Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Single (19 page)

Ted and I spend the rest of the day mocking up an apology postcard that will go out to all customers who lost Heart Bears. We draft a version, three people have to sign off on it and make notes, we redraft and they check again, and so on. It literally takes us all day to do this.

The next day Brad still hasn't called. I trudge through work and keep my head low and my eyes on my desk. I don't want to look at anyone. They all probably already know anyway, I can just hear them sneering with delight in the break room. “Did you hear Jennifer Johnson actually thought she was Brad Keller's girlfriend? Can you imagine? Poor thing!” Then they'd cackle like black crows. Anytime I hear anyone laughing anywhere in the office, I cringe.

I'm sure they're laughing about me.

Depression wraps around me like a heavy blanket. I screwed everything up. Of course I did. That's what I do. Jennifer Johnson, human wrecking ball. Think something's secure? Can never be torn down? Think again. Give me a shot and I can bring it all tumbling down on my head faster than a union wrecking crew.

After work I pick up some Chinese food and go home, where I eat chicken with peapods right out of the container while sitting at my laptop, bidding online for a set of miniature dollhouse wine bottles. I already have little cans of Michelob in the dollhouse refrigerator and little champagne glasses on the shelf, which I allow my Tinkertoy family to use every New Year's Eve. After waiting for twenty minutes I don't get the wine bottles. I'm outbid by some jackass in Virginia.

I take a bath and read a little bit of Dr. Gupta's book. I note the section where he says when we help other people, we help ourselves. Okay, who can I help? Even if I've destroyed my life, and Brad is going to break up with me, I can still help others. That's what they'll say about me at my funeral: she died a spinster, but she was very helpful.

I dial the number on the Mormon dress Web site. The phone only rings once before it's picked up by a young girl with a sweet voice. Poor thing.

“Hello!” she says. “FLDSdresses dot com!”

“Hi there,” I say. “I need to return a dress I bought from your Web site.”

“Okay then,” she says, “do you have your purchase order number?”

I'm so surprised I got right through to an actual compound person, I'm a little ruffled. I have to handle this right. Very delicately.

“I think I do.” I say. “Do you need help?”

“Pardon?” she asks.

“No, I'm sorry,” I say, “start again. What's your name?”

“Eliza,” she says. If this isn't a creepy sister-wife name, I don't know what is.

“Okay, Eliza, I just wanted to know if you need any outside intervention. I mean, if you want me to come get you, I will.”

She pauses. “If I want you to come
get
me?”

“I know it's hard to break out of these situations—well, I don't personally know, I've never been married, let alone to a cousin or whatever.”

“I think you have the wrong number,” she says and hangs up.

Great. Good going. Another victory.

No, just breathe. Relax.

I can't sink into despair. I have to take action, some kind of action, so I find my
TO DO IN THIS LIFETIME
list and see what's on it.

• Find true love.
  
• Travel around the world.
  
• Write great American novel or something that sells well.
  
• Have two children.
  
• Save someone's life.
  
• Get down to a size six.
  

Okay, so of everything on here, getting to a size six seems the most probable right now, so on Saturday I drive over to a rapid weight-loss clinic called “Weight for Life!” conveniently located between a Kentucky Fried Chicken and a Mexican bakery, both establishments I'm already familiar with.

I've driven past this clinic more times than I can count. There's a pink neon poster in the window that says,
FREE WEIGHT LOSS PLAN
.
Beneath that it says,
WHAT ARE YOU WEIGHTING FOR
? I park in front of the brightly lit Exec-U-Tan just as an enormous lady in a purple coat waddles past. She looks like the big human grape in those Fruit of the Loom commercials. That'll probably be me in a few short years. Huge and alone, wandering down the street like oversize novelty fruit.

I'm being too dramatic. Maybe the clinic won't even take me. Maybe they'll say I'm being absurd. They might shake their heads in disbelief and say,
You thought you needed to lose weight?
Then maybe they'll show me some photographs of truly obese people, like this woman struggling in front of me, and tell me, “If you ever look like this, c'mon back! But for now, you get outta here, silly!”

I crunch down the icy sidewalk in my big winter boots, ignoring the completely unfair and mouth-watering smell of original-recipe chicken and deep-fried cinnamon. I do not read the loud neon posters advertising extra-spicy chicken wings and 99-cent churros. I just march into the front door of the clinic. The small fluorescent-lit lobby has a half dozen folding chairs in it, and three other girls waiting. They are all smaller than me. One actually looks sick. The cramped room smells like warm lemon air freshener and the front desk girl looks bored.

Stay positive
, I think,
you can do this.

“Hi! I'd like a free personalized weight plan.”

“Great,” she says, and whips out a green sheet of paper with a grid of prices. “Would you like the Iron, Silver, or Platinum program?”

I'm confused. I try to make sense of the tiny numbers on the green sheet. “I just want the free weight-loss plan,” I tell her, “like the sign says in the window.”

“Every program has a free weight-loss plan,” she says. “The
Platinum Program here is our best value.” She circles something on the sheet with a red Sharpie. “Not only do you get unlimited Web site points and an upgraded personalized weight-loss plan but you also get a free mineral composition analysis, a year's supply of Vita-gized! energy supplements, and a voucher for half off our patented Weight for Life! water ionizer, as seen on TV.”

“How much is all that?”

“If you use the rebate certificate,” she says, “it's only a dollar a day.”

“I just want one day. Today.”

