Bigger (The Nicky Beets series) (7 page)

“All right. No chocolate,” she agreed.

I heard a pattering of tiny bare feet on the hardwood floor and looked
toward the kitchen to see Sage peering at me from behind a corner.

“Hey doll! Are you going to make me wait all day for a hug?” I asked her.
I managed to put my wine down just in time.

Sage streaked toward me in a floral printed jumper (organic cotton!) and
flung herself into my arms. I hugged her tightly and then listened to her tell
me about her day, her eyes wide with seriousness. At three years old, she was
definitely talking, but I could still understand only about seventy five
percent of what came out of her mouth.

“We went to the park,” Laurie translated. “There was a dog that got in a
fight with another dog. Much loud and frightening barking ensued.”

Sage climbed into her mother’s lap and rested her head on Laurie’s
bosom.
 

“Is it somebody’s bedtime?” Laurie asked Sage.

“Mmmhmmm,” Sage nodded tiredly.

“But first we’re going to take a bath.”

Sage popped her thumb in her mouth and gazed up at Laurie.

“Right?” Laurie asked. “We didn’t take a bath last night and now we
stink?”

Laurie made a show of lifting Sage’s arm and sniffing the girl’s armpit,
then dramatically gagging from the B.O. Sage giggled.

“Like stinky,” she declared.

Laurie looked at me and I raised an eyebrow. Laurie had been battling
Sage over bath time for months. No one knew why Sage had suddenly developed
such a severe hatred for bathing. It wasn’t fear; the child was fearless to a
fault. But immerse her in warm, soapy water and she would unleash an unholy and
unending shriek from hell. I’d once had the misfortune of administering such a
bath and my ears rang for hours afterward. No, Sage did not like to be washed
with soap and water. Yes, the child’s happiness did seem to be directly
correlated with the quantity of dirt under her fingernails.
 

“Still not loving the B-A-T-H?” I asked.

“To put it mildly,” Laurie answered, patting Sage’s back tenderly.
“Yesterday she drew blood. I wish I was kidding. I’ve tried everything, even
C-A-N-D-Y; and that
always
works. Not
with this, though.”

“What’s Frank think?”

Laurie rocked her daughter gently, and Sage’s eyelids drooped. Her gaze
was acerbic. “He’s been what you might call the opposite of helpful.”

I furrowed my brow questioningly.

“He basically refuses to even try,” she elaborated. “And honestly, I’m
not sure I’ve even seen him since last week. He’s here in the house somewhere,
but he’s like a ghost who slips into bed at night and back out in the mornings.
We mainly communicate through text messages.”

“Dadda in office,” Sage interjected sleepily.

I contemplated what Laurie had said for a moment. “But hasn’t he kind of
always been that way? I’m not sure I’ve seen Frank at all this year!”

Laurie nodded, “Yeah. Which was fine for a while. We both have our own
things going on. But I may as well be a single parent for all the help I’m
getting from him.”

“Ugh,” I offered.

“What should I do, Nic?” Laurie asked, with a tone of half-joking
desperation.

I laughed. I couldn’t give Laurie advice on childrearing or
husband-rearing, seeing as how I’d never had my own kid or been married. And
I’d always been at a loss when it came to understanding her marriage.

“I wish I knew,” I answered, shaking my head. “You should at least talk
with him about it.”

I glanced at my watch and noticed the time was getting late. “I’ve gotta
go. I’m starting this diet tomorrow and still need to go to the grocery store
tonight.”

“All right. I’ve got to venture into battle anyway,” Laurie said. “Call
me tomorrow and let me know how it’s going.”

“Will do.” I waved goodbye and blew sleeping Sage a kiss.

FOUR

My detailed meal plan for the next two weeks was comprised of a lot of
vegetables and lean protein and not much else. I’d been on this diet before,
and it involved eating no fruit, no grains, no red meat, and no sugar. It
basically excluded all of the things I normally subsisted on.

After an hour at the grocery store, I had a cart loaded with food I
wasn’t excited to eat, but my determination to make the diet work this time was
still running strong. During a frenzy of text messages at the grocery store, I
arranged to have Chuck pick up my “last meal” from our favorite local Thai
restaurant. I hadn’t told him yet of my diet plans and was pretty sure he
wasn’t going to be thrilled about it, so I was waiting until I had the
groceries in hand to break the news.

I pushed the door to our townhouse open with the toe of my shoe as I
hefted two filled-to-the-brim paper grocery sacks in my arms. Chuck poked his
head out of the kitchen with a smile. “Get some good stuff?”

He started toward the front door to help unload bags from the trunk.

“Don’t get too excited,” I said. “There’s nothing tasty in these bags.”

Chuck knew me well enough to smell a diet coming. I heard him groan as he
walked outside toward the car.

After we hauled everything in and I was stocking the refrigerator with my
healthy wares, I told Chuck my plan.

“I’m going on a diet, for real this time,” I stated firmly, hoping I
sounded believable and serious. “I’ll be making breakfast, lunch and dinner,
and I’m going to start yoga tomorrow with Roxanne, and I’m not sure yet, but I
think I’m going to start running, too.”

