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 (3 page)

“I’m almost out of my thirties. I always thought I’d have my shit together by now; I’d be thin, I’d be out of debt, I’d be nice out of habit and not just when I wanted something, and maybe I’d own a home. Yet here I am hurtling toward the big four-oh in an overpriced rental with student loans and a paltry savings account, and when someone calls me a fat bitch, I simply accept it as fact. Right now, I can live with being a renter, I can live with being broke and fat, and I can live with being a bitch, but the minute you add ‘middle-aged’ to the equation, I’m afraid my world is going to collapse on itself like a dying star.”

Fletch shakes the wine bottle at me, and I hold out my glass. He quickly refills and says, “As for buying a home and paying off debt, we’re working on it. It would be easier if we moved to the suburbs—”

“The land of strip malls and minivans? Soccer moms and church socials?” I interrupt. “Right. If we moved to say, Wheaton, we’d need to buy a home with a basement or an attic.”

“Why?”

“So I could hang myself from the rafters. I live in the city. Period. We’re not having this discussion again.”

Our city-versus-suburb debate has been raging for the past year. Financially, a move twenty miles west makes a great deal of sense, but the thought of it makes my heart cry. At this point, I’d much rather deal with the occasional drug transaction in front of my house than waste away in Wheaton, mingling exclusively with the Illinois version of the Stepford Wives.

Fletch continues, “Even without a move, we’re worlds away from where we were when we were both unemployed, so don’t give me the ‘broke’ business, because it’s not true. Are we having pork roast tonight and not plain spaghetti with salt like that one time? Yes. Do you have to work temp jobs anymore? No. Did you not just deposit a healthy royalty check you earned from your first book? Yes.”

I shrug. We had so little money for so long that sometimes I forget we aren’t destitute anymore, even though we worked damn hard to get back to this point. He continues, “You want change? Lose the bitch. Be nicer to people. Stop telling them to ‘bite you’ and threatening to kick them until they’re dead.” Fletch gets up to turn off the overhead lamp and lights a couple of candles on the table.

I consider what he’s said while plating up our dinner, but I get distracted by what I’m serving. The potatoes are so full of butter, they’re actually yellow, and the beans glisten in the flickering candlelight. I slice the golden pork into mouth-watering slabs, trimming off two of the most egregious chunks of fat and tossing them to the dogs. Then I dice up four smaller bits for all the cats. They all wolf down their pork and immediately clamor for more.

“I’m afraid it’s not that easy. I’ve had this mean-girl thing since birth. The fat’s a fairly recent occurrence. Maybe it would be easier to fix that?” I grab my own dish and sit, ignoring my chair’s creaking protest.

Fletch looks thoughtful for a moment. “Losing weight would be healthier, and even though you balk now, you’d be happier if you shed a few pounds.”

“You think?” I take a bite of my meat, and tiny flavor fireworks explode in my mouth. . . . It’s magically pork-tastic!

“I do. And I’d help you.”

“Hmm. Would you maybe offer me a system of rewards, like ten pounds equals a free facial or something? I don’t follow through well unless there’s a treat involved.”

“If bribery motivates you, sure.” He reaches across the table to pat my hand.

“What about fifty pounds—would you, say, take me to Las Vegas?”

“That would be cause to celebrate, so, yeah, I’d take you to Vegas.”

I chew thoughtfully for a minute before putting down my fork. “Okay. I guess I could give it a try. But only because I really want to see Steve Wynn’s new hotel and not because I
have
to. Because I?”—I wave my hands down the length of my body, much like Barker’s Beauties do when demonstrating a fabulous hi-fi—“am
fiiine
.”

“You’ll try?” Fletch asks. “Well, good for you for recognizing change is possible.” He raises his water bottle and clinks it against my glass, chipping the rim, which I take as a positive sign from God. Or possibly Crate and Barrel.

“Yes, sir, I’m going to do it. Although if I drop fifty pounds, maybe I should go somewhere more exciting than Vegas, like Italy or somewhere. I guess I can decide later. Regardless, I’m doing this.” I take a bite of my transcendent mashed potatoes and glance over at the cookies waiting on the counter. “I am so totally going to do it.” I take another bite of my pork roast. “Starting tomorrow.”

from the desk of miss jennifer ann lancaster

Dear Ben & Jerry’s,

Just so you know, a pint of Chunky Monkey
is
considered one serving. Please either adjust your nutritional labels accordingly or create a smaller package.

