I consider what he’s said for a moment. “I guess it worked. Fear is a powerful motivator.”
“Yeah, but look at society today—it’s coming apart at the seams. Fear only works if people are afraid.”
I’m looking up at the sky, and all I can hear is the gentle swish-swish as I slice through the water, yet Fletch’s words keep running through my head. I keep thinking about my own fears.
As I paddle along, I slowly become aware that it’s been fear keeping me out of this pool for so many years. I never came here before because I was afraid I’d make a fool of myself by not having the endurance to complete a lap. The swimming wasn’t what scared me; failure was.
My fear locked me in a state of arrested development for so many years. Fear kept me from tackling my weight, which I understand has simply been symptomatic of my greater fear, growing up.
I glide down the lane on my back and reflect on how good I feel right now.
It’s not because I’ve lost more than thirty pounds.
I feel incredible because I’ve stopped being afraid.
TO: AjaXXX
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Thank you
Hi, AjaXXX,
Thank you for responding to my ad for a biweekly housekeeper on Craigslist. The thing is, we just want REGULAR cleaning service, and not, you know, a topless cleaning service.
I’m way more concerned about getting my shower tiles de-limed than seeing a n-u-d-e person trying to figure out how to operate the attachments on my Dyson.
Thank you anyway, and best of luck,
Jen
CHAPTER TWENTY
The N-a-k-e-d Truth
Session Thirty
"Where are you off to?” I’m standing in the living room across from Fletch, holding bottles of Smartwater and Ripped to the Max energy supplement,163and my hair’s yanked back in a do-rag and ponytail. I’ve got on my black Gojira shorts and a pink T, and I’m wearing sneakers and thick socks.
“I’m going out to sell Girl Scout cookies. If I don’t meet my Samoa quota, they’re busting me back down to Brownie.”
Nonplussed, he replies, “I meant that as a greeting,” and he returns his attention to his laptop.
"Sho’ nuff.” I lean over to give him a kiss.
He looks suspicious. “Why are you in such a good mood?”
“I have every reason to be happy. The humidity finally broke, it’s a gorgeous day, and I feel terrific. I’m not even dreading going to my training session one iota. . . . I might even be looking forward to it. Progress, right? Remember when I first started and I’d celebrate every time I came home because it meant I didn’t have to go back for two days?”
“No, and I don’t remember you moaning and wailing. At all. For hours on end. For weeks.”
“Ha! You’re hilarious. Not.” I notice that Fletch is firmly entrenched on the couch with work stuff spread from end to end. “Are you going to the office at all today?”
“Everyone’s on vacation, so there’s no reason for me to go downtown.”
“Cool. Then I’m taking your car to the gym.”
“Don’t get it all sweaty.”
“Saying it like that just makes me want to get it extra-sweaty. ”
“See you later.”
I get into the car, crack the sunroof, roll down the windows, and crank Guns n’ Roses. I cruise down the expressway looking and sounding completely cool . . . I mean, if it were twenty years ago or anyone gave a shit about Appetite for Destruction anymore. I’m broadcasting an old-Adam-Sandler -cranking-Billy-Squire-at-the-high-school-in-Billy-Madison vibe, but I don’t care. Welcome to the jungle, fellow motorists! You can taste my Bright Lights, but you won’t get them for free.164I’m barely two songs into the CD when I get to the gym. Oh, well; there’s always the ride home.
I stash my stuff in a locker and wait by the front desk for Barbie. Mike, the West Loop Gym’s manager and resident powerlifter, is standing with his back turned to me, watching a segment on Jerry Springer. Poor Jerry. I know he’s making scads of money and has a really cushy life, but I wonder if he ever wants to shout at his assembled band of idiots, I used to be the mayor, damn it!165
While I ponder, Mike turns around and notices me. “Hey, you’re here!”
“I’m here!” I reply heartily. “And so are you!”
Mike picks up a clipboard. “No, I mean, I’m training you today. Barbie’s out of town. Didn’t she tell you?”