I’d thrown the running in there at the last minute just to emphasize the
major lifestyle change I was expecting to make. As much as it pained me to
admit it, I knew Robin had a point that running was a fast way to shed weight.

Chuck was staring at the floor with his brow furrowed.

“What?” I asked him.

“Ok, this is because of the thing on the news last night, right?” he
asked.

“Well that was definitely the straw that broke the camel’s back. I can’t
keep seeing pictures of myself looking like this,” I held my hands up in an
invitation for him to really take in my full girth. Did he not understand that
his once thin girlfriend was now almost morbidly obese?

“I just think these radical diet and exercise programs you go on never
work out,” he explained. “They’re too strict and unrealistic. You always fall
off the wagon in the first two weeks and then it’s back to the same stuff we
always eat.”

I was surprised Chuck wasn’t backing me up more, considering how upset
I’d been the night before. Normally he’d humor my diets with a wry smile, but
he’d certainly never discouraged me from trying a new one, until now.

“Is this how you think I should stay?” I was angry now. “I hate my body.
I hate my clothes. I hate how I feel. I can’t go for a walk without breaking a
sweat. It’s beyond aesthetics at this point; I’m not healthy. You can’t support
me being on a simple diet and exercise plan?”

Chuck held up his hands in surrender. “Fine. I just don’t want you to
fail again and be disappointed when this doesn’t work out.”

“It’s going to work out,” I told him. “But your encouragement is amazing,
so thanks for that.”

That was the end of all conversation between us that evening. I ate my
portion of the Thai food he’d brought, joylessly. Which made me even angrier. I
was supposed to be enjoying my final meal of carbohydrates and fat before
embarking on a strict diet and exercise regimen, and Chuck had made me so angry
I might as well have been eating cardboard for all that I could taste it.

I’d snapped a couple of photos of my pad thai and curried chicken over
rice. As was my habit, after I’d cleaned the kitchen up, I sat down at my
computer in our home office to upload the pictures to my blog.

This was something I’d been dreading without truly realizing it until
now. I owed it to my readers to explain that my photos and recipes in the near
future would be drastically different from what they’d grown used to seeing
from me. I was sure whatever I posted about food in the coming weeks and months
wasn’t going to be exactly titillating. Hell, I was practically turning this
thing into a diet blog, which is just about the opposite of what a foodie wants
to read about.

I hated to think of all my readers abandoning ship, but there was nothing
to be done about it. If I was going to seriously carve fat off my body, the
food blog would have to suffer. I composed my entry.

A Disclosure

I’m not sure how to tell you guys
this …

I’m going on a diet. Believe me, I
know “diet” is a dirty, four-lettered word. I’ve been on my fair share of them
and nothing has really stuck for me. The only thing I could really count on in
these last several years is that I would continue to grow fatter. And grow
fatter I did, until … Well, without getting into the lurid details, I will say
I’ve recently endured a bit of public humiliation as a result of my obesity
(let’s just call it what it is). I was mortified, and surprisingly, shocked
that others see me as obese. Deep down I knew it – knew I had gone way
past simply being overweight, but somehow when I looked in the mirror, all
those rolls and chins and oodles of flesh weren’t really there.

This recent revelation was like
having someone hold a mirror up to me, and me really seeing my body the way it
is for the first time.

I don’t talk about this kind of
stuff here; I know. I talk about heavy cream, butter, hot flaking pastries, or
the fabulous new restaurant with the to-die-for fondue. But I guess it was
inevitable that if I kept talking about donuts and sourdough bread, I would
eventually have to confess what all this food I have eaten and photographed has
done to me. And if I am confessing, then I am acknowledging I need to do
something to reverse what has happened to my body.

I know you’re not here to read
about tuna salad or my struggle to stop eating ice cream every night after
dinner, but I’m afraid that’s what this blog is about to become. I’ve been
grateful for your readership for all this time and I’m letting you off the hook.
If you want to bail, I understand. No gourmand wants to know how many calories
are in her risotto.

You’re also, of course, more than
welcome to stay. It may be gratifying to read about weight loss. Maybe it’ll
even be entertaining (I will be attending a yoga class for the first time
tomorrow – this cannot end well). Maybe we can share low-cal salad
dressing recipes.

Whatever you decide, please know
I’ve been grateful for your readership. I never expected the kind of response
I’ve received from you wonderful people, and I’ve been honored to write for and
interact with you, my friends.

I wasn’t sure how else to end the post, so I ended it there, although it
made me a little sad.

I finished out the evening by putting together lunches to take to work and
packing a bag of exercise clothes to change into the following day. When I
finally turned off the bedroom light and got into bed, Chuck was still tapping
away on his laptop in the living room.

I’d tried yoga before.
 
Well,
honestly, I’d tried the twenty-minute yoga video Laurie had given me a few
years back. It didn’t seem too hard – it was just a bunch of stretching
and balancing and then lying down on your back to relax. That last move was my
favorite part.

I was in for a rