wouldja look at these morose motherfuckers?147Have they been like this all day?” Fletch gestures to the dogs, draped on either side of the couch, heads resting on paws, staring despondently out the window.
“Probably. They’re bored and they’ve been alone most of the day. I was at the gym early this afternoon and then I came back to shower before going out again to the nail salon. See? Look.” I waggle my fingers at Fletch, proudly displaying my fresh manicure in Lippman’s Dark Side of the Moon.
“Yikes. What to you call that color? Black? Muffy Goes Goth?” Fletch asks.
“They aren’t black; they’re a deep, deep wine, and this is a very stylish color.” I hold my foot up to the light coming in from the window and admire. Oh, so cute! If you ask me, this shade of near black is so much prettier than OPI’s Lincoln Park After Dark or Chanel’s Vamp.148
“Didn’t you just get your nails done last week?”
“Yeah, dad, but the place is supercheap, and it just opened so they’ve got brand-new equipment. They have massage chairs that punch you so hard you’re practically tossed out of them, and they totally work out all the knots. My back is really sore from running, so I figured I could either go the chiropractor and fork over a twenty-dollar copay, or I could go to the nail salon, pay ten dollars more to sit in the punch-y chairs, and save myself the time and effort of having to do my nails myself. Genius, right?”
“I guess, except now that the dogs were alone all day, they look about ready to commit suicide.” Big sad eyes look up at us. Loki sighs and blinks while Maisy gives her tail a wan little wag, thumping quietly against the leather of the couch. “Should we take them out for a w-a-l-k?”
“I don’t know—why don’t you ask them if they want one? Hey, dogs? Do you . . . wanna go for a walkies?” Suddenly the world’s most despondent creatures rocket off the couch. Loki spins around in circles, howling with joy, and Maisy tears up and down the hallway, banking off the ottoman every time she hits the living room.
“I’m going to take that as a yes.” Fletch attempts to leash the beasts while I go to the kitchen to collect small plastic grocery bags to scoop poop. We used to keep a cool little holder snapped to each of their leashes that came with its own special bags, but we finally figured out that the bags cost fifty cents apiece. Maisy always gets so excited during walks that she’ll go three or four times, and I told Fletch we ma
y as well be wiping her ass with dollar bills.
Five minutes later, the dogs are finally corralled and double collared. We lock the front door and trot down the stairs. Fletch asks, “Where to?”
“Why don’t we walk by that little playground park? Other dog owners hang out there, and it might be nice for these two to socialize,” I suggest. We take off down the street, practically waterskiing behind our respective mutts. Loki stops to lift his leg on every pole, post, and tree for the next four blocks. Maisy won’t go until we get to a grassy area, so she chugs ahead like a stinky little steam engine.
We arrive at the park in a few minutes and it’s almost exactly like that Chicago song, except the man selling ice cream is actually hawking churros and elotes.149It’s twilight, so the heat of the day is finally starting to dissipate and the whole neighborhood seems to be out here enjoying the evening. Kids climb the jungle gyms, and old men decked out in straw hats and guayaberas play chess on stone benches with transistor radios softly playing mariachi music beside them. And our dogs, being the social creatures they are, lose their minds at the site of so many people they’ve yet to lick. Seriously, who would want to live in the suburbs when there’s so much interesting stuff going on here?
We let the neighborhood children pet the dogs until one of them starts to yank on Loki’s ears and tail. Whereas Maisy would take this kind of abuse all day, Loki gives us a look that says, “You’ve got exactly five seconds to make this stop before I do.” We quickly say good-bye to the kids and hustle the dogs along.
When we reach the end of the playground, we walk past a giant public pool. I’ve known it was here for years but always assumed it was all squalid and awful. I wrote it off as being like Caddy Day at Bushwood, with floating Baby Ruth bars and stray scabby Band-Aids and grody kids leaking sewage out the sides of their rubber swim pants. No, thanks.
Right now this place doesn’t look at all like the fetid cesspool I’d always assumed it was; rather, it’s a big, sparkly, cerulean gem, its calm waters reflecting the halogen lights around it. I turn to Fletch and say, “I just found the solution to my pool lust.”
“Very nice,” he agrees. “I didn’t expect it to be so clean. I figured it would be all broken bottles and stray newspapers.”
“Let’s see if we can find a schedule,” I say, and we navigate the dogs around the large Tudor-style field house. We quickly locate a bulletin board with pool information on it, and it’s full of times to come and swim for free.
Jen’s Life Lesson #1287: Even if your parents move, it’s possible to get your wallow on.
Fletch and I are on one of our daily Target jaunts. We keep a permanent list of what’s running low on the fridge, yet we always seem to need something here. I suspect we’re not really out of stuff; rather, these constant errand runs are Fletch’s excuse to drive the new car. Even though we’ve had it a couple of months now, I’ll often catch him in the garage, gazing at it for no reason.150
We’re here for dog food, and when we get to the pet aisle, I’m closer to the Iams display, so I grab a huge bag of their lower-calorie151formula and toss it in the cart, “Hey! Look at me with all my strongs!” I exclaim, curling my bicep so Fletch can get a front-row seat at the gun show.
My arms are magnificent.
OK, fine.
My arms are magnificent by no one’s standards but my own. They’re still bat-wing-y underneath. They could be a lot more solid. But my shoulders square off at the end instead of gently sloping into the beef of my upper arms, and I can clearly see the outlines of my triceps. When I wave, the whole thing is less jiggly. Plus, I can throw around forty pounds of kibble now, as opposed to nothing, and that’s a huge victory. I’m as proud of these little mounds of submerged strength as any Brazilian supermodel would be of her Lloyd’s of London-insured multimillion-dollar gams, and at some point this summer, I’m going to go sleeveless in my new dress for the first time this century. I have earned it.
As we pass the liquor aisle,152a huge grin spreads across my face. I don’t need any wine, but now that I’m doing Weight Watchers online, it’s nice to know I could get it if I wanted it. I tell Fletch, “I feel like I’ve got a piece of my life back because this plan has me making my own food choices.”
“Didn’t you have a decent amount of freedom of choice with Jenny Craig? There was a bunch of stuff on the menus you had.”
“Yes and no. On Jenny, I ate my choice of A, then B, then C, with snacks of D and E, and that was it. I only really liked about fifteen items, so by the time I quit, I never wanted to see another mock-McMuffin, meatloaf, or lemon cake again.”
We stroll through the fabric softener aisle and I start unscrewing caps so I can pick the best scent. The first two I sniff are cloying and artificial, but the third is fresh and delightful. Fletch’s masculinity won’t be compromised if his undershirts smell like wild orchids, right? I toss the bottle in the basket.
Fletch checks fabric softener off the list and we proceed to the soap aisle, where he selects a bottle of unscented body-wash. I guess he doesn’t want the smell of his soap clashing with the orchids?
“What’s weird is, my eating has been regimented for what feels like so long now, it kind of blows my mind that I can have anything I want, as long as I account for the fat and calories and fiber. Take gelato, for example. I could eat it right now.”
Fletch goes all Homer Simpson on me for a moment. “Mmm . . . ge-la-to.”
"I’ve kept my POINTS153low today, and I trained with Barbie. I’ve already more than made up for it if I decide to splurge. I could have gelato, and it won’t be served with a side of guilt. Not freaking out over every single calorie going in my mouth feels liberating. And weird.”
“Ever since you started Weight Watchers, you’re a lot less fixated on what you can’t have. There were a few times on Jenny Craig I feared you’d cut me for a bite of my meat.” He laughs.
“If you knew how close you were to the business end of my steak knife, you wouldn’t be laughing. That night I had two ounces of soggy fish stick and you had a beautifully charred rib eye that covered your entire plate? And while you chewed, you inadvertently made little yum-yum noises? Had I stabbed you, no female jury would have convicted me.”
“You told me it didn’t bother you if I had a steak.”
“I lied.” We wander through the garden section, and I’m deeply disappointed to see that the four-foot-tall wire rooster has finally sold. Angie and I have been watching this item from our respective Targets all summer. We pledged that the minute it was marked down, we’d buy it, even though neither of us had an idea of what we’d do with it. I gesture toward the empty shelf. “It’s gone.”
“I’m sure the dogs will sleep easier tonight knowing you won’t be chasing them around with a giant metal bird,” he replies. Right, like I’m the one who found his father’s old bear rug in a box in the basement and put it on his head to "see how the dogs will react.”154It took me a week to scrub off the putrescent fluid that shot out of Loki’s bunghole and onto the cabinet when he caught site of a bear in his kitchen. To this day I can’t go to the basement to wash a load of socks without Loki barking his face off to let me know there might be bears downstairs.
Again, this is why we aren’t having children.
“Anyway,” Fletch continues, “how does Weight Watchers give you back your life?”
I stop to run my hands over a display of beach towels while I gather my thoughts. I’m going swimming tomorrow and I don’t want to have to use a towel from our bathroom. These are all stripe-y and cute, so I toss a couple in the cart. “OK, here’s an example: One of our favorite things to do in the summer is go to Caffe Gelato on Division, right?”
“We haven’t been there in forever,” Fletch says.
“Right. And we used to go all the time last year. In the winter when we’d drive past, I’d be happy remembering how much we enjoy that place. But this year, every time we’d go down Division, I’d get depressed.”
&nbs
p; “I know.”
“Really? How?” I love how perceptive Fletch is. Sometimes it’s like we have this whole unspoken bond and he just senses my feelings.
“You’ve yelled, ‘I want some goddamned gelato!’ every time we’ve driven by it this summer.”
Oh, right.
I continue, “I wasn’t just mad about the ice cream. Think about it—what do we do when we go to Caffe Gelato?”
“Have dessert?” Fletch takes a sleeveless gray shirt off the rack and holds it up. He does not share my fear of bare arms and seems to enjoy exposing his pits at the gym. He checks the price—$3.99; score!—and tosses it in the cart.
“Yes, but we do more than that. Since you don’t let me eat ice cream in the car—”
“If you could keep all the ‘sticky’ in the cup, I would.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes. From how he talks, you’d think I was Pigpen, leaving a viscous cloud of filth behind me every time I enter a vehicle. “I was saying, because you’re a car Nazi, we have to eat it there, so we station ourselves at one of the little metal tables. It’s always a gorgeous night, and we sit at the table, eat gelato, and laugh the whole time.”
“Can’t help it. That spot is the epicenter of all the hipsters in the entire city—and thus hilarious to me.”
At this point we’ve wandered into housewares. Target has this whole tiki-bar line of indoor-outdoor entertaining pieces with monkeys on them, and I’m totally enamored. Because you know what my house needs? Plastic cups adorned with cartoon monkeys.
I continue, “See, getting gelato isn’t just about eating something sweet; it’s a whole ritual. If we were to simply have a Jenny Craig dessert in our house, we’d miss out on the experience of giggling at Wicker Park residents sauntering by with their skinny jeans and random facial hair. And how would they know they’re ridiculous if we weren’t there to laugh at them? Getting gelato is a fun summer habit, and I’ve really missed not being able to do so this year. But now that I’m on Weight Watchers, we can go.” I inspect all sides of the glass—looks like it would hold a whole can of soda plus ice and—
Such a pretty fat: one narcissist's quest to discover if her life makes her ass look big Page 21