I wait for my heart to stop dropping all the way to my feet before I answer. “No. I was . . . unaware.” Had I been informed that Mike was training me, I’d have concocted an excuse to not come, like the couple of other times Barbie’s been unavailable. Although he’s friendly to the point of charming, Mike has trained Fletch before, and every single time, he pushed Fletch so hard he barfed. I want to exercise and feel good. I don’t want to exercise and revisit my lunch. “It’s probably too late for me to run away screaming like a little girl, isn’t it?”
“Ah, come on. We’ll have fun! It’s good for you to swap up trainers every once in a while. We all do things differently, so we’ll probably hit some muscles today you haven’t hit in a while.” He begins to walk back to the training room, while I stay firmly planted.
“You’re going to hurt me.”
“I won’t hurt you. I will make sure you’re working hard.”
“Which equals deep hurting.”
“My job is to push you outside of your comfort zone, and that’s what we’ll do today. Come on.”
“If I barf in the car, Fletch is going to divorce me.” Oh, no. I’m not moving from this spot.
“We won’t go that far,” he promises me. His expression is so sincere, I almost believe him.
“Please understand—part of my training process entails quite a bit of complaining.”
“I hear you swear a lot, too.”
“Yes, but not at you. About you, later, though. Count on that.” He motions toward the training room with his clipboard, and, grudgingly, I fall in step behind him.
“Hey, what’s the worst that could happen?” he asks.
Good thing I’m over that being-afraid business. If I weren’t, those would be some scary final words.
“I didn’t even hear you come in.” Fletch is in the bedroom changing into his own gym clothes.
“That’s because it took me ten minutes to get from the garage to the house.”
“Why?”
“Turn around and take a look at me.” There’s not an inch of my shirt that isn’t soaked, and at some point in the last hour, I cried every bit of my eye makeup off. I tear off my sodden top and collapse on the bed. “Am dead now. Blerg.”
“Whoa. Barbie have you do something new today? Usually you’re so energized when you get home, I can’t stand you.” Fletch begins to pack his gym bag.
“Barbie wasn’t there today. She had me train with Mike. And she didn’t tell me beforehand because she knew I’d ditch. You know what it was like? It was like thinking I was heading to a surprise party and instead it was a surprise pap smear. Plus, right now, I’m a nine point five on the vomometer. ”
“The what?”
“The about-to-vomit thermometer.”
Fletch looks stricken. “The car’s OK, right?”
“The car is fine. I, on the other hand, have completely lost the use of my legs. That bastard had me step up on this really tall box eighty times. And then he had me do a sitting motion with a medicine ball another eighty times. Do you realize that’s eighty lunges and eighty squats? I believe that’s illegal in the continental U.S. My quadriceps are completely gone. I’m going to have to go on eBay to search for another pair. Don’t even start me on how many crunches I did, either. And look at this.” I hold up my almost-full bottle of Smartwater. “Normally I finish the whole thirty-three ounces in the course of a session, but Mike only let me take a break for about a second each time. When you get to the gym, I would like you to punch him right in the junk.�
��
“Yeah, I’m not going to do that.”
“Are you sure? It would mean a lot to me.”
“You’re not getting any sympathy here. If you didn’t throw up working out with Mike, then he was holding back. He could have worked you harder.”
“The second I can lift myself from this bed, I’m going right out to the garage to eat a sandwich in your car. And then I’m going to leave a bunch of sweaty ass-prints all over the hood.”
“I’m going to finish up my project, and then I’m going to the gym.” Fletch leaves the bedroom and trots down the stairs.
“You think you’re so cool just because you can walk!” I shout. I lie on the bed for a few minutes before I realize I’m absolutely ravenous. I need to eat something right this second. I manage to lean on the dog and nightstand enough to elevate myself. I stagger over to the stairs and attempt to take a step down. My right thigh responds by telling me, No fucking way. I lift the other leg, and Lefty expresses the same sentiment. I try again on both sides and finally am forced to turn around and back down the stairs on my hands and shunu -nu-nu-nu-nu-nu-nu knees, knees.
