Me.
Pants.
Off.
In the middle of goddamned Target.
Daytime talk shows often feature these grizzled old topless dancers telling their stories about having fallen into a life of stripping accidentally. I figured they were full of shit, not ever realizing, until this moment, that it’s possible to unintentionally strip. Good thing I don’t have on that stupid racer-back bra or impossible-to-keep-buttoned madras-plaid shirt, or I’d really be in trouble. I mean, one minute I’d be all queued up for a latte, and one sneeze later, I’d be guilty of public indecency. Me, the person who has trouble even saying n-a-k-e-d. The gal who locks the bathroom door even when she’s home alone. The chick who never once skinny-dipped in her pool in the twenty-seven years her parents owned that home.
So here I am, standing with my shorts about midthigh and my baggy striped underwear waving hello to all the fellow coffee lovers.
And not a single person notices.
Thank God everyone’s attention is focused on Abuela Entomology and no one sees me with my pants down, nor do they see me yanking my shorts back up. One knobby green bug just saved me from never being able to walk into that Target again.
Two things to note here: (1) from now on, I’m definitely counting the praying mantis as a good-luck charm, and (2) it’s time to buy smaller pants.
I’m speed walking to the park in order to arrive before lap swim begins. When I got in my car a few minutes ago, I noticed our street was blocked with construction. Fletch isn’t home and I don’t want to miss or delay my workout, especially since I’m going to Stacey’s house later. The park isn’t far, so the easiest thing to do is walk.
The streets are still so smoldering from the day that my Crocs go a bit soft, almost like they’re melting into it. That water’s going to feel extranice tonight. Because it’s so warm, I’ve forgone my usual T-shirt over my bathing suit. This is the first time I’ve left my house sans sleeves since the nineties. What liberation! I have abdicated wearing shirts! (At least for the next hour.) I’ve also got on a pair of mesh gym shorts, I’m wearing goggles around my neck, and my towel is looped around my shoulders, so you can’t really see my naked shoulders, but they are indeed bare.
I cut through the playground and I’m getting close to the field house at the pool when I hear someone behind me. “Hey! Hey! Hey, lady!” I stop in my tracks, spin around, and come face-to-top-of-the-head with a small woman dressed in a dirty-tennis-ball yellow tank top.
“I’m sorry, were you talking to me?” I ask, an eye toward the pool. The lifeguards are going to open it up for lap swim any minute now, and I want to make sure I’m ready to go when they do. Last night I made it up to twenty-nine laps in the allotted time, and I’m dying to see if I can do thirty tonight.
“Yes, lady. I want to tell you I . . . like your towel.” I peer at this woman, taking in her wild eyes, filthy hair, and the tiny red bull’s-eyes all over her spindly arms, shoulders, and legs. She’s heroin chic, minus the chic.
“You like my towel? You stopped me because you were desperate to tell me you like this?” I hold up the battered piece of terrycloth. My mom bought this towel in South Carolina ten years ago. White and now almost threadbare, the towel sports a faded blue dolphin and the words MYRTLE BEACH stitched onto the end. The only reason I’m using it is that all my other beach towels are dirty because I’ve been swimming so often. I had to dig it out of the top of my closet and fend off Fletch’s attempt to turn it into a car-polishing rag.
“Yeah . . . it’s nice.” Although it’s broiling out here, the woman is shivering and clutching her elbows.174
“Quick question—is there any chance you might be moving to Wheaton in the next year or two?”
She looks confused. “Um . . . no?”
“How about Saint Charles?”
"Where?”
“Geneva? Batavia? North Aurora, home of the new mall that features a Kate Spade outlet store?”175
Now she’s shivering and confused. “Kate who?”
“Tell me, do you have family out in the western suburbs you might visit, say, in downtown Naperville or one of the surrounding lower-cost subdivisions? Maybe whichever one is filled with starter homes?”
“What?”
