“Is that all? I’m warning you, it could be a very short list.”
“Ah, Camille, Camille . . . If you start all that again, I’ll make you start at square one. OK, OK, at first you might find it hard, but the more your brain is trained to look for the positive within you, the easier it will become. It really will, I promise. Oh, and I wanted to give you this.”
He searched in his pocket and took out a small box. That made me laugh to myself—from a distance someone might think he was offering me a beautiful ring and asking me to marry him. Oddly, I found that thought exciting. But it wasn’t a ring; it was a lovely yellow lotus. The second charm. So Claude thought I had reached the second level of change. I had difficulty hiding the flush of pride surging in me and bringing color to my cheeks. My eyes were shining as I thanked him and added the pendant to the first one on the necklace.
Claude received a call, which meant he had to leave quickly. Before going, he slipped a small piece of paper into my hand and then walked off without looking back. What a strange man.
“Everything is change, not to no longer be, but to become what is not yet.” Epictetus. What if you drew me a portrait of the Camille you would like to be?
Until very soon,
Claude
nine
The Camille-work-in-progress was hard at it.
Claude had asked me for a list of everything I was good at and the successes I felt I had known in my life, so over the following days I spent my free time in a kind of introspective exploration, probing the depths of my soul and my memories to unearth the raw materials he was looking for.
Positive experiences, personal qualities . . . At first, nothing more than a black hole. But then, little by little, they returned to the surface and took shape before my eyes.
To help guide me, I kept referring to the list of qualities that Claude had sent. I wondered which ones best described me:
Adventurous, agreeable, ambitious, astute, audacious, autonomous, calm, combative, conciliatory, confident, creative, dedicated, diplomatic, direct, disciplined, discreet, dynamic, efficient, empathetic, energetic, extroverted, faithful, flexible, generous, gentle, hardworking, honest, imaginative, independent, innovative, intelligent, intuitive, jovial, just, leader, methodical, motivated, multitasking, obliging, observant, obstinate, open-minded, optimist, organized, original, painstaking, patient, persevering, polite, precise, prudent, pugnacious, punctual, reserved, responsible, rigorous, self-controlled, sensitive, serious, sociable, spontaneous, stable, strategist, strong, stubborn, team player, tenacious, tolerant, willful.
Agreeable, yes. Ambitious, not enough! Conciliatory, a little too much. Creative: I used to be. Sensitive, yes, no getting away from it. Serious and hardworking, out of necessity. Generous, empathetic . . . yes, to some extent.
As for the most successful events in my life—apart from the birth of my son, of course, there hadn’t been that many. Maybe the occasion when I had gotten an A+ in art and my teacher had congratulated me so warmly and told me I ought to carry on, that I was talented. It still made me happy to remember that. Yes, then I had felt really appreciated. There was also the day when I had earned my business studies degree and told my mother the good news on the phone. But was that really my pleasure, or my mother’s? I would have to talk about it with Claude.
As for the portrait of the Camille I would like to become, for the moment it was only a rough sketch. I wrote down all the ideas that occurred to me and sensed that even if it was all still unfocused, the process had begun and things were bound to become clearer.
As I continued with this excavation of my identity, nearly every day Claude sent me hints and tips to help me move toward the virtuous circle.
So it came as no surprise when, barely ten minutes after I had woken up, I heard my mobile buzz and found he had sent me another text message.
Good morning, Camille. Today you are to fill your day with humor and cheerfulness. That makes it easier to confront any little obstacles. Try pulling faces in front of the mirror: it’s good for your morale and helps ward off wrinkles. Pull your tongue in all directions and shout, “Whaaa!” Mimic great sadness and great joy like Marcel Marceau, pronounce all your vowels in an exaggerated way, have fun! Spk soon, Claude.
I smiled. His exercise intrigued me, but it seemed a bit odd for me to be clowning about in the bathroom. At first I was very hesitant but gradually managed to relax, until finally I really let rip. My son was watching me from the doorway, unable to believe his eyes.