I’ll tell you one thing—the next time I see Barbie, I’m giving her a present.
Maybe she’d like a nice Guns n’ Roses CD?
Session Thirty-four
“Today we’re doing a circuit!”
Barbie bounces out from behind the reception desk. This is a troubling development. Barbie’s enthusiasm is directly proportionate to my workout’s level of difficulty.
“Explain ’circuit,’ ” I say.
“I’m going to have you work through a set of exercises, and once you’re done, you’re going to go through them again.” Barbie doesn’t make eye contact when she says this.
“Isn’t that what we do every time?”
“Yeah . . . ,” she hedges.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“You usually do a total of nine exercises . . . so today isn’t really different.”
I notice she’s holding a stopwatch. “And what’s that for? Have you got a burrito in the microwave?”
“Um, instead of doing three sets of three, we’re going to do all nine in a row.”
“You neatly avoided answering the question. The watch is for what?”
“I’m going to time you.”
OK, having strongs is one thing. Having my strongs timed? Not so much. “And?”
“And we’re going to see how many circuits you can do in an hour.”
“How many of these do you anticipate my doing?”
“Um . . . why don’t we start and we’ll find out together?”
“I don’t get a vote here, do I?” She gives me a huge grin and dances into the training room. Against my better judgment, I follow.
Four and a half.
I make it through four and a half circuits. It would have been more like five except we have to modify a couple of the lunging-jumping sets when my left knee begins to howl.
The whole time I’m doing my circuits, a couple of skinny girls work out with weights on the periphery of the training room. Every time I grunt or complain, I keep thinking they’re giving each other a look. I recognize this look—it’s a mixture of pity and contempt. I’ve gotten it many times over the past few years when I’ve put cake in my shopping cart or knocked over someone’s wine with my butt. Why are women always giving anyone heavier than them the evil eye? Is it to ward off contagious fat? Whatever, it pisses me off.
I decide not to yell at them. Instead, I pledge to work harder. And I do.
“You did such a good job!” Barbie congratulates me at our conclusion.
“Thank you. I worked my ass off today.” Did those girls just smirk at me? I pretend to ignore them but watch as they finish their strength training and hop on adjacent treadmills.
“See you Friday?” Barbie asks.
“Yeah, but . . . I’m not done yet. I feel a little tight, so I’m going to loosen up on the treadmill.” Barbie squeals with delight and attempts to hug me. “Oh, honey, no. You don’t want a piece of this right now.” My shirt is soaked with sweat all the way down past my bra.
“All right! Keep it up!” She trots off to her desk in the of fice on the other side of the gym.
I mount the treadmill and begin at a slow pace. I haven’t walked on it for a while because I’ve been so busy swimming and training. I input my usual speed and incline, and the conveyor belt begins to roll. Did I always move this slowly? It’s like I’m keeping pace with someone’s grandmother. Using a walker. Tipped with tennis balls.
OK, this is way too easy. This machine must be broken, because I was never this slow. I hop off and decide to grab a drink before I switch over. I can feel the two girls’ eyes on my back as I walk to the water cooler. When I turn around, I smile beatifically at them. Oh, no, bitches. I’m not quitting. I’m just getting on a different treadmill.
I select the same numbers on the second machine, and it’s still easy. How about that? My speed is not a fluke; it’s me.
I coast along for a few minutes, realizing I can continue to go faster and higher. I peek at the numbers the two girls selected and reset my input accordingly. I have a ton of stuff to do today, but I rationalize that if I can do more at the gym, I should.
All right, that’s a lie.
I want to outlast the smirking girls. I don’t care how long they stay on their treadmills, because I will be here longer.
Fueled by contempt, I kick the digits up another notch and begin a slow jog. I pound the treadmill for thirty-six minutes until the two bitchy girls hop off their machines.
Winnah! Victory! I beat your asses, bitches!
