Then came the afternoon, at which point I was understandably ravenous, and I was running a little late to pick the kids up, so I stopped logging food as there would have been just too much typing and I was feeling so weak . . .
“Well, have you looked at my page?” Isabel asks in wonderment. “For breakfast, slice of wheat toast, egg whites, tomatoes. For lunch, nonfat cottage cheese, small spinach salad, half a tangerine. For dinner, one cup of low-fat vegetarian chili with side of steamed broccoli, but then, after dinner, whoops! I lost it and did like three shots of Jack Daniel’s! And they were pretty big shots that waitress was pouring. I mean, measured with my thumb? They looked like at least three and a half or four ounces. Loseit.com calculated that all comes out to about four thousand calories!”
“Liquor counts?” I ask in horror. “What other pleasure is left to us in an empty world, full of nonfat Greek yogurt and flax?”
Isabel claims that, after age forty-five, if you keep drinking wine with dinner, it’s just going to be an extra seven pounds, no matter what. She cites her friend Janelle, who devotes a full half of her daily Weight Watchers points to pinot grigio.
To which I retort that perhaps we fat friends can all just agree to carry the extra seven pounds, and we should start an online support group.
“And call it what?” Isabel says. “Drunk fat friends dot com?”
I’M READY for my next weigh-in.
I have eschewed cheese, eggs, ice cream, chocolate. Bread is—toast!
Which should be a bumper sticker: BREAD—TOAST.
After a hard workout with Stef, I have just steam-roomed for ten minutes—that’s good for losing at least a pound. I’ve had a very thorough shower—didn’t get the hair wet, which I believe, even if you towel it out, can add half a pound. I have shaved off everything except the hair on my head and left the eyebrows, at least some of the eyebrows. I have removed my necklace. And then very gingerly—very quietly—I approach the Detecto from the right, which I believe is its lucky side.
What the—?
I have actually gained another two pounds!
I have been weight training twice a week, doing cardio another four days of the week, and eating nonfat cheese and noodles that are literally zero calories.
I have become this astonishing creature who makes fat out of air!
The Shit Hits the Fan
BUT NOW EVERYTHING REALLY goes to hell. As if getting through the day isn’t challenging enough, it is at this point that I lose it completely. It is at this point that a major break occurs. It is the break that must come, finally and inevitably, with Mr. Y. I’ve been living for too long in a dream world, I’ve been ignoring the fact that, now that the honeymoon phase is over, my relationship with Mr. Y is getting more and more broken, even useless. Our life together makes less and less sense. Less an asset than a drain, Mr. Y is becoming yet another thing I am caretaking, along with my house, my children, my father, and all these other oversize items sitting around my space, waiting for me to run them or to fix them or to have them cleaned.
A major change has to occur, and it has to occur immediately.
And no, I am not just thinking this because I am hungry, tired, irritated, and bloated all at once. Although that certainly is true. I feel in a constant low-level rage every single day. Why?
Well, it is not just that I have been on such a strict Zone regime I have been taking low-fat salad dressing and diluting it further with rice vinegar to get the fat grams from four to two, or that I have counted the carbs in ketchup. (Potential epitaph for tombstone: I HAVE COUNTED THE CARBS IN KETCHUP.)
It is not just that I have been working out five mornings a week, even biking to the gym sometimes, then returning to my computer to work on this big baggy think piece on women in politics that’s sort of killing me, while hydrating all day with water and green tea.
It is not even the fact, really, that after almost three months, after all this mindful application, I have actually gained two pounds while Mr. Y has lost—no kidding—twenty-three. And he feels terrific. How is this possible? As opposed to me, Mr. Y has allowed himself the occasional bagel and chocolate bar and has even begun taking non-Zone lunch meetings with some of his old theater buddies. (“I’m not going to lie—I had pad thai. And spring rolls. And a beer.”) Increasingly also, instead of the gym, there is an afternoon of golf at the local community course, which as far as I can tell, when done with a golf cart counts as neither weight training nor cardio.
Oh no. All these things I might have borne, but then Mr. Y went one step too far. Certainly, I was going on a bit long about the unfairness of it all, saying, “I can’t believe that with how little I eat, and how much I exercise, I can’t actually move the needle any way but up!”
MENOPAUSE TIP (FOR MEN)
Dear Men,
Note that if a female close to you utters something like the above sentence, appropriate responses include:
“Oh honey, it is unfair! Damned unfair! Fuck the world! Scheisse!”
“I think you could gain another twenty and actually start to look normal—why are you trying to hang on to this skeletal weight? I’m seeing collarbones!” (Note: Say this whether or not it is actually true.)
“Darling—I can’t bear to see you suffer. I threw away the scale and made you a martini.” (Or similar.)
What you should not say is what Mr. Y said on this day, aka: “I know you say that you work out every day, honey, but maybe it’s how you work out. Fabrizio says you have to really intensify your cardio in order to burn fat. Once you get your heart rate up to 145 it really has to stay there. For as long as 20–30 continuous minutes. To really score that maximum burn.” He may also have foolishly said: “I think that’s why I can eat a bagel and still lose weight. It’s true I don’t work out as often as you do, but when I do I really go for it.”
This all comes, for me, on top of this three-thousand-word think piece that is killing me and a clutch of women’s magazine pieces that all have the same deadline, which will bring in a good amount of sorely needed income but upon which I do really need to mentally focus and concentrate.
• • •
WHILE HURTLING—late—along the 101 as usual to pick up my kids, I see a fish-without-a-bicyle-type bumper sticker that says: “MENopause MENstrual cramps MENtal illness. It all begins with men.” And that’s when my slow burn begins to fan into flame.
There is something about a recent conversation we’ve had that is gnawing at me.
Mr. Y and I are generally so in tune with each other we’re like, I don’t know, twin currents of a warm stream flowing together. My belief is that Mr. Y is basically a fair person who can be reasoned with. I feel he really listens to me and is sensitive to my feelings. But I feel he has not been so in this particular case. The evidence will demonstrate it.
“I just feel like you committed to this diet-and-exercise program to help us both out, which is clearly harder for me than it is for you. I’m really frustrated with how bloated I am—how I’m carrying this extra trunk around my waist—which makes more stress. And now this other menopause book is recommending I add baby aspirin, which they say helps stem inflammation—I mean, all these weight loss tips are quite a lot to keep track of! I really just have to stay on this. I’ve got a lot of stress on my plate, and I really could use your help!”
“What?” he says, from behind his New York Times. “What are you saying, exactly?”
“I’m saying just because I’m miserable doesn’t mean you have to be miserable. At the same time, I think it’s inconsiderate to report all the non-Zone stuff you’re always having for lunch with Sam and Wilson or whomever.”
“You asked me specifically to tell you.”
“Well, I didn’t know you were having pad thai and spring rolls and beer!”
“You want me to lie?”
“Jeez, I guess! I had no idea you were going to go that far off the ranch. I guess if you’re planning to make that choice, just do it and don’t tell
me.”
Mr. Y sighs, lowers his paper, and takes off his reading glasses.
“Oh, but this is not just about food.”
“Of course it is!”
“I can’t believe you’re getting this hung up about food.”
My voice cracks. I feel teary at the unfairness of it. “You don’t believe it because you just don’t know how hard it is!”
“You’re taking this—”
“Oh! It’s like when someone borrows money from a friend, they don’t repay it, the friend gets mad, and then the borrower says, ‘Oh, but this is not about the money, it’s about something else’? No, no, it’s about the money! I mean the food!”
He is gesturing with his glasses now.
“No, I think it’s the fact that I’m going to be producing this show.”
“What show?” I am truly surprised. I thought his meetings were all about golf and breezily high-carb lunches.
“I flagged this a few weeks ago, but apparently you forgot. Jam City is coming back into town. My coproducers and I have finally put the package together, and we’re going to do this six-week run.”
