Such a Pretty Fat: One Narcissist's Quest to Discover if Her Life Makes Her Ass Look Big, or Why Pie Is Not the Answer (11 page)

“Um, maybe next time?”

“All right. I’m going.” As he heads down the hall, he calls, “And stop watching that damn panda video.”

A-choo!

Too late.

Pretty Fat
Memoir Proposal

by Jen Lancaster

It’s time to stop sweating while I eat.

It’s time to stop driving one block to Starbucks.

It’s time to stop having cookies for dinner.

It’s time to stop promising to go to the gym instead of actually going.

It’s time to stop treating my body like a fraternity party.

In Pretty Fat, I will do all of the above.

(If it doesn’t kill me first.)

I’m so tired of books where a self-loathing heroine is teased to the point where she starves herself skinny in hopes of a fabulous new life. And I hate the message that women can’t possibly be happy until we’re all size fours. I don’t find these stories uplifting; rather, I want to hug these women and take them out for fizzy champagne drinks and cheesecake and explain to them that until they figure out their insides, their outsides don’t matter.

Unfortunately, being overweight isn’t simply a societal issue that can be solved by positive self-esteem. Rather, it’s a health matter, and here on the eve of my fortieth year, I’ve learned I have to make changes so I don’t, you know,
die
. Because what good is finally being able to afford a pedicure if I lose a foot to adult-onset diabetes?

LANCASTER—PRETTY FAT PROPOSAL

CHAPTER NINE

It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time

OK,
maybe
I could write a book about trying to lose weight if for no other reason than the idea of putting on panty hose and answering someone else’s phone fills my stomach hose and answering someone else’s phone fills my stomach with dread. Writing a book is a good idea, really, because I’d be forced to stick with a healthier way of life.

Here’s the thing—no one is better than me at starting a project. But without an impending deadline, I’m awful at finishing anything. My basement is a testament to my short attention span. Shelves are stacked high with every hobby and habit I’ve ever abandoned. Decorative tiles and colorful grout from my mosaic phase share shelf space with skeins of yarn and various poke-y sticks from my knitting days. Next to them are Rollerblades still spotted with blood from my wobbly kneecaps and a dozen new-puppy manuals with their covers chewed off from my brief (and spectacularly unsuccessful) foray into dog training. Currently collecting dust are a sewing machine and a squash racquet—I told you I didn’t chase balls—and course work from the week I decided I’d become a Realtor. There are stacks of Spanish-language CDs that I quickly abandoned once I decided it would be easier if everyone else simply learned to speak English. (And don’t even get me started about the ten thousand diet cookbooks and exercise tapes I own.)

As evidenced by my experience with Atkins, I quit whenever things get hard or boring. The only way I know to achieve success is to back myself into a corner. For example, I waited tables in college and depended on tips to pay my bills. I also
hated
being a waitress, so every chance I got, I volunteered to go home early, except when I’d get to the end of the month and rent was due. On those nights, I’d drop a kited check off at my landlord’s office. During my shift, I knew I wasn’t allowed to take off for the evening until I’d earned enough to cover the amount of the check I’d written. This obligation pushed me to upsell liquor and to work the dessert tray like my shelter depended on it. Because it did.

Honestly, the only reason I’ve completed two books is that they both sold based on a proposal, rather than a full manuscript. My
obligation
is what drove me to put words on pages, not just blind inspiration. Left to my own devices, it’s pretty clear I’d have never gotten past the opening lines of “Camille said you stole a bag from a homeless guy” and “Carrie Bradshaw is a fucking liar.” If I were to propose a book about losing weight and it sold, I’d
have
to do it because I care too much about my career not to. My work ethic would motivate me to get healthy in a way that doctor’s orders and vanity never have.

Also, writing a book beats the hell out of fetching coffee.

So there’s that.

I
could
do this, especially since I’ve been way more successful in the gym lately, having added carbs back into my diet. I’ve really been pushing myself, so I’d wager I could physically handle the kind of work I’d have to put in for a book. Shoot; I’ve even worked out three times this week!
⁷⁵
With sweating and everything! I still desperately loathe the elliptical machine, but the effort has been easier ever since I bought an iPod.

Stacey suggested I load my iPod with audio books. She works out with them and says they help her mind disengage from all the “suck and hate” her body feels while doing cardio. I followed suit, and it was a good idea at first, but I found myself bawling during a particularly poignant moment in Joshilyn Jackson’s
Between, Georgia
while doing tricep curls.

