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 (20 page)

Session Seven

This is the first day I don’t have to nap after a session.

Session Eight

Barbie asks me if the weight is too heavy and I say, “No, it’s actually a little too light,” so she adds five pounds.

How did
that
happen?

Session Ten and a Half

“Barbie promised it would be fun,” I say, pulling on my pale blue Nikes with the electric lime swoosh, neatly mirroring the acid green of my baggy V-neck. Someday I’ll have a whole wardrobe of those superfitted moisture-wicking Lycra workout tops, but not until I have considerably fewer rolls. Tight gym shirts are a privilege to be earned, and I haven’t yet. Until then, I suffer in a variety of thick pastel cotton T-shirts that nicely conceal the lumps in my topography yet feel like a sweaty bedsheet by the time I finish a workout.

“Explain to me again what it entails,” says Fletch. He sifts through the baskets of clothing on the bed. I should probably admit here that I have a bit of a laundry problem. I will sort, wash, and dry all day long, but when it comes to folding, I lose steam. You could ski down the massive slopes of clean socks and towels stacked up in our bedroom most days. Fletch hates having full baskets of clean, unfolded clothes, but I’ve yet to come up with the proper motivation to spend an afternoon turning someone else’s underpants into origami. If I hold out long enough, he’ll eventually tackle the folding himself.
¹³³
Fletch continues to paw through reams of sheets and pillowcases, and he bypasses the attractive moisture-wicking tops I got for him. He finally opts for a grungy old concert T-shirt with cutoff sleeves.
¹³⁴

I yank my hair back into a ponytail and adjust my madras do-rag, smoothing it and securing it in place with a couple of bobby pins. I love this particular bandana because it serves a dual purpose: not only does it keep my bangs from falling in my eyes when I’m huffing away on the treadmill, but also all the pretty colors in the plaid tie the various hues of my shorts, shirts, and shoes together.
¹³⁵

“I don’t know exactly; I’ve never been to one, either. But Barbie told me it’s strength training and we’ll do resistance-based exercises with bands, barbells, and stuff. That doesn’t sound bad, right?” I catch the furrow in Fletch’s brow and cut him off before he can complain. “For God’s sake, I promise it’s not a ballet class. We’re going to be working with weights, not disco dancing, OK?”

Fletch has a bizarre phobia about people thinking he’s gay, which is way more ridiculous than my finding-a-severed-head -in-the-toilet fear. If you find a severed head, that’s patently terrifying. What’s the worst that would happen if someone thought he was playing for the home team? He might get a free drink? Or have a conversation about some shoes? He loves drinks and shoes! I guarantee no one’s first thought when they see the guy with a military-grade hair cut in the Metallica T-shirt—especially
with his wife
—is going to be, “Oh, yeah, total flamer.”
¹³⁶

Fletch begins to waver. “Jen, I’m kind of tired, and this doesn’t—”

“No! You have to come! I can’t go without you because I’m afraid I won’t be able to keep up, and if I’m the only fat, lazy person in the class
and
I’m alone, then I will die of shame and you will be forced to wash your own damn drawers.”

Fletch considers this. “You want me there not because you’re concerned about my health, but because you don’t want to be alone?”

“Exactly. Also, I’m banking on your lack of endurance. You never do cardio, so there’s a good chance I’ll last longer than you because I’ve been training. You’ll make me look better by comparison. Wait, I said that out loud, didn’t I? What I meant to say was
pleeeeease
?”

Frowning, Fletch walks over to his closet and pulls out a pair of slick silver and black running shoes and locates an extra-squashy pair of white socks from the mass tangle of clean duds. “You realize you’ll owe me after this.”

“Name your price.”

He cuts his eyes over to the piles and says, “Mount Polyester is gone before bedtime tonight.”

“Done.” I walk over to inspect myself in the full-length mirror and notice a splotch right where an embroidered alligator or pledge pin would go. “Aw, shit; there’s a big butter stain on my shirt. Or maybe it’s olive oil?” I glance over at Fletch. “Oh, stop smirking. At least it’s not chocolate or red wine.”

“Mmm. Thank God,” he concurs.

“Hey, can you grab my New Balance sneaks out of the guest room closet while I search for a different top? I have to change shoes so they match.”