“What?”
“That’s what I said,” he says, a bit defiantly.
“I’m . . . confused,” I say. “I thought you gave that all up. And with Jam City, which was that hip-hop show, right? I thought you hated those producers. You told me they were lame. It’s why you didn’t want to do that sort of work anymore. For the time you put into those shows and for what you tend to net, it’s like minimum wage!”
His cheeks flush red. His face darkens. He narrows his eyes, looks out the window. “Whatever you think, it’s a show I’ve been involved with for a long time, and I don’t recall ever saying I was giving up my career in theater.”
“Well actually you did!” I say. “Remember on the drive back from Burning Man? When we said we were done with all the stress of life and we were just going to manage and continue to develop the business streams we’ve already built up over ten years—the income and maybe royalties from my speeches, shows, books, and teaching while traveling and cooking and relaxing, as the kids got older? You said you were done with theater. You were over it. That was the deal! It was very explicit.”
“I said no such thing! You’re hallucinating!”
I feel my throat closing due to the unfairness of it, and due to the apparent gaps in his surprisingly faulty memory. But a tunnel of white is opening, before me—it is a truth channel, and I feel I have to express myself: “Honey, I told you I have already been married to a person who continually disappeared into his work. The point was that you wouldn’t disappear into your work! I’d already been abandoned for show business once before!”
He is almost shouting by now: “Oh please! There is literally no resemblance between Mr. X and myself! I can’t even believe you would make that connection. I can’t believe my ears! It’s absurd! It’s a six-week run, for crying out loud!”
“But you know what show schedules are like! It’s six nights a week! Load-in days go from 10:00 A.M. to midnight!”
“I’m not general managing. I don’t have to be there every night,” he says unconvincingly.
“But you will!” I flash out. “I know how you are!”
“Well, it’s my life!”
I can’t believe it.
“But what about me? Who’s going to help me?” I shrill.
“You?” he flashes back. “Why is it always about you? It’s like you’re jealous if I even express interest in anyone else’s project! You can’t even be bothered to pay attention.”
Tears sting my eyes. This is hurtful, if possibly true, but it is also beside the point. “It’s just that I make so much more money than you do,” I wail, “and I need help, and this was the arrangement!”
His eyes narrow.
“Well, you know what, I’ve been in theater thirty years. I’ve had a career long before I started”—he enunciates the words precisely—“holding your fanny pack.”
I am hyperventilating. I look at Mr. Y’s face, once handsome and loving but now a dead-eyed mask . . . and I feel my spirit recede, wash out and away like the tide. My dad was a rager, and when he used to go off in the evenings at my mother when I was a child I would simply shut down. Mr. X and I had a stable twenty-year relationship because we literally never fought. If we began to get into conflict, Mr. X would say, “Never mind. Let’s forget it. It’s not worth fighting over.” Perhaps we ended up living parallel lives, but perhaps there’s something to be said for that.
I spend that night in Sally’s bedroom. Silence falls over the house.
In the morning, Mr. Y brings me coffee and does his cheerful WASP “Let’s try again, shall we?” gesture where he punches me lightly in the arm and grins ruefully. Because our natural inclination is to be easy with each other, Mr. Y and I take deep breaths, hug, and apologize.
“I didn’t mean to insult your profession and apologize if I came off as an ass,” I say.
“Look, I’ve thought it over and I can structure this deal a different way if it will cause that much upset,” he says.
But from long experience with men and their work, I realize if I insist that he doesn’t do this work exactly the way he wants, he will only resent me, and more than anything I do not want to be hated.
It’s only six weeks. It’s good to have projects, after all. And the money, while not giant, will help.
I will get through this. I will be a good person about this. I will develop a sense of humor.
• • •
BUT AS the weeks pass, frustrations and irritations keep bubbling up like a geyser.
