Read Conversations With the Fat Girl Online
Authors: Liza Palmer
invitees. She recommends I send everyone a bulk "Save the Date" e-mail.
It's ironic that the three women who celebrated her shower a couple of
weeks ago know more about the actual event than I do. I read on. She
thanks me for her birthday gift, which arrived two days early. I sprang
for a spa package for her in Las Vegas so she could have some time to
herself during the big bridal-shower weekend. I got her a hot bath in
rose-scented water with a scalp massage, followed by a Vichy shower
where she will be rubbed down with coconut and other tropical oils. Our
birthdays are only days apart. Over the years, Olivia has showered me
with embarrassing gifts like dancing Candy Grams, Ferraris rented for
the day, and a weekend at the famous San Ysidro Ranch outside Santa
Barbara. When it comes to my birthday, Olivia goes all out. Even as our
friendship waned over the last few years, Olivia has never dropped the
ball when it came to my birthday.
I scroll back up to her list of shower invitees. Gwen is at the top of
the list, of course. I hate that we are communicating via e-mail. I
would love for her invitation to get lost in the mail. Now it would just
be me lying about getting her e-mail address wrong. Where's the drama in
that?
Olivia gives me a full bio on each of the remaining three girls.
Panchali Nagra runs an art gallery in Georgetown. She mentions that
Panchali lives with her husband and their dog,
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Luciano, in an apartment they've renovated over the gallery. She also
mentions offhandedly that she competes in triathlons around the world.
Yeah, there's someone I can relate to. Hannah Ratner is a corporate
lawyer for one of the top firms in the nation. She is single. That's all
on Hannah Ratner. She is single. I guess that's enough said. Then
there's Shawna Moss, a girl who's famous for having bowls of M&M's in
her office, which is dangerously close to Olivia's office at the PR
firm. Of course, Olivia goes on a three-paragraph tirade about how
Shawna just wants to get her fat. Or anyone to get fat-for Shawna is,
and I'll quote Olivia here, "an anorexic bitch who won't let her narrow
ass get past a size 0." There's a true friend. I can just see the toast
now at the rehearsal dinner: "Hi, I'm Shawna Moss and I'm trying to get
everyone fat because I'm an anorexic bitch who won't let anyone get
skinnier than my narrow ass." And . . . cue applause.
I reply to Olivia confirming the "Save the Date" e-mail. I go over some
of the details I've arranged for her shower in Las Vegas. Olivia and I
will meet for a martini before the festivities begin. I e-mail her that
we should meet at the Caramel Bar in the Bellagio, where they have a
whole menu of specialty martinis. I am looking forward to spending an
afternoon with just Olivia. Then I really think about it. What will the
new Olivia and Maggie have to talk about? How many times can we
fantasize about different people from high school stumbling onto her
wedding and being asked to leave (rather loudly and with much fuss)? Is
this it? I will try to resurrect our friendship in Las Vegas. I will set
aside all of my thoughts of Adam and his teensy hands. I will set aside
all of my insecurities and just focus on us.
That night, I put together and send the "Save the Date" bridal-shower
e-mail to Olivia's list of friends. I try to sound as mellow and fun as
possible:
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Viva, Las Vegas!
gain us at the Bellagio to celebrate
Olivia's impending
That sounds too frightening. The nuptials are impending so the hospital
must quarantine those already exposed. Just think breezy
Viva Las Vegas We're, partying like it's 1999
Woop Woop!
No.
I finally put together a basic list of the weekend's activities in a
neutral format. It's sterile and could be construed by some as breezy. I
can't help but look forward to the coming weeks. I know about the
elephant in the living room. And I know that Olivia and I are fine china
no longer fit to eat upon. But we have to have something to show for our
years together. We have been like sisters through some of the hardest
times in our lives-how can it all now be for naught?
201
Seabiscuit and The Corner
I 'd like to think that all this introspection and digging would have
prizes at the end. Find out you eat because you're lonely-get a trip to
Paris. Find out your best friend is a walking leftover from a lost
childhood-get a nice Crock-Pot. Realize you've run from men because the
fear of rejection or commitment scares the shit out of you-take home a
nice dining room set. But you don't get prizes. You get pain and an
inordinately heavy feeling that you've failed in absolutely every way
Gee, I wonder why more people don't try it?
This is the day I've been dreading my whole life. The day I dress my ass
up in "workout" clothes and walk myself into a gym. I imagine shrieks of
horror. I imagine small children being shielded from my hideousness by
their parents. Just your basic pointing and laughing.
Mom meets me out in front of the gym. She looks perfect. Her little pink
sweat suit is accented with black piping, and she is carrying a matching
shoulder holster with a perfectly chilled bottle of water. I, on the
other hand, have on pajama bottoms
202 196Liza Palmer
and an oversize men's white V-neck T-shirt. I am wearing a pink-and-gray
pair of Pumas, and my hair is up in a ponytail.
Mom and I approach the counter. She announces we are here to see Gabriel
James. "We have an appointment," Mom says, tapping her diamond Rolex
Lady President watch on the counter. The Rolex was an Arbor Day present
from Russell. The girl behind the counter, momentarily blinded by the
diamonds, regains her composure and announces over the intercom that
Gabriel is wanted at the front desk.