I dig through the piles and toss on a plain white T and my brand-new red mesh shorts. They are both sparkling clean and will do nicely, except now I’ll have to find a different bandana, too. I locate a white one locked in mortal static-cling combat with a fuzzy pair of pajama bottoms. I remove the plaid one and redo the pins just as Fletch returns with my shoes. “Here you go,” he says. “Hey, you’ve got a couple of stickers on your butt. Here, I’ll get them.” He leans down behind me and pulls them off.

“Stickers? What do they say?”

He squints. “
2XL
and
Made in Vietnam
.” He folds the papers tacky-side down and flicks them into the garbage can.

“Huh,” I muse. “I didn’t know Vietnam manufactured clothes. Then again, almost all my knowledge of Vietnam comes from a single film I saw in a History of War class in college. Basically all I remember is how wee all the Vietnamese were compared to the American GIs.”
¹³⁷

"Asians are significantly smaller than us. During the last Olympics in Japan, they had to rip out all the seats so they could accommodate our expansive Western asses.” He pumps his fists in the air, “USA! USA!”

I look at myself in the mirror, turning from side to side. “I wonder what those lithe little Vietnamese thought as they were sewing up my big red shorts. They must feel we’re so overindulged and decadent here.”

“Nah.” Fletch giggles. “I bet they waved them over their heads and ran around the factory shouting,
‘Gojira, Gojira!’
and then stomped up and down the aisle between the sewing machines, pretending they were crushing cars and fighting Mothra.” He collapses into a pile of laundry, clutching his sides.

“Nice,” I say. “What an excellent support system you are. You can fold your own damn laundry, mister.” I hear him call out an apology as I clamor down the stairs, but he’s still laughing, so it doesn’t count. “Oh, and by the way, Fletch? If some guy wants to touch your winky at the gym? I’m going to let him.”

I step over the yoga mat where Fletch lies clutching his sides for a second time today. I think Barbie’s free-motion fitness class may well have killed him.

Barbie points at me as I walk up to her. “You’ve been holding out on me, girl! I figured you’d have to modify some of the moves, but you did them all! I’m so proud of you!”

“I know!” I exclaim. “I can’t believe I kept up!”

Barbie glances at Fletch’s prone form. “Is he going to be OK?”

“He’s fine, just settling a little karmic debt. Anyway, that was kind of fun. I liked working out with the sound system—really got me motivated.”

“This is the first time we’ve been together and I didn’t hear you complaining,” she tells me with a big grin.

“Probably a pleasant change for you, right? Frankly, I would have started to whine, but I was too busy trying not to attract attention from the fit people during class.”

“Can I expect this new and improved attitude during our session tomorrow?”

“Oh, Christ, no.”

“Good. Because that would be boring!” We walk out to the reception desk so she can grab her calendar. We confirm our time for tomorrow and she gives me a little hug even though I’m gross. She heads into the office, and I go back to the group fitness room to stand over Fletch, who’s quietly whimpering.

“Hey, sweetie? If you can get up, I can take you home.”

I’m upstairs in the bedroom trying on my new dress, which is
sleeveless
. I can’t believe I bought a sleeveless dress. For me, sleeveless is the new
n-a-k-e-d
. But this was on major mark-down, and it was so pretty that I couldn’t help but try it on. I was attracted to it because it’s deep purple, and it’s printed with designs in teals and golds, and there are sparkly beads all over it. Empire waisted, it falls to the perfect midcalf length, but it’s cut conservatively enough to be appropriate on any veranda on Martha’s Vineyard.
¹³⁸
I was shocked when I looked at myself in the trifold mirror—where’d all my back fat go?

While I’m busy admiring myself, the phone rings. “Hello?”

“Jen, it’s Kate—I’ve got good news! We got a bid for
Bitter
rights in Korea!” What my agent means is, someone in Korea wants to publish my first book. Foreign rights sales are the best because as a writer you don’t have to do
anything
except sign a contract.

“Really? Wow!” Then I remember something. “But aren’t they communists? Why do they want to publish a book about my rampant consumerism?”

I hear Kate take a deep breath, like she often does when we chat. “Ah, no. We’re talking about
South
Korea. Kim Jong Il did not make the offer, Jen.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good, right?”

“Of course! Congratulations!”

“One question, though.”

“What’s that?”

“How are they going to translate ‘asshat’ into Korean?”