Now that we’ve been cohabiting for two years, Mr. Y and I have drifted at home into a T-shirt-and-sweatpants thing (which has long been my uniform, but I was surprised to discover that the usually natty Mr. Y had T-shirts and sweatpants as well). And that was fine. But now of course, each morning, after reading the New York Times for an hour, he showers, shaves, and selects a new tie and jacket before sailing out of the house with unrestrained joy. He even dresses to the nines when there aren’t any meetings. I see him standing before his closet comparing ties, one against another. And none of it’s for me.
With my Shanghai abacus, next come the cost-benefit analyses. I can’t stop running the abacus—it is practically an internal physical organ, like my heart or my liver. Mr. Y is spending more and more hours (I keep count) at a venue that’s an hour each way with traffic. The gas and the dry-cleaning alone are a couple of hundred bucks a month. And of course, as events would have it, not much of the money he makes (he won’t tell me how much) flows into our household. Up in the Bay Area, his twenty-six-year-old son is hard at work finishing his first novel, which he really believes in, and so just for a few months Mr. Y is helping him out. A fair bit. I can’t help recalling that when I myself was the exact same age—twenty-six—and I was in a similar situation with Mr. X, myself trying to write, he refused to pay my rent for me (as he had for his ex; besides, he pointed out, no one ever had for him) and I had to get a temp job. It was an excellent experience, I learned to be more disciplined, and all was well. But no, young people today are fragile, San Francisco is expensive, and times are different.
Everywhere you look in our relationship, there are tributaries upon tributaries of conflict, lighting up everywhere like a troubled PET scan.
Meanwhile, our household is sliding into total disarray, which, due to having to write almost a thesis-load of magazine pieces to pay all our bills, I’m powerless to stop. It is true that it’s not his fault that Charter cable has temporarily cut off our Internet. This is apparently due to the fact that, thanks to the three cheapo old Toshiba laptops that I have, which my daughters peck away at like rabies-infected raccoons when I’m on deadline and scold them, our house is radiating—just seeping, suppurating—so much spam it is actually fritzing out other Wi-Fi connections on our block. We are sending out so much Moshi Monster spam, it’s like we have Internet lice.
That said—as he darts in and out of our home, backing out of the driveway with a fresh travel mug, babbling into his headphones—like sand dunes, laundry is piling up, dishes choke the sink, newspapers and magazines swirl on every chair, and, perhaps most regrettably, on our balcony bowls overflow with ash from his cigarettes (one of the nasty habits he allows himself when he is in “show mode”).
It is starting to feel less like a house with rooms and cabinets and more like a field of nests, and many of them are his nests.
Our home is such, it seems, that every utilitarian object is displayed and visible except for the one item you are looking for (scissors, keys, can opener), and now—pull up the next cue—here come the ants. That’s right—due to a sudden unseasonal heat, the earth has vomited forth ants from every corner. There are ants in the kitchen, ants in the girls’ rooms, ants in the tub, even—and what kind of metaphor is this?—ants on my computer. There are literally ants on my computer keyboard. It’s like something out of Le Chien Andalou. All I am missing are melting clocks and maybe a razor across a leaking eyeball.
But as Mr. Y points out, being more impressively Zen than myself, he is not bothered by ants, which are natural harmless creatures that will go away on their own schedule when the weather changes. Too, my nervous habit of agitatedly spraying Windex at the ants (George12! George12! George12!) is essentially poisoning us, by inadvertantly misting things like our dishes, utensils, and fruit with window cleaner. All this may be technically true, but in the meantime I am brushing ants off my computer, and every time the girls enter the house (coming from their dad’s house, where there are no ants; Sally’s flat pronouncement: “Dad says to get rid of ants you have to put food away”) and see the delicate shimmering trails, they utter piercing shrieks in that particular tween two-octaves-above-middle-C register that makes my bone marrow shiver. While all the time I am trying to mentally focus and concentrate in order to pay our mortgage (which includes property tax). And what about the home insurance? Did we pay the home insurance? That is Mr. Y’s job, and they are claiming we are late.
The Madwoman in the Volvo: My Year of Raging Hormones Page 11