“Glen Ellyn? Downers Grove? Lisle?” She shakes her head in response to my rapid-fire line of questioning. “All right then; sounds like you’re not going to be my neighbor anytime soon, so let’s cut to the chase here.”
“OK?”
I take a deep breath and begin my assault, pointing a still-somewhat -plump finger. “You didn’t stop me because you like my towel. You stopped me because you want me to give you something for no other reason than the fact you’re standing there. Number one, I’m not giving you a dime so you can continue slowly killing yourself, and number two, even if I were to take pity on you—which I’m not—I’m wearing a bathing suit and running shorts. Where exactly do you think I’d be storing my Money for Junkies fund? In the coin purse up my ass?”
“No, I . . . I . . . ,” she stammers.
A bead of sweat rolls off my forehead, down the side of my face, and into my cleavage. Yuck. “Listen, you: I’m hot, I want to swim, and if there’s no chance you’re going to be living next door, I’m not obligated to try and be nice to you. This newfound-maturity thing? Even I have my limits. This conversation is going to end with me giving you exactly nothing except for the advice that you grow up and start taking care of yourself. OK? Bye!” I hear the whistle blow, and I sprint to the locker room in the field house.
I throw my old glasses and shorts into a locker and dash out to the pool. When I get there, I see a small tennis-ball-colored blob on the other side of the fence. “Hey, lady!” the blob calls. “Lady! Hey! You’re a . . . you’re a fat bitch!”
I study my reflection in the clear blue water beneath me. Despite all this dieting and working out, I’m not yet thin. As a matter of fact, many parts of me are still pretty thick. My arms could be smaller, my legs more toned, and my stomach less bloat-y. There’s no longer an ass-teau behind me, yet I’m not even close to having a shapely little melon butt. My cheeks are round, and my wrists are far from dainty.
But I can carry laundry up two flights of stairs, and I can run for the phone or on a treadmill.
I don’t sweat when I eat anymore, and when I do eat, it’s not cookies for dinner.
My blood pressure is now normal, my cholesterol is out of the danger zone, and I don’t even have to take Ambien, because obesity no longer causes my insomnia. And my doctor doesn’t hand me a death sentence when I walk in her door anymore.
I laugh in the direction of the fence and adjust my swim goggles before replying, “No, honey. I’m a fit bitch. You don’t know it, but there’s an ocean of difference.”
And then I dive in.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
By the Numbers
Pairs of Crocs purchased:
5 (shut up, Angie)
Magazines that recognized Angie’s brilliance and hired her to write for them:
1
Atkins diet attempts:
8
Atkins diet failures:
8 (awful)
Flying squirrels caught by University Pest Control:
0
Rats mistaken for flying squirrels caught by University Pest Control:
6
Episodes of Top Chef, Top Design, and Project Runway watched with Stacey:
All but one (I think)
Total times Vanilla Ice played on iPod at gym:
32 (shameful)
Total personal training sessions:
40 (and counting!)
Murderous thoughts had toward personal trainer:
Too many to count (but not now!)
Sizes dropped:
4 (and counting!)
Total times dialed 911:
Far too many to ever run for public office
Television interviews prepared for:
Tho
usands
Television interviews conducted:
2 (v. impressive!)
Barbies accidentally ordered while high on Ambien:
11
Barbies given to friends’ children:
10 (am keeping the head)
Friends who will brave our dogs and come to our house:
2 (my good buddy Shayla moved to
Minneapolis)
Barky neighbor dogs who disappeared under mysterious circumstances:
1 (I had nothing to do with it, I promise)
Author friends mentioned in book:
4
Mentions of own books available from fine, fine booksellers everywhere:
Countless
Total book proposals sold:
1
Total book titles changed because original title idea linked to a fat-girl fetish site:
1 (y-i-k-e-s)
Total blatant Bridget Jones-style final chapter rip-offs:
1
Total pounds gained while writing this book:
0 (that’s right, bitches!)