Fearing another emotional outburst, I tapped into the iTunes library. Dear God, this service is more addictive than Swiss chocolate and Internet porn served together in a Tetris-covered waffle cone.
⁷⁶
I’ve since created the perfect mix of music to keep me going at the gym; it lasts about an hour, building at the beginning and slowing at the end. Were this list to be made public, the entire world would listen to it while getting fit and I would single-handedly destroy the diet industry, and then a lot of people would lose their jobs, and I don’t want that to happen, so please don’t share the following unless you
want
to be responsible for wrecking the economy, OK?

Jen’s Superfantastic Treadmill Mix

Unwritten/Natasha Bedingfield

Since U Been Gone/Kelly Clarkson

Move This/Technotronic

Straight Outta Compton/N.W.A.

Somebody Told Me/The Killers

(What’s So Funny ’Bout) Peace, Love,
and Understanding/Elvis Costello

Anything, Anything/Dramarama

Bust a Move/Young MC

Feel Good Inc/Gorillaz

Ladylike/Storm Large and the Balls

Funky Cold Medina/Tone-Lōc

Pump Up the Jam/Technotronic

Faith/George Michael

Hey Ya!/OutKast

Pump It/Black Eyed Peas

Do Me!/Bel Biv DeVoe

Push It/Salt-N-Pepa

Shine On/The House of Love

Fletch says I have the musical sensibilities of a strip club DJ, but he’s just jealous. Come on, Kelly Clarkson
and
N.W.A.? Elvis Costello
and
Bel Biv DeVoe? Genius!

I have to admit, I’m starting to feel good, even if I don’t look any different yet. Maybe there’s something to be said for these endorphins after all? ’Til now I thought they were one of those largely fictional, Madison Avenue-type words used to sell products.
⁷⁷
As a matter of fact, on the way home from the gym today I was in such a pleasant mood, I didn’t even shout at the guy on the bike who cut me off, despite the fact that he caused me to slam on my brakes and spill my skim latte.

Hey, bike messenger dude? People have
died
for getting between me and my coffee.

I would have been well within my rights to bash him with my car door, but it didn’t even occur to me. Watching him pedal along in the dead of winter didn’t make me question his sanity. Breaking a sweat allowed me to understand that maybe he
likes
how he feels while riding a bike and he cycles not because he’s a crazy person, but because it helps him stay healthy. Then it occurred to me that you never see fat people on bikes.

I mean, except in Queen videos.

Ooh, I should download some Queen!

Since I’m exercising consistently, that proves it’s all the more possible to conquer the food thing. I just need to find the right way of eating. There’s got to be a plan out there that doesn’t leave me shaky, ravenously hungry, or so packed with cheese that I can never use the bathroom again. There’s got to be a middle ground.

I’ve been asking around, and I’ve heard excellent things about the South Beach Diet, so I begin my Internet research. The very first thing I read is that I’m not supposed to consume any caffeine during the induction phase.

Pfft
. Next.

Perhaps a quick glance at YouTube will provide proper inspiration....

I’m resting my eyes for a moment because I kind of watched too much Internet video earlier. Did you know they stream whole television shows on the Web now? When did this little miracle happen? And why didn’t anyone ever tell me how good
Survivor: Cook Islands
was?
⁷⁸
I thought it was all people having to eat bugs, but it’s full of yelling and plotting and all the other stuff that make me love reality TV so damn much. Bless CBS; they have the entire series cached for my viewing pleasure.

I got to the point where Jonathan was voted out, and I had to lie down. I’m almost asleep in the guest room when the phone rings. I check the caller ID, see that it’s Fletch, and answer.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me. It’s official. I’m done. I just wanted to let you know I’m on my way so you don’t have a heart attack when I come home midday.”

I shake my head, trying to clear it. “Wait, what? You’re done?
Done
done? Did you quit, or get fired, or laid off, or ...”

“I’ll give you the scoop when I get home. Real quick, though, because the valet’s here with my car, I got severance; they’re going to pay our insurance next month; basically everything ended best-case scenario.”

“Congratulations? Or I’m sorry? I’m not sure which is appropriate.”

“I’m pretty happy, so let’s go with congratulations. See you in a few.”

“Um, OK; see you then.”

I get up from my nap. I look from my heeled professional shoes hanging in their little slots on the back of the guest room door over to my computer. The party is over and I’m getting back to work; whether it’s writing or temping is still to be determined.

I turn on my computer and pull up a blank Word document, and I begin to type.