I’m gloating when I notice the girls begin to walk over to me. Oh, great, I’m going to get into a fight here? What am I, forty?
“Excuse me,” the first one says.
“What?” I bark.
“Are you . . . Jen Lancaster?”
I narrow my eyes. “Yeah. Why?”
“I told you it was her,” the second one says. “We just wanted to tell you we saw you talk at Printer’s Row and that you look really great. How much weight have you lost?”
“Um . . . quite a bit,” I stammer.
“Well, keep it up!” says Number One.
Number Two adds, “We can’t wait to read your next book!” They walk away toward the locker room.
Argh. I’m down forty pounds, but I’ve yet to lose what makes me a big ass.
Jen’s Life Lesson #1985: If I stop looking for fights, I’ll probably stop finding them.
I’ve logged three hours of sweat-inducing housework when I realize I don’t have any cash to pay the lady from the cleaning service when she comes tomorrow morning.166
As an aside, I absolutely understand exactly how clichéd it is to sweep and scrub the night before the professionals arrive. I’m not doing this because I’m neurotic.167I want the cleaning lady to be able to actually get to the stuff that needs cleaning, rather than moving all our detritus around for two hours until she gets to a clear surface. I feel obligated to help, since making this place sanitary is no easy task given the seven fur-losing, hairball-barfing, happily whizzing-on-the- floor mammals living in this house. (I’m counting Fletch in that sum.)
Maybe I am neurotic in not wanting the maid service to think we’re completely vile, dirty people. Plus, Fletch engaged in his quarterly “manscaping” this week, and even though he says he cleaned up afterward, the master bath still looks like the floor of the barbershop on the first day of army boot camp. No one not married to him should have to deal with this. Or possibly I’m running around with a Swiffer mop and a can of Pledge because I’m cheap and don’t want to pay for more than three hours of Magnificent Maids’ time. Yes, sounds more like it. FYI? My pride costs exactly $20 per hour.
“How much money do you have?” I call down the stairs to Fletch, who’s watching Fargo for the hundredth time and eating Wheat Thins. Another wild Friday night at our place. . . . Man, w
hen did we get so lame? Shouldn’t we be drunk or b-u-s-y at this point, possibly both? Barring that, at least I should be doing something other than vacuuming Fletch’s shorn back hair off the faucets. Yet I’m content. Huh.
“Why?” he answers.
“Because I’m running off to join a cult, and I need to buy a track suit and some Nikes,” I yell.
I can hear him munching on the Wheat Thins from the second floor. “OK. Eight dollars enough?”
“Nope, I’ll never catch a ride on Hale-Bopp with less than ten bucks in my pocket. I’m going out to get some cash. Come with me?”
“No, thanks. I’m just about to the point where William H. Macy has his meltdown when Marge comes to interview him.” In his best Brainerd accent, he says, “ ‘I told ya! We haven’t had any vehicles go missing!’ I’d rather stay here. And why are you venturing out now? It’s midnight. Go tomorrow.”
To assuage my bourgeois guilt over paying someone to do housework, I hired the cheapest possible provider.168 When I researched companies, I couldn’t believe how much some places charged. Shoot; I’ll happily clean your apartment for seventy bucks an hour. Call me! I do windows! Then again, when I placed an ad for biweekly housekeeping services on Craigslist, the only folks who responded were offering erotic housekeeping, so my choices were limited.
Magnificent Maids, the place I finally settled on, does an efficient, fully clothed job, but the problem is, their concept of time is fluid. No matter when I schedule them, they show up at least half an hour early. If I plan on them being here at two, they’re ringing my bell at one thirty. I keep telling them, if they need to be early, no problem, we’ll just schedule them earlier, but please let me know in advance so I can make sure the dogs and cats are all squared away. (And also so I’m not still asleep when they arrive, because then I really feel guilty.) Tomorrow they’re supposed to come at eleven, so I’m going to be up by nine thirty, just to be sure.
Such a pretty fat: one narcissist's quest to discover if her life makes her ass look big Page 25