Total pounds gained while editing this book and being too busy to get to the gym and train:
12 (oh, dear)
EPILOGUE
TO: angie_at_home
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Uh-oh
DATE: October 17, 2007
Ang,
I accidentally turned Barbie on to the show The Biggest Loser, and she’s totally been inspired by bad-ass trainer Jillian’s policy of “beatings, beatings, beatings, and more beatings.”
Now that I’m finally done editing this book, Barbie says it’s time to get serious. She’s making me come to the gym and train five days a week until we get these twelve pounds off. I just got an e-mail from her, and her closing line was, “Bitch Barbie is back on the shelf.”
Am afraid.
Am deeply afraid.
Jen
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, my biggest thanks have to go to Fletch. You spent six months wandering around without a clue what you were allowed to eat while I worked on this project. To show the extent of my gratitude, I pledge to never consume French fries in your car. (I’d say more nice stuff here about how awesome you are, except you don’t actually read my books and therefore won’t see my promises; thus I’ve nicely afforded myself some wiggle room if I ever need to hit a McDonald’s while on a solo road trip.)
(What? You can’t eat a salad while you’re driving, right?)
As always, heartfelt thanks go to my agent, Kate Garrick. I would say, “Who’d have imagined we’d ever get here?” but apparently you did. You’re the reason I’m living my dream. You rock, as do Lauren “Roller Girl” Gilchrist and Brian DeFiore.
A million thanks go to Kara Cesare of NAL, my most favoritest editor. (Ha! Correct this line; I dare you!) Seriously, you pushed me really far out of my comfort zone on this one, and I’m so proud of what we’ve accomplished together. I pink-puffy-heart adore you.
To Mary Ann Zissimos and Craig Burke in publicity, I can’t express enough gratitude for keeping me both on message and in media. Thanks for making sure people hear it when this particular tree falls in the forest. (Most likely after a night of cocktails.)
Many, many thanks to Kara Welsh and Claire Zion for absolutely betting on my ability to not inhale my own weight in Ding Dongs. (I suspect there’s an oddsmaker in Vegas who’s pretty unhappy with you both right about now.) And for Lindsay Nouis, the art department, the sales team, production, and everyone else at Penguin who came together on my behalf, thank you so much.
(I know, I know, I already hear the orchestra cueing up. But writing a book takes a lot more than one person, and I need to recognize all of them.)
Endless thanks to my muses, Angie, Stacey Ballis, and Jennifer Coburn, for not only the inspiration but for living this with me. And much love goes to the girls, Carol, Wendy, and Jen.
Big thanks to my parents—I’m sorry for spilling the beans about your culinary skills, but, seriously, I still have night-mares about those hamburgers.
For everyone at the West Loop Gym, particularly Barbie, Tim, Mike, and Julie, who bore the brunt of this experience almost as much as Fletch did, um . . . sorry about all the yelling and swearing. More important, thanks for helping me find a way to get healthy. There’s special place in heaven for all of you, and there’s no wait for the treadmill up there, either.
As promised, here’s the super-shout-out to my Postcard Posse—Brooke Kukay Lorenz (and her students), Candice Kakerbeck, Kristin Kaminski, Aimee Harris (and Chance), Chelsey Lentini, Ashley Sandvi, Nicole Voges, Carolyn Purver (nice to finally meet!), Pattie Mangone, Valerie Dixon, Amy Brewer (creator of the Big Asstini), and Kate Anable.
Big hugs and thanks to all the book clubs who hosted me over the summer—next time, I promise there will be more drinking. And thank you for everyone who came to my live events, where there was possibly too much drinking. (See? I told you I wasn’t exaggerating about the sweating and spitting.)
Finally, thanks so much to the fans and the booksellers. You guys make it all possible.
1
I’m about a tablespoon of heavy cream away from having the National Dairy Council sponsor our dinner.
2
Also, a patchwork vest? No.
3
Please consult if you don’t know what this means; I’m not explaining it.