It’s time to stop sweating while I eat.

“Any word on your proposal?” Stacey asks. Tonight we’re at her place watching Bravo.
Top Design
is on, and it’s just not catching our attention like
Top Chef
or
Project Runway
.
⁷⁹

“Nope, no decisions yet. I suspect my editor likes it, although she obviously won’t confirm or deny this until after the deal is signed, if we even get to that point. And I haven’t a clue as to what everyone else thinks,” I reply.

Stacey gives me a sympathetic look. With four books under her belt, she’s done this before and knows exactly how nerve-wracking waiting for an answer is. Stacey points the remote at her TV and mutes
Top Design
. “Any idea when they’ll give you an answer?”

“God, I hope it’s soon. The stress eating is killing me,” I say. I pull a bag of Raisinets out of my purse. “Will my losing fifty pounds count if I gain twenty now?” I offer Stacey some, but she declines. I tear open the familiar yellow package and absently begin popping them in my mouth, one after another. I’m all about comfort foods right now. Candy is good, but I’d kill for something covered in gravy. Unfortunately, mashed potatoes lack a certain portability. If I could come up with a way to serve them on a stick, I’d make millions. “The worst part is, if the book doesn’t sell, not only will I be fatter, but I’ll be fatter at a temp job.”

“How’s Fletch’s search going?”

“He’s already got feelers out at places he used to work, and everyone’s been receptive. He’s had a couple of good in terviews, and overall he’s really upbeat. It’s not going to be like last time, when he was out of work for a year.”

“That’s a relief, yes?”

“Totally. It’s kind of a good thing, actually. If the book sells while he’s home during the day, then I can use the car to go to the gym, since exercise will be a major part of the story. But if he were working and out on appointments, I’d be stranded ’til he got home.”

“You can’t take public transportation to the gym?”

“Not really. My gym is in the West Loop—it’s only a few miles, but to get there I’d have to either switch buses three times or go from bus to train to walking half a mile. There’s no way I’m putting that much effort toward getting on a treadmill, especially since the walk is bonus exercise. Fortunately, Fletch got a decent severance package, and he’s so delighted to finally be done, he granted me a reprieve until the end of the month, which means I’ve got another week before I have to call my old temp agency.”

“Tick-tock.”

I wolf down another handful of Raisinets. “Fuckin’ A.”

“What are you going to do between now and then?”

“I don’t know. Pace? Watch more reality TV on the Internet? Enjoy my last free moments not filling out other people’s expense reports? What I
should
do is return the million e-mails I got in the past month while I was working on the proposal. Of course, the very first one I opened today said this:
‘Dear Jen, I’m seventeen and I live in Australia. I love
Bitter Is the New Black
! But I have a question after looking at the old photos on your Web site
—
you have
such a pretty face, but you seem to have let your body go. Have you ever thought about losing weight?’
So . . . yeah. If that’s the kind of mail I’ve got waiting for me, I’m not that anxious to tackle it.”

Stacey strokes her chin in an exaggerated thinking gesture. “Hmm. Are we planning to fly Down Under and stab her in person, or do we hire someone to do it?”

“Normally I’d send her such a scathing response, she’d be afraid to ever pick up a book again, but I get the feeling she was being genuine.”

Stacey snorts. “You should
genuinely
tell her to call you in twenty-three years and then grill her on how very, very easy it was to maintain the figure she had at seventeen. ”

I stuff another handful of Raisinets in my mouth.
⁸⁰
“What gets me is the ‘pretty face’ bit. ’Cause I won’t mind being reminded I’m fat as long as you water it down first. Why not say,
Hey, I’m going to insult you, but first I will congratulate your fortunate genetics and appropriate application of Bobbi Brown cosmetics to prevent you from hitting me
. Shit; I kind of prefer being called a ‘fat bitch.’ At least it doesn’t pull any punches.”

“You’re right—‘pretty face’ is only used to counteract addressing someone’s weight. Nobody ever says,
You have such a pretty face; it’s a shame you’re a whore.
”

“
Ha!
” I bark. “How about,
You have such a pretty face; if only you weren’t as dumb as a bag of hair.
”

“Ooh,
You have such a pretty face; too bad your children were spawned by Satan.”

“You have a gorgeous face, but have you ever considered flossing?”

“You have the prettiest face and the ugliest house.”

“You’re a classic beauty in every way, except for your hideous personality, of course.”

“You’re so lovely, so I wonder why your husband can’t keep his dick in his pants.
”