Best,

Jen Lancaster

CHAPTER TWO

Pack Your Knives and Go, Mom

My friend Stacey is over for our regular Wednesday night Bravo-viewing party. Currently we’re watching
Top Chef
, but we’ve previously covered
Project Runway
and
Top Design
. Stacey and I had a rough moment early in our friendship when I told her I’d never seen
Project Runway
. She looked at me as though I’d said I didn’t like chocolate and that shopping for shoes was a waste of time. Fortunately, before Stacey became an author she was a teacher, so she happily educated me in the Way of the (Tim) Gunn, hence the beginning of our Wednesday night tradition.
⁹

Normally our Wednesday nights are at Stacey’s house so we don’t disturb Fletch, who’s often busy working well into the evening. Apparently it’s difficult for him to concentrate on projects when we’re squealing over our girl crushes on Padma and shrieking every time Marcel ruins a perfectly delicious dish by adding foam.
¹⁰
And although our arguments about the relative cuteness of Contestant Sam the Hot Diabetic versus Master Chef Tom Colicchio are logical and articulate, they don’t help Fletch get out customer quotes more quickly.
¹¹
However, Fletch worked all weekend and he doesn’t have much to finish tonight. Plus, I wanted Stacey to see our pretty new living room set, so the viewing party is here this evening.

Stacey and I are nestled into opposite corners of the new couches in my matchbox-sized living room. I’m especially pleased because they’re a nod to the balance we’ve already found in our lives. Back when we were dot-com thousandaires, I insisted I couldn’t be happy unless I got the seven-thousand -dollar Italian leather sofa that had been featured at MoMA. Fortunately, Fletch had the good sense to say no, not only because of the cost, but also because the couch was back-less and the oddly tufted buttons made it feel like sitting on a bag of rocks.
¹²
During the following period of extended unemployment, our ratty old couch served as a reminder of exactly how far we’d fallen, and every day I dreamed of being secure enough again to finally get something new.

Recently I got my first royalty check, so after months of price comparison and discussion, we found a set we loved at the Macy’s outlet store. The pieces we finally settled on had been marked down so low, it would have been irresponsible
not
to buy them. After a thorough debate on their merits over a stack of blueberry pancakes,
¹³
we had to practically fist fight an investment banker and his charming young wife and toddler who’d discovered them when we went to the diner for breakfast. While Fletch explained to the family in no uncertain terms that the pieces were
ours
, I dashed to the cash register and paid for everything. The sale was complete before they were even done taking measurements. Charming Young Wife shot daggers my way when I returned lording my receipt and asking their kid to stop jumping on
my
new sofa. I imagine the term “fat bitch” was bandied about in their Volvo station wagon on the way home, but who cares? That’s fat-bitch-with-a-new-discount-couch to you, lady.

I can’t tell you how much I love this whole set. The couch, ottoman, and love seat are made from shiny brown Italian leather, but the style is classic with nicely padded arms
¹⁴
and chunky cherrywood legs. The pieces are thick enough to withstand dogs jumping on them and cat-claw puncture attacks, and I’d say they’re ideal . . . except I didn’t realize that when you buy furniture, you have to take length, width,
and
depth into account. This explains what Charming Young Wife was doing with the measuring tape that day at Macy’s. Now to get from the living room to the kitchen, we have to turn sideways.

Whatever.

It was totally worth it.

Maisy, smelling vaguely of corn chips, has wedged herself against me on the couch, and Loki, refreshed from another round of salad tossing, waits expectantly at Stacey’s feet for a similar invitation that is not forthcoming. He rests his head on her lap and gazes longingly up at her.
¹⁵

“How’s the diet going?” Stacey asks.

Since we met recently, she has no idea of the lithe sorority girl I once was, dancing to “Cruel Summer” at the Delta Sig house in my size-seven boy-cut Forenzas. She didn’t know me in high school, either, back when my hip bones stuck out so far they used to rub white patches in my Gloria Vanderbilts.