“What on earth are you doing, Mom?”
“Gymnastics for plastic surgery,” I replied without missing a beat.
My reply astounded him, but children have an amazing ability to take on board the weirdest ideas.
“It looks like fun,” he said seriously, like a judge on a talent show. “Can I try?”
I invited him to join me, and soon we were miming—with our faces—a high-wire double act. Adrien was incredibly good at it, and so I had no hesitation awarding him the clown first prize. He was so pleased at this that he was in a good mood all through breakfast, which for once we ate together, chatting the whole time. It had been ages since we’d done that.
Yes, Claude was right. It did you a lot of good to start your day with a bit of laughter and fun!
On another day, he suggested I try the game of the “imaginary camera,” an exercise he had invented to help me change the way I looked at my reality by changing my “perception filter.”
“When you go out, instead of focusing on sights that are unpleasant, ugly, or irritating, fix your attention on pleasant things. Take imaginary photos of happy coincidences in the street, on public transport, wherever you walk.”
So now I had to train myself to be on the lookout for Beauty. It turned out to be quite a revelation. Rather than inevitably turning my gaze to beggars, grumpy passersby, or howling babies, I found myself staring at the sky, the pretty bird making its nest, a loving couple embracing, a mother caressing her child, a man helping an old lady carry her suitcase down the Métro steps, or listening to the soft rustle of foliage.
This new way of looking enchanted me. Each day I added to my collection of positive images, a photo album that was going to allow me to create a different view of the world.
ten
As the weeks passed and I could sense that the symptoms of my acute routinitis were slowly but surely fading, I began to really believe in Claude’s method. What convinced me above all was his two-pronged approach: the idea of working on the basic problem (Who am I? What do I really want?) at the same time as the symptoms (my self-image, my relation to the world and other people).
Have you noticed how the image you have of the world becomes more beautiful if you have a good self-image? Unfortunately, on this last point I still had a long way to go, because I could not get over my issues with self-esteem. Every day the sight of myself in the mirror cast a shadow over my mood. I was a stern judge of myself, examining my reflection from all angles, and was scornful of the extra weight I seemed doomed to carry around forever.
It wasn’t too bad when I was standing. The buttons did up. It was sitting down when I felt guilty. Whenever the spare tire risked protruding over the size 8 I’d been too optimistic about . . .
Sometimes I tried to kid myself that the trousers had shrunk or that the skirt was meant to be tight. But the evidence was plain for me to see: the vise was tightening around me. Besides, I had launched that little paper plane from a hot-air balloon. I had sworn in black and white that I didn’t want to be carrying round those extra pounds with me anymore. It was a promise I had to keep.
So I made another appointment with Claude to discuss it.
I had been waiting for fifteen minutes when the door opened. For once, Claude looked in a hurry.
“Ah, Camille, come in. How are you? I’m sorry, I don’t have much time for you today: I’m fitting
you in between two meetings.”
“It’s very kind of you, Claude. I just need your advice about my goal to lose weight.”
He listened to me absentmindedly, more concerned with tidying up the files strewn all over his desk. When he turned to put them in a cabinet, a sheet of paper fell from one of them. I got to my feet to pick it up. It was odd: a design for a building with lots of calculations and notes. I handed it to him. He took it from me, muttering his thanks. He seemed out of sorts.
“Are you all right, Claude? You seem preoccupied. I can come back another day, if you prefer.”
“No, no, everything’s fine, Camille. I’ve got a lot on my plate and I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed, that’s all,” he reassured me with a smile.
He put away the files as best he could—I was amazed how many of them there were. Could he really have so many clients? Did routinology have so many followers?
He came and sat down again, automatically stroking his beard in the way a woman might run her hand through her hair: to regain his composure.
