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 (8 page)

Now what?

The last time I lost any significant weight was the spring of 2000. Inspired by all the gorgeous tulips blooming in the center of Michigan Avenue, I decided I wanted a big-city wedding the next year, and Fletch and I began to make plans.
⁵⁵
At the time, everyone was doing Atkins, evidenced by all the baggies of cheese and turkey in my office’s kitchen and the screaming when a bread basket was proffered during corporate lunches. I tried it, too, and the weight simply fell off. I loved never feeling hungry but found myself dying for stuff like grape juice and would have committed murder for five minutes alone inside a Krispy Kreme store. But I kept up the carb-free regimen until I bought a book on wedding planning, realized that with my demanding job I didn’t have the bandwidth to coordinate caterers and florists and photographers and the like, and tabled both the wedding and the diet. Three Croissan’wiches later, the weight came back. And it’s been here ever since.

In terms of dieting, Atkins was the least offensive, and it was fun to gobble down a juicy steak while gloating about how much thinner I already felt. I bet if I kick-start my weight-loss quest by going low carb, I’ll have some initial victories on the scale that I can use to segue into a healthier long-term way of eating!

Resolved: Nothing motivates like success, so Atkins it is.

And now I’m off to buy some cheese.

TO: angie_at_home

FROM: [email protected]

SUBJECT: Quh Muh Gahhhhhhhhh

HAnngie,

Pink! Pink liqueuerr! Called X-rated! Yum from ! Sold at Cosatco!! Tastes like bitingin into a fresh mango and grapefruit and passiopnmfruit and swirly swirly with frenchg vodka—YUM! Oner of these and an Ambien and all of a sudden leggings MAKES TOTAL PERFECT FUCMOINGH SENSE! Like, GEENIUS! Pants you wearrs under you skirts? Yes! Brillianbt’1!!1!!

Now I want to amek phone calls untless Fletch stops me :[

Laaqaaaaaattttteeeerrr,

Jennnnnnn

TO: angie_at_home

FROM: [email protected]

SUBJECT: Um, hi, about last night . . .

Ang,

So, this is probably why the warning label on my new bottle of sleeping pills says DO NOT CONSUME WITH ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES, NOT EVEN ONE AND NOT EVEN IF IT’S PINK AND FRUITY AND GIRLY, YOU DUMB ASS.

On the plus side, I’m totally not hungover after last night’s whoops-I -forgot-I-was-on-Atkins celebration.

However, Fletch is mad at me because I lost my mind in the fifteen minutes he was down in the basement folding laundry when the cocktail and Ambien kicked in at the same time. He came back up because of all the banging. He caught me throwing away the mini-food processor he’d bought to grind spices. Apparently I’d filled it full of ice and was angry “it doesn’t make drinks.”

I’m back on the Atkins horse today. For lunch I had one and a half Burger King Texas Whoppers minus the bun.

Shameful.

Talk soon,

Jen

CHAPTER SIX

Shame con Queso

Shouldn’t Atkins be easier?

I mean, I’m all for the concept, which is that obesity isn’t caused by calorie intake but by excess sugar in the bloodstream. Dr. Atkins theorized that carbohydrates are the problem, and once they’re eliminated, the body goes into the state of ketosis.
⁵⁶
Once in ketosis, the body stops burning glucose and instead fuels itself on fat reserves. This, in layman ’s terms, means I can inhale all the beef tenderloin I want as long as I don’t order the baked potato, too.

Again,
in theory
this plan rocks, especially since I’ve previously been on the kinds of diets where I didn’t take in enough protein and felt like I was going to die until I totally lost it and ran to La Bamba (home of the “Burrito as big as your head”) for super steak, extra guacamole, and hold the hot sauce
right now; faster, please, goddamn it!
I dig the idea of Atkins because there’s something deliciously naughty about being able to dish up as many pork chops as my dish (and tummy) will hold.
⁵⁷
And who doesn’t like to station themselves next to the cheese platter at a party?