You’d think I’d be in mourning for the shape I once had, but my life isn’t much different than it was when I was slim. Sure, I have bad days when I wish I could swap my body for Jessica Alba’s, but who doesn’t? Shoot; Jessica Alba probably has a pair of fat jeans in her closet. I’ll admit, once in a while my weight embarrasses me, like when I was the only fat person at the health and fitness fair.
¹⁶
And sure, I may have died a thousand tiny deaths earlier this fall when
Cosmopolitan
UK did a photo shoot to accompany an article I’d sold them
after
I’d just gained twenty more pounds. But due to the magic of airbrushing, the experience was far less traumatic than I expected.
¹⁷
Given a choice, I’d rather shop in the juniors ’ section than the women’s, and if I could stop sweating while I eat, that’d be a bonus, but overall I’m still the same me I ever was.

“Not great,” I admit. “At this point, I’ve
decided
to lose weight but haven’t actually done anything about it.”

“Have you dieted before?” she asks innocently, scratching Loki on his snout. His tail thumps in delight.

Stacey and I met on an authors’ panel. Before the event, I’d read some of her books and completely fell in love with her writing. Many of her heroines are plus-sized characters who aren’t starving themselves thin or filled with self-doubt and self-loathing. Her books consistently deliver the message that it’s OK to be happy with who you are, so I was excited to meet her. After the panel, we bonded over a million commonalities and we discovered we’re neighbors, so we’ve been fast friends ever since. Together, we are Stennifer.
¹⁸

I have to stop snorting with laughter before I give Stacey a straight answer. “Yeah. This ain’t exactly my first trip to the ol’ diet rodeo. I’ve been on them hundreds of times, yet I’ve only had long-term success a few times.”

Ever the problem solver, Stacey presses on. “OK, so you’ve proved you can get results. Could you do that again?”

“I don’t know. The first diet that comes to mind was after my freshman year of college when I gained a bunch of weight.”

Fletch comes out of the den and joins us in conversation. “You know what your problem is? Too much tequilas and popcorns,” he says. He’s referring to what one doctor told me when I went in for a back spasm at Purdue’s student health center. The doctor delivered this statement with a poke in my almost-nonexistent belly, cracking himself up. I didn’t find him at all funny, especially given the bulimia affecting half of all the girls I knew on campus.
¹⁹

Fletch sits down next to Stacey on the dog-free couch. “I didn’t gain weight because I was boozing. Freshman year, I drank ultragirly stuff like Fuzzy Navels and butterscotch schnapps, and you can only have so many of those before going into diabetic shock.” Stacey and Fletch grimace at my candy-coated taste in beverages. “Oh, don’t give me those faces. What, like you’ve never had Amaretto and Dr Pepper?” They both frown. “Pear brandy and pineapple?” Stacey turns up her nose, and Fletch visibly shudders. “Or made a peppermint slushy out of fresh snow and Rumpelminz while sledding down Slater Hill?” They vehemently shake their heads.

Pfft
. Their loss.

I continue, “The real culprit was my dorm’s cafeteria. They served the kind of meals I’d never had at home. You know how people wax on and on about all the wonderful foods their moms make? Not me. My mom has always prided herself on her ability to alter recipes. Nothing makes her happier than cutting out even the most necessary portions of oil and sugar. She was obsessed with cooking healthy years before it ever became trendy. Like, when we were kids, our pancakes weren’t all light and fluffy, drenched in butter and syrup. Ours contained lumpy brown flour and handfuls of palate-shredding wheat germ, topped with a thimbleful of Log Cabin maple-flavored syrup and a tiny smear of margarine.”

“Sounds like multigrain granola pancakes—maybe your mom was just ahead of her time?” Stacey says.

“Ever had Kool-Aid made without sugar?” I ask.

“That’d just be red water,” Fletch says.

“Yeah, ask me how I know. And have you ever tried a castor oil-raw egg-orange juice smoothie? Imagine drinking battery acid, only less delicious.” Stacey looks disturbed. “Here’s another example—cookies in my house were made not with milk chocolate chips and sugar but carob and unsweetened applesauce.”

Fletch winces and Stacey says, “Ugh. What were those like?”