“The Titanium program includes everything on the Platinum program,” she says. “Except it's six months of Vita-gized! energy supplements and a voucher for twenty-five percent off our patented Weight for Life! water ionizer, as seen on TV.” She's staring off into the parking lot. Then, without even looking at me, she says, “You'll probably want to join our moderate group—it's for people with a little more to lose.”

I take out my purse. If I don't get away from this woman I might get a migraine. “How many days do people usually sign up for?” A headache is creeping up behind my right eye, and my boots are getting really hot.

“Our finance package and payment plans all start at six months,” she says, “but one year is a much better value.”

“Six months? I just want to come today and get my weight-loss plan or whatever.”

The doorbell sounds behind me and two women walk in. “Hi, ladies!” she says. “I'll be right with you.” Then she shoots me the faintest of dark looks. “We also have financing options.”

“Look”—I try to keep any trace of hurt, humiliation, anger, fear, dread, or loathing out of my voice—“I'm not signing up for a year or six months or whatever and I don't need a water ionizer. I just want the weight-loss plan.” She takes out a drab,
mustard-yellow sheet of paper and slides it across the counter. “Our base-cost plan then,” she says.

“And how long is this one for?”

“One class, one weight-loss plan, and a keychain. Seventy bucks.” She holds up a plastic keychain in the shape of a daisy that says,
DON'T WEIGHT!

I tell her I'll take it.

“You'll need to fill out this questionnaire and this medical consent form,” she says. “I'll need an emergency contact and payment in full.”

She hands me a stack of papers and pamphlets. I'm not a hundred percent certain my credit card will work, so I write a check for seventy dollars and she hands me the daisy keychain. I feel somewhat, in a minimal way, satisfied. I fill out the questionnaires and sign away all my rights, consents, and medical histories. I only lie a little on my medical evaluation.
No known medical conditions
,
no history of blood clots
,
seizures, or depression
. Well, three out of four isn't bad.

She points me down the hall to a dingy low-ceilinged classroom with faux-wood paneling and a semicircle of folding chairs. A handful of women are already there, waiting. I sit in a chair and study the brightly colored inspirational pictures on the wall. There's one poster with a yellow butterfly on it that says, “The achievement of your goal is assured the moment you commit yourself,” and as much as I'd like to get onboard with the motivational poster people, I can't help knowing this is patently untrue. I can think of dozens of situations in which someone's commitment did not assure achievement. Every silver medalist in the Olympics, for example, or the people who work at the motivational poster place. Can I think of a job that would suck more? I cannot. What about the people who didn't achieve their goal despite definite planning and commitment,
not to mention catchy phrases and theme songs, like the Nazis had? And aren't we glad they didn't achieve their goals? Would we sit Hitler down today and say, “If only you'd wanted it a little more?”

A skinny blonde wearing a pink sweat suit comes in. “HEY, GANG!” she shouts at us. Her face is orangey-brown and she has deep wrinkles around her mouth. She looks like a chemical whipped dessert, something you could buy at a gas station. She says her name is Indra and she welcomes us. “I have an important question for you ladies,” she says. “And if the answer is no, you can walk out that door right now.”

We all shift nervously in our seats and wait for
the big important question.
Indra smiles and says, “Are you ready to become a better, thinner YOU? The YOU you've always dreamed of being?”

I try to count how many times she just said “you.”

“C'mon, people!” she says. “
Are you?
”

“Yes,” we say, and I must admit, we sound like a halfhearted group.

“That's the spirit!” Indra bubbles. “Great!”

She hands each of us two index cards and tells us to write something positive about ourselves on them like, “I'm good at tennis,” or “I love eating healthy foods.”

Okay, Indra, really. Be serious.

If any of us could in all honesty write those down, then we wouldn't be here, would we? I fight the urge to write dark things down like, “I am awesome at destroying any chance I have at happiness,” or “I can eat a whole pie.” I try to take it seriously and I put, “I like cats” and “I can spit farther than my sister.” That's all I can think of.

When we're done, she tells us to keep the cards in our purses and pull them out anytime we're about to snack. Great. That should keep me away from a bucket of original recipe.

She has everyone scoot their folding chairs into mini-circles and we're all supposed to tell each other what's bothering us.

People begin blurting out their weird, bizarre problems. One woman doesn't like her kids, another has not one but three different eating disorders, and yet another cheated on her husband who has cancer.

Oy.

Indra nods reassuringly when people talk, but the subtext look on her face says:
I can't believe I'm stuck here with you losers. How did you get so fucking big? Couldn't you put down the Hershey bar? Really? Don't
,
don't
,
I mean whatever you do
,
don't touch me.
She grins so hard you think she's going to shatter her teeth.

I tell them all I just broke up with my boyfriend.

When we're finally done with personal-problem vomit time, we weigh in on the big digital scale at the head of the classroom. A person steps on and the red digits race up and then blink whatever humiliating weight she happens to be. Indra writes it down and then she steps off. It's like a game show for the unlovable.

When I step onto the scale my cheeks are burning but I refuse to let embarrassment stop me. “Okay,” Indra says, “the scale says you're three pounds heavier than what you put on your intake sheet.” I'm confused. “That's what I weighed this morning,” I say, “and I only filled that form out like half an hour ago.”

She turns to the class and winks. “Whoopsie boopsie!” she says.

What is “whoopsie boopsie”? How is that supposed to motivate me? How is “whoopsie boopsie” going to keep me from polishing off a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream at midnight? This won't work. What I need is a hard-core weight-loss boot camp. A military-style program where the instructors are tough and the consequences are severe. I can imagine a mean German
woman in a tight olive green uniform goose-stepping around me after I gained weight.