After I finally stop modeling my new dress for myself, I e-mail my mother with the news of the Korean sale, relaying the conversation I had with Kate. My mother’s response?

They read right to left in Korea, so “asshat” is going to be translated backwards. Thousands of Koreans will be trying to picture what a hat for the ass looks like.

Seriously, how do I ever fight with this woman?

Session Seventeen

All of my regular bras are too big—not only are they loose in the band, but I could totally stow a pair of socks in each cup. I’m delighted at this development, but I don’t like how everything clatters around up there now when I’m at the gym. Before I leave for my session today, I dig out an old bra from the bag I’ve yet to remember to bring to Goodwill.

I pull out a nice white racer-back. Why was I giving this one away? Since I’m the perpetual optimist, I never get rid of stuff when it gets too small, although I donate what I’m tired of seeing or don’t use anymore. Last charity go-round, I did a huge suit purge. I had really nice pieces, too, but I haven’t needed anything business-y for years. These suits are going to get a second life somewhere in the corporate world, and that makes me happy.

As I dress, I notice that this bra is snug in all the right places, and I like how much support it has. Plus, I love having a front hook—none of that upside-down-and-around -the-waist business here!
¹³⁹
What was my problem? Why would I dump something with such a great fit? I turn and look at myself sideways in the mirror. Very nice!

I’m not more than thirty seconds into the warm-up matrix Barbie has me do prior to each of our sessions when I remember why this bra was in the donation bin. In the middle of my set of weighted uppercuts,
bing!
My bra flies open. Oh, yeah. . . . It has a faulty hook. The slightest lateral movement and the clasp pops.

“Why did you stop?” Barbie asks.

“My bra came undone,” I reply. “I’m going to duck into the yoga room to rehook it. Stand by.” I’ve developed quite the comfort level around Barbie, so this does not cause the earth to open up and swallow me whole. After all, she witnessed my attempts at squats and lunges on my first day, and nothing could be any more graceless or ungainly than that.

After the minor adjustment, I pick up my weights and continue. “We left off at ten, so there’s nine, eight, seven, six . . . again?”

I have to dash into the yoga room a second time.

This happens four more times in as many minutes, and now it’s just funny. “Can you check the office for some duct tape?” I ask.

“Good call.” Barbie bounds across the gym and returns a few minutes later with a safety pin and some Scotch tape.

“No duct tape?” I ask.

“This is all I could find.”

I MacGyver my bra closed and continue our session. The pin and the tape hold together so well, I decide to walk on the treadmill afterward. I started doing extra cardio a while back when an older gentleman was training at the same time as me. After he finished his grueling session, I watched as he hopped on the treadmill for a quick jog. I figured if a man in his seventies could do it, damn it, so could I.

Other than the exploding underwear, I’m pleased about the work I did today. I’m starting to feel really energized during my sessions, and I daresay I might even be enjoying them. This is
entirely
Barbie’s doing. It took me weeks to realize that during the hardest parts of whatever we were into, she’d start talking about either celebrity gossip or my writing. Until she finally admitted it, I had no clue she was intentionally distracting me with my favorite topics.

Strong is the force in this one.

I’m down another five pounds this week, exactly the amount I’d hoped for. However, I’ve been conducting an experiment with my eating. This week I ate Jenny Craig meals only about half the time. The other half, I ate whatever I fixed for Fletch, portioning out smaller servings of meat, pasta, and fats, and loading up on vegetables.

Jenny Craig has a formula I’m supposed to follow when preparing meals on my own, but it’s confusing and entails math, so I based my decisions on a straight calorie count. My intention is to go off the Jenny meals because they’re kind of a crutch and they aren’t meant to be a long-term solution. Besides, I’m really, really sick of the food. The more I eat it, the more I find fault. At this point I’m getting the same four lunches, four dinners, and three breakfasts each week, and my palate is about to go on strike. Boredom is exactly why so many diets are unsuccessful, and I don’t want monotony to tempt me back into my old way of eating. I feel too good.

I’m in my regular meeting at Jenny with Little Miss Birthmark and I mention for the third week running that I’d really like to transition onto nonfrozen, nonboxed food. I don’t tell her how much menu planning I’ve already been doing on my own.

“Sure, we’ll talk about that next time. For now, you should appreciate what great results you’re getting on the Jenny Craig meals,” she says.

Wrong answer, Señorita Carcinoma. Wrong answer.