“Like eating a handful of damp sand.” One time my mom’s zeal even prompted her to make her signature apple pie with slices of zucchini.
²⁰

“Was she a bad cook or just overly health conscious?” Stacey asks.

“The latter.” Mom always made great stuff for holidays, and the buffets she set up for parties were spectacular. She’d serve wonderful treats like teriyaki wings and baked ziti and little Swedish meatballs, but none of these dishes ever worked themselves into our dinner rotation. Instead we had her homemade chicken soup about once a week, made with water instead of chicken stock, and she’d boil the bejesus out of the vegetables. She never separated the chicken carefully enough, so the soup would be all bland and mushy except for the tiny, stabby bones. “I got really turned off of food and became an incredibly fussy eater. I spent seventeen years opting for wheat toast in lieu of whatever dinner she’d cooked.”

“Trust me,” Fletch adds, “her mom could make an Ethiopian villager politely back away from the dinner table, claiming he’d had a big lunch.”

I nod. “When I got to college, I had food I’d never really tasted before, like chicken-fried steak, au gratin potatoes, Pop-Tarts, and ranch dressing, and I
lost my mind.
Plus, there were shakers of real salt on the table and not the ridiculous NoSalt foolishness we kept at our house. And butter! Pat after pat of
real
butter, stacked in small golden packages on the salad bar! And I could put as much as I wanted on my toast!” I smile, thinking of how the plain, dry baked potatoes I could never choke down at the family dinner table turned deliciously decadent, piled high with sour cream and bacon bits and melted Velveeta. “Had I not roomed with a dietetics major who’d appointed herself my own personal Food Police, I’m sure the damage would have been much greater than fifteen pounds.”

Stacey waves me off. “Wait . . . fifteen? This whole story led up to you only gaining
fifteen
pounds? Girl, please; I gained forty freshman year at Brandeis. We all did.”

Fletch asks, “Was it a huge party school?”

“No, but every night around eleven when we were studying, people from local restaurants would go up and down the halls of our dorm selling anything you could think of—egg rolls, fried rice, pizza, burritos . . . It was insane. My dorm perpetually smelled like a food court.”

Fletch and I are incredulous. He says, “No one did that at Purdue. None of us had any money.”

“Not a lot of Jappy girls in Indiana,” Stacey reasons.

“Question, then—how did you lose the forty pounds?” I ask.

“I’ll let you know when it happens.” Stacey and I laugh, but Fletch looks like he still can’t wrap his mind around the fact that anyone could gain weight in college. He lived off campus his freshman year and existed on bologna omelets. Every time I pile his breakfast plate high with rashers, he reminds me how three pounds of turkey bacon lasted him a whole semester. Drinking might be the only reason he didn’t starve to death. She asks, “What about you? How’d you shake it off ?”

“When I got home, my parents decided I was ‘fat,’ so they put me on a diet and had me do a weekly weigh-in. I had to lose two pounds or I was in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

"Don’t know. I always lost two pounds.”
²¹

My mom was so damn mad at me after my freshman year, especially once she saw me in a bathing suit for the first time. I went from 135 pounds to 150 and you’d have thought I’d flunked out given her reaction.
²²
She always used to tell me her greatest fear was that I’d walk across the stage at my high school graduation overweight.
Really?
I remember thinking.
With forty girls in my school who’d either gotten pregnant or had babies,
this
is her issue
?
²³
Had I not been so affected by reading novels about anorexia like
The Best Little Girl in the World
when I was younger, I bet I’d have developed an eating disorder in response to her obsession with my weight.

I clearly remember how annoyed I was every Friday morning, stomach rumbling, standing on the scale in our tiny first- floor bathroom. My mom would crouch down to examine the numbers while my dad made sure I didn’t try to cheat by pressing my hand down on the towel bar. (He didn’t catch on until the third week. Heh.)

I desperately hated the whole process, especially because I had no choice in the matter. I knew being heavier didn’t change who I was, and I was furious at being forced to alter something about which I felt perfectly fine. And who cared if I weighed fifteen pounds more than when I competed in the Miss Huntington pageant? It’s not like I won and had to worry about going to Miss Indiana with excess baggage.
²⁴