“Fine . . . well then, are you ready to go on a diet? Good. The key to achieving your objective is to frame it properly before you begin. Do you know the ‘SMART method’?”
“No, I—”
“You need to make sure that your objective is S for Specific (you have to avoid it being vague) and M for Measurable—in this case, for example, success would be losing ten pounds. Then there’s A for Attainable, defined as being achievable, thanks to a series of short steps; it mustn’t be an ‘unreachable star.’ R for Realistic: to keep you motivated, your objective has to make sense in relation to your personality and your possibilities. And, finally, T for Timely: you need to set yourself a deadline.”
As he described the method to me, I saw myself as a sculptor like Barbara Hepworth, imaginary chisel in hand, sculpting, shaping, creating my perfect objective. I drove the image from my mind to concentrate on reality.
“Does all that seem clear, Camille?”
“Yes, yes, completely.”
“I’ll give you a few minutes, then, to draw up your SMART objective. I’ll be back.”
He smiled and left the room. I got up and went to search for a piece of paper and a pencil in the same writing desk I had used at our first meeting. The sheet of paper was easy enough, but the pencils had been put away. Mechanically, I opened the drawer, and to my surprise found a framed photo. I recognized the background as Central Park in New York. Two men were posing for the photograph as if they were brothers. The contrast between them was striking: one exuded an air of self-assurance, strength, and success. The other, in spite of his height, seemed almost fragile. A giant with feet of clay. His eyes seemed clouded by a raft of shadows. He had a family likeness to Claude but must have weighed forty-five pounds more! Perhaps he was his brother?
Hearing steps in the corridor, I quickly shut the drawer.
“How’s it going, Camille?”
“Oh, fine, I just need a pencil.”
“You should have taken one. Here, use this.”
“Thanks,” I stammered, embarrassed at my tactless curiosity.
The entire time I was considering my SMART objective, I was wondering who the man in the photo could have been. I resolved to ask Claude at some point.
Half an hour later, I left with my objective under my arm and with ten pounds to lose under my belt. By this stage I was as motivated as Mother Teresa. I thought it was going to be—pardon the expression—a piece of cake. However, I was not taking into account the cold war that kitchens can declare.
eleven
Over the next few days, I summoned up the strength to put my good resolutions into practice.
“Just saying the word ‘diet’ makes one put on weight,” Claude had warned me. “You need to learn to find pleasure elsewhere.”
That was a good one. As if anyone had ever found pleasure in steamed broccoli or broiled fish!
“Think about spices, Camille.”
Why not, after all? What had I got to lose? (Apart from a few pounds . . . ) So I raided the local supermarket and came back with an armful of spices that would add flavor and, I hoped, raise the troops’ morale. Garlic, coriander, turmeric, paprika, curry powder, garam masala. And gray, black, and white pepper: I didn’t care what color it was, provided the taste was intoxicating. The enemy was tastelessness.
In the cold war of hot food, I learned how to use the secret weapons of healthy eating. The trick of using fat-free yogurt; the heroic part white meats could play in my special dishes.
Low fat, that was the challenge, because there were enemies lurking in every dark corner of the cupboard: cans of Pringles and shortbread cookies lying in ambush, waiting slyly for their moment of glory.
Their greatest ally? My own son! There was no way I could sacrifice his appetite on the altar of my good intentions. So I had to suffer and carry on buying all those forbidden fruits that he wolfed down so innocently in front of me, while I stoically ate an apple.
But the worst hour of the day was not his snack time. No, that came at nightfall, when the call of the wine rack became pressing, even irresistible. The danger of a calorie bomb attack was at its height. Temptations rained down on me, threatening to destroy all my best intentions. And what about the Macaroni Syndrome? It was as perverse as its cousin from Stockholm, leading me to sympathize with the enemy, to do a deal with my conscience: just a tiny spoonful to finish up my boy’s plate . . .