The problem with Atkins is in the execution. During the induction phase, almost all foods are banned except for meats and some dairy. The dairy part’s tough because I can have heavy cream in my coffee, but I’m not allowed to drink a glass of milk. Fruits are strictly verboten, as are all but a handful of my favorite vegetables. I’m allowed to make the thickest sandwich in the world, chock-full of my favorite deli meats and slathered in mayo, but then I’m stuck trying to fashion a bun out of a slice of lettuce because bread is a no-no, unless I get the low-carb bread, which is as flavorful as a shoebox and retails for close to six dollars per loaf. Sure, I can cook up
mucho, mucho queso fundido
(a mouth-watering Chihuahua-cheese-and-chorizo-sausage dip), but it’s not even fun to eat because there are so few vehicles available for dip transport. Pork rinds are allowed, but I’d rather eat the pigskin off a football. The last time I made
queso fundido
I found myself eating cheese dip off of slices of cheese. Very wrong, and not in the good long-dirty-weekend-with-Vince-Vaughn
⁵⁸
wrong way. Also? I had a hell of a time making a balsamic reduction with Splenda instead of sugar.

Presently, Fletch and I are grocery shopping, normally one of my favorite activities. But tonight it’s like a horror movie: every time I turn around, there’s more forbidden food—bread! Pastry! Orange juice! White rice! Fried chicken! Yogurt! Potato chips! Ice cream! Angel hair pasta! Chocolate cake! Aaahhhhh! Fletch finally insists I keep my eyes on only the contents of our cart because he’s tired of hearing me gasp every five seconds.

We’re almost done when I screw up by strolling down the liquor aisle. Drinking is completely out of the question during the induction phase of Atkins. I can add a cocktail or two in the second phase, but I fall off the low-carb wagon so often that I’ve technically never made it to the second phase. The longest I’ve ever gone is about thirteen days. Thus, gazing upon bottle after bottle of all my favorites—Stoli raspberry-flavored vodka, Kahlúa, Molson, and all the other beers, wines, and spirits I love—causes me to have the kind of meltdown that will ensure mockery well through our golden years, e.g.,
Hey, Jen, remember when looking at a bottle of Jose Cuervo made you cry at the Jewel?
Yes, laugh it up, asshat. We’ll see what’s so funny when I put you in the crooked nursing home we saw on
60 Minutes
.
⁵⁹

Later, when we’re home and the groceries have been put away, I dine on a pile of grilled hamburger and a sadly tomatoless salad swimming in bleu cheese dressing. For dessert I have cream cheese mixed with lemon zest and Splenda, served over a bowl of sugar-free Jell-O. Blah. I’m not hungry by any means, but I’m certainly not satisfied, and I’m pretty sure I’d kill or die for a slice of pie right now.

I’d also love a glass of wine, but that’s not an option. Then I remember I finally picked up my prescription of Ambien. Although a part of me is all, “Woo! Recreational drugs!” I do need them because my insomnia’s been especially bad lately. Ever since the Christmas party, things have been weird at Fletch’s company. They expanded the business too much this year and spent a lot of money on dumb stuff, e.g., taking all the employees to a luxury tropical resort for a week, even
after
they knew they’d be ending the year in the red. There’s a dot-com-bomb feeling about the place, and I wonder how much longer Fletch is going to have a job. We’re financially prepared if it happens, but I’m not so keen on going through
Layoff: The Sequel,
if for no reason other than the inevitable stress eating unemployment inspires. Lest you forget, I created the Twinkwich
⁶⁰
last time we were out of work. Fletch has been searching for other jobs, so hopefully he’ll be out of there before anything happens and I’m compelled to eat nineteen cheesecakes in response.