To my horror, Gabriel James is a strapping young lad. No more than
twenty-two or twenty-three years old. Internationally good looking, with
a swagger equaled only by celluloid cowboys and the aging male movie
stars who play them. He is way over six feet tall, dwarfing me. I doubt
he can even see my poor, tiny mother from where he stands. His cocoa
skin is flawless and only emphasizes his light green eyes. He wears
Adidas workout pants and a T-shirt advertising some fraternity's big
all-alcohol summer blowout festival jamboree. This is the man who's
going to train me? This is the man to whom I'm going to tell my deepest,
darkest secrets? This is the man who is going to take on my Area? I
think not.
"Howdy, ladies." Gabriel extends his paw to my mother and then to me.
Mom is endearing and funny. She compliments him on his green eyes and
says she knows we're now in the best of hands. I grunt something like,
"Area . . . big . . . fatty . . . you . . pretty .....Gabriel takes my
hand and tells me it's a pleasure while looking right in my eyes. He
asks us to follow him "on back" to his office. I nod. Mom bats her
eyelashes.
He leads us around the gym like a couple of toddlers, showing us the
water fountain and saying hi to virtually everyone he passes. He knows
all of their names and exactly what to talk to
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them about. With this one, it's the Dodgers. This one, it's the
stock market. This one, he talks about landscaping and carpools. He is
absolutely intoxicating. I loathe him.
He takes Mom and me into a back office filled with diplomas and framed
photos. There's Gabriel in a race car. Now he's
on a bike in the hills. Now he's standing next to a great white
shark, which he has apparently just caught. I sit in one of the chairs
and pull at my shirt. Mom settles in and takes a swig of her water.
Gabriel starts in with his spiel about health and exercise. He talks
about the epidemic that's sweeping the nation-cue scary
music-obesity. He says it as if it's some kind of modern-day leprosy. I
sit there a full-blown victim of such a disease. I feel a
tad vulnerable and even more untouchable. He goes on about metabolism
and keeping the fire burning by eating six times a
day. My ears perk up. He talks about almonds, avocados, and giving up
dairy. It still sounds okay: I've never been a dairy fan.
And eating six times a day sounds promising. He passes us two little
journals across his desk.
"These are your food diaries." Gabriel flips open a file and starts
jotting something down. He is left-handed.
"We have to write down what our food is feeling?" I ask.
"No .....Gabriel is laughing. His teeth are perfect. "This is where you
write down what foods you are eating and at what times."
"Why?" I ask.
"A little accountability. So I can see That you're putting in your body
during the week," Gabriel says,
"How long do we have to do that?" I ask. "Until I tell you to stop,"
Gabriel says,
"Oh, okay," I say. Fucking megalomaniac.
Mom schedules Monday and Friday mornings for both of
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us. We are responsible for fitting in "cardio" four or five times per
week. We'll start with thirty minutes per day. I am growing excited.
Gabriel never uses words that have to do with emotions or failure. It's
science to him. I have this tiny glint of hope for the first time in my
life. But then right after the hope, I cringe with fear. Hope is a scary
thing.
Gabriel leads us out into the gym and asks us to warm up on the
treadmill. He is a die-hard gentleman who always insists I go first. I
am uneasy walking in front of him. I imagine he's staring at my girth in
all its glory, so I walk quickly and give Mom a flat tire in the
process. She whips around and tells me to "back it up." I feel trapped
and hot. Gabriel puts his big paw out and steadies me.
I get on the treadmill and immediately get winded. My legs feel heavy,
and they are rubbing together at such an alarming rate that I believe
there will soon be a small fire between them. There is a ponytailed girl
next to me running at the pace of a young colt in a Virginia pasture.
Effortless and graceful. Her ponytail flips in syncopation with her
perfect gait. She even smiles at me at one point-her face glowing with
sweat, her eyes clear and bright. I thought girls like that in a gym
were supposed to act snobby and point and laugh. But the only one here
who looks like she might do that is me. Gabriel comes over now and again
and checks our progress. Mom is just as winded as I am, so he slows her
treadmill down. I feel a little better about myself. Then he slows me
down, too. Seabiscuit next to me makes a disappointed face-I fight the
temptation to snatch her bald-headed.
After what feels like five hours-really seven minutes and twenty-seven
seconds-he leads us to our first machine. It is a bench-press setup
right in front of a wall of mirrors. I am having flashbacks of my
nightmare. You lie back on this bench and he
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helps you raise and lower a bar with weights. This is supposed to help
your chest. The last glimpse I get of myself lying down reminds me of a
shot that might come from a home video camera in the birthing room. All
that's missing is a pair of stirrups and a crowning baby
"Go ahead and give me seven more, Maggie. Gooood, and three, two, and
ten more." I almost drop the bar. Gabriel's voice is melodic, like an
X-ray technician or a doctor as he says, "Relax, this won't hurt a bit."
"Wait. You said seven more and then you went all the way back up to
ten," I say, raising and lowering the bar.
"You didn't look tired," Gabriel says while he leans on the bar itself.
The weight I have to lift has now doubled.
"Wait-what? Well, now you're just leaning on it!" I am horrified.
"Okay, good. Now give me three more." Now I know that Gabriel is a big,
fat leaning-on-the-bar liar. As far as I know, I could be here all
night. I do seven more and he finally hooks the bar back into the notch
on the equipment.
Mom is next. She does approximately five total. The whole time she looks
like she's in complete pain. Gabriel doesn't lean on the bar at all and
even passes my mother her perfect little water bottle when she's done.
As she's getting up from the bench, my mother winks at me. The bitch.