Even so, my bravery paid off. In a few days I could already see some real improvements. Encouraged by these early victories, I held fast, silently muttering to myself the hymn of the slimming experts to the glory of lower fat, less sugar, reduced salt . . .
Alas, hardly had the trumpets of victory begun to sound than an enemy I had underestimated mounted a counterattack: boredom.
In the office, we were going through a lean patch, and my boss preferred to give what work there was to my full-time colleagues. Each hour seemed like 360 minutes, maybe even 500. Sometimes 1,000. I could hardly wait for the four o’clock break. In other words, I was stagnating.
It was then of course that the idea of surrendering raised its pointy little head. What if I forgot my diet just this once? Just for today? Who would ever know?
I went down to the vending machine, that little shop of calorific horrors. Just a tiny bar of something . . . After all, where was the harm? I was just about to slip a coin into the slot when my mobile began to vibrate. It was a text message from Claude. How was it possible? Did he have a sixth sense or something? I cursed him under my breath.
How are things? Are you bearing up?
I replied with a casual lie:
Of course. Fab. Have a good afternoon. Cam.
He’ll never know, he’ll never know, I kept telling myself as I turned back to the machine, money in hand. But it was too late. I could feel Claude’s presence all around me, as if his eyes were prying into everything. Big Brother is watching you! I was living the diet version of 1984.
Thwarted, with one last sad glance at the machine, I dragged my feet back to my desk. I opened my drawer, where a packet of almonds awaited me. I allowed myself five, plus an apple. Bingeing like an ant.
Then suddenly a sense of revolt surged within me. His advice about “health and well-being” was starting to get on my nerves. Nothing but the worst hypocrisy.
Take the stairs instead of the elevator, go out for a walk at lunchtime, blah. You can also firm your buttocks sitting down: you simply have to clench and then relax them discreetly, blah blah. Bored waiting for the Métro? Stand on tiptoe, then lower your heels down again! As for your abs, why not pull your stomach in whenever you pass a door, blah blah blah? Easy-peasy. Yada yada yada . . .
Yes, I know. Doubtless I’d reached the resistance stage. But who wouldn’t feel rebellious at the idea of giving up all those sweet temptations paraded in fr
ont of us all the time? Nonetheless, I needed to take care if I didn’t want to feel like a hopeless failure when it came to filling in my “Promises Notebook”: another of Claude’s ideas to make me more committed to my resolutions and avoid any backsliding. For every promise I made myself, he told me I had to tick the box “kept” or “not kept.” And there was no way I was going to see him in a few days’ time with a long list of “not kept”s in the book.
I was thinking about all this when my dear colleague Franck (in reality, my office enemy number one) called out, “Are you OK, Camille? You’ve got a very strange look on your face.”
“Oh, yes, everything’s fine . . . I’m trying to concentrate, that’s all.”
“Ah, it’s just that you look as if you’re about to lay an egg.”
Ha-ha. Very funny.
There was no way I was going to tell him I was clenching my buttocks. He never missed an opportunity to bait me anyway.
“Talking of eggs, take a look at the top of your head.”
Take that! One all, Baldy. From the way his cheeks flushed, I could tell I’d hit home. I wasn’t very proud of myself, but he shouldn’t have started it. He was forever going at me, and I always dreaded his jibes. I would have to talk to Claude about it.
As if there were some telepathic link between us, at that very moment I got a chat request on my computer.
—Well, Camille, how’s your “mind over body” exercise going?
—Not bad . . . Sometimes it’s hard to resist temptation though.
—But you have?
—Yes.
—Good! Don’t forget to write that down in your Positive Notebook. Have I mentioned that to you already?
—No, not yet . . .
—Ah, it’s very important. Buy a small address book and jot down in alphabetical order all your triumphs, big and small, and all the things that make you happy, big and small. Soon you’ll have a whole collection of positive anchoring. You’ll see; it’s excellent for your self-esteem and personal satisfaction.
Your Second Life Begins When You Realize You Only Have One Page 5