4
What would I like for Christmas? How about something to put in our 726 glasses?
5
When Fletch smiles, the crinkles around his eyes make him look like Ed Norton. But with his hipster horn-rim glasses on, he’s a ringer for Tom Arnold. (It’s weird.)
6
His last day was June 15, 2007, and no one ever acknowledged my pro posa l 6His last day was June 15, 2007, and no one ever acknowledged my proposal to make his final show a national day of mourning.
7
Retrieving these items is his job because I kind of don’t like to bend. I also refuse to carry anything heavier than my purse.
8
FYI, the more upscale the store, the harder it is to locate the “women’s” department. At Wal-Mart, they call it “Women’s Plus” and hang a giant sign over the section right up by the front doors. At Saks, they call it “Salon Z” and hide it up three escalators and behind the human resources department.
9
Make it work? Indeed I did.
10
Maybe this makes me a food philistine, but I can’t stomach the idea of garnishing a lovely dish with what looks like something that shot out of a cat’s mouth.
11
BTW, the correct answer is Sam the Hot Diabetic because bald is not the new black.
12
Jen’s Life Lesson #324: Aesthetics can’t be the only criterion considered when purchasing a couch the price of a used Honda.
13
And bacon. And hash browns. And possibly a half order of biscuits and gravy.
14
No more accidental head clunking for me!
15
The length of that dog’s eyelashes should be illegal.
16
Please see chapter 7 of the best-selling Bitter Is the New Black for more details.
17
What didn’t help? When my brother Todd spent five minutes on the phone pretending he was the art director, saying, “Pssshht! We’re going to need more ink! Pssshht! We’re going to need more ink!” What did help? Offering the art director a dollar per pound erased.
18
And that dessert cart is ours.
19
FYI, I responded to him by saying, “Is this how they teach you appropriate bedside manner at the University of Grenada?”
20
Only once, though, because my dad threatened divorce.
21
Jen’s Life Lesson #566:You will lose weight if you eat nothing but lettuce and laxatives the day before you’re forced to step
on the scale. But, um, that’s all you’ll be able to do that day.
22
I saved that for my sophomore year. I rule!
23
Obviously there wasn’t a lot to do in Huntington, Indiana, in 1985.
24
Besides, I could think of forty local girls right off the bat I was thinner than. Weight Watchers is wrong—nothing tastes better than self-righteousness feels!
25
And even if I had, a size twelve is not fat—just ask Meg Cabot!
26
Besides, I imagine that if the DOJ seized my dogs, we’d have a Ransom of Red Chief situation on our hands.
27
This would be funnier were it not such a reasonable question.
28
The first rule of Thanksgiving Fight Club is, don’t talk about Thanksgiving Fight Club.
29
My mother says people are OK with talking about mental health now because of all the hard work she put in as a therapist.
30
Please note: MS Word totally knew how to spell most of these drugs. Telling, no?
31
Some people are destined to be deep thinkers. I am not one of those people.
32
Angie brought with her the collective germs of sixty-eight preschoolers, having subbed in her son’s class the day prior to her arrival, which is essentially as dangerous as licking a petri dish full of live cultures.
33
Read: less neurotic.
34
And only then because Fletch poked me with a suit hanger and asked if I was dead.
35
I refer you to my greatest work—Hasselhoff: The Chest Hair Manifesto.
36
Please consult your physician (and not me) for appropriate medical advice.
37
Get it? Get it? Jen Cognito? Like “incognito”? Get it? No? OK, just me, then.
38
He so owes me a Coke right now.
39
Except for the chimney, apparently.
40
To be fair, the letters I’ve sent them from the fictitious homeowners’ association have had an impact, and now they use bags without print on them. Progress, I say!
41
I used to TiVo it until I was thoroughly mocked for being the oldest person on earth to watch fine, fine MTV reality programming.
Such a pretty fat: one narcissist's quest to discover if her life makes her ass look big Page 27