Fletch has already gone to bed, but my Ambien hasn’t kicked in yet, so I decide to spend a little time on the Internet before turning in. I catch up on the blogs I follow and check my mail. I notice I’ve gotten an e-mail from Amazon telling me about some new Barbie products I might be interested in because last Christmas I bought a bunch of Barbie stuff for my niece. Although she likes Barbie, she has a number of interests, including soccer, basketball, gymnastics, ballet, reading, etc. My sister-in-law prefers to encourage those interests, so buying Barbie stuff is a task I’ve assigned myself.

Back when I was my niece’s age, I loved Barbie with a singular passion. Almost any other toy I received was tossed aside with disdain. I owned tons of Barbies, and I’d carry all of them around in this battered leather suitcase that had been my grandfather’s. It was lined in Barbie-pink silk, and whenever I’d play, I made it into Barbie’s condo, using the sock and underwear compartment as her sleeping loft.

My favorite Barbie wasn’t a doll at all; it was a life-sized bust of Barbie with hair I could brush and style. Plus, I could put makeup on her and swap out her jewelry, and I considered this important practice for being an adult. Critics say playing with Barbies gives little girls unrealistic expectations of what they’re supposed to look like when they grow up, to which I respond,
"Pfft.
” If it hadn’t been for Barbie, I’d never have learned to apply liquid eyeliner!

I wonder if they even make those Barbie heads anymore. I do a quick search on Amazon, and I begin to page through different models—the Barbie Fashion Fever Grow ’N Style, the Barbie Glamour Pup, the Barbie Primp and Polish, the Barbie Bling Bling, etc. Suddenly, I’m hit with what feels like tractor trailer full of pillows, and the next thing I know, it’s morning and I’m waking up in the guest room, a foot away from my computer, which is still open to and whirring away.

Weird.

“Hi, I’m in my underpants and I’m all greasy.”

There’s a certain stillness at the other end of the line before Angie asks, “Is this a bad time?”

“No, no; I’m just out of the shower, getting ready for the gym. I’m putting on lotion. But I’ve got my headset on, so I can talk,” I reply. Inspired by all Angie can do with her hands-free phone, we recently purchased one of our own. “You might hear some grunting, but that’s just me struggling into my Lycra pants.”

“Grunting? You positive this is a good time?”

“Absolutely! Plus, I’m dying to hear the squirrel update.” Angie’s husband, Jim, is a professor at a large midwestern university and he’s brilliant, which is why stories of him being terrorized and outsmarted by a flying squirrel are so hilarious.

She’s already snickering when she replies, “Things are not going well. It’s been almost two weeks, and still no one’s seen it. The maintenance department set every variety of baited trap—rattraps, mousetraps, and even those have-a -heart living traps. You can’t move in his office without bumping into one. The more traps they set, the angrier the squirrel gets. Two days ago it destroyed all the plants in Jim’s office, and I just got an e-mail from him because . . . because . . .” Angie sputters with laughter before continuing, “Because he can’t
call.
The squirrel has chewed through his phone lines. The more they do to try to catch him, the more punitive he gets.”

“I love this squirrel! I picture him with a tiny Rambo headband and a couple gun belts slung over his shoulders. What do Jim’s students think when they come to his office and see all the traps?” I ask while smoothing leave-in conditioner in my hair.

“Oh, they know all about it. Jim starts each class with a Flying Squirrel Report. And his classroom has giant plasma screens and he’s already shown them the photos of those flying squirrels he found on Google. Judging from the pictures, they don’t fly so much as parachute.”

“Maybe if I’d had a fun finance professor I wouldn’t have cut class so much,” I muse.
⁶¹
I load loose powder onto my brush and tap off the excess before giving my face a quick dusting.

“Someone at your door?” she asks.

“Nope, that’s just me putting on powder.”

“Wait, what? I thought you were going to the gym.”

“I am.”

There’s a brief yet ever-so-slightly judgmental pause at the other end of the line, and Angie finally says, “You wear
makeup
to the
gym
?”

“Well,
yeah.
I may be the fattest person there, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to show up completely unadorned.”

"Crazy-person alert!”

“Not at all,” I counter. “The way I see it, I can be heavy, I can be close to forty, and I can have a naked face, but no more than two at the same time. Right now the only one of those factors I can control is the makeup, so here I am.” I blend all four colors of my blush and apply it to the apples of my cheeks, sweeping backward. “I don’t put on full makeup. I mean, yes, I do foundation, the Bobbi Brown two-step under-eye concealer, powder, blush, eye shadow, and liner. Um, and mascara—you know, the kind with a base coat that goes on gray and then the top coat that makes everything thick and dark. Oh, and I fill in my brows and apply lip gloss. Or I use lipstick, depending on how tan I am and which looks better with my workout shirt. But that’s it.”

“Isn’t that just about everything, Tammy Faye?”

“
No.
I leave off the iridescent shimmer powder and I don’t use the brightener in the corners of my eyes. I’m
way
less radiant than usual.”

“Okay, then. As long as you’re not
radiant
. Speaking of, how’s the gym going?”

I shrug. “I guess it’s all right. If I weren’t on stupid Atkins, I’d be doing better. Apparently carbohydrates give you energy in addition to a fat ass, and I can barely eke out two miles. On the upside, I’ve been going consistently, mostly because I only tan if I hit the treadmill first.”

“Aw, Jen, no! I thought you were trying to get healthy. And skin cancer? Is so not healthy.” Angie is also patently disgusted with my newfound love of those plastic Croc clown shoes, particularly in the ridiculous colors. I have them in pink, green, purple, and white with flowers painted on them. Angie refuses to leave the house with me if I’m wearing them when she visits.

“Tanning is OK if I’m exercising. Yes, I’m increasing my risk of melanoma, but in so doing, I’m decreasing the risk of heart disease. I’m not knocking time off my own personal doomsday clock, but I’m also not adding to it. It’s a draw, and that’s fine. Besides, my biggest obstacle is craving carbs. I can’t stand wanting bread so much. Makes me feel too much like Reggie.”

“Reggie? Remind me—was he your Newfoundland or Great Pyrenees?”

“Neither. Reggie was our Japanese exchange student, remember? ” We volunteered to host him because my mom thought it would be so culturally enriching. Turns out he left Japan to escape his culture, and he was practically more American than we were. He lived with us for three years, and we never learned a damn thing. “Reggie was on the wrestling team. Before big matches he’d starve himself into a lower weight class, and whenever you’d ask how he was, he’d say, ‘I’m trying not to eat.’ Everything went by the wayside—schoolwork, TV, friends, normal conversation—and all he could focus on was his own hunger.”

“And that’s how you feel right now?” I hear vaguely familiar scraping noises in the background that sound almost like Angie’s buttering toast. But that would be impossible because Angie’s pledged to diet along with me even though she doesn’t need to.

Scrape
,
scrape.

God, I’m so preoccupied with bread right now, everything sounds like toast. Angie is probably just installing a travertine backsplash with marble she hand-tumbled herself. It’s not breakfast; it’s masonry! Plus, she wouldn’t be eating, because she started a fat-flush diet and she’s only drinking liquid for the next five days. She’s testing it out, and if it works, I’m going to try it, too, although I wonder if I put a loaf of sourdough and Irish butter in the blender, would that count as a beverage?

“Exactly! Funny, but when I’m not dieting I can go hours and hours without thinking about food. Some days when I’m busy it might be four in the afternoon before I remember to eat something. But now that I’m doing Atkins, all I can think about are bagels and donuts and Lucky Charms cereal, and I’m making myself crazy. So what do I do? How do I deal with this? How are you managing the whole not-eating thing?” There’s no response on the other end of the line.

“Ang? Angie? Are you there?” I ask. My phone service, although supercheap, is not always reliable. Occasionally I’ll get disconnected and keep talking for long stretches before I realize the other party is gone.

She finally replies, “I’m here. But I’m, um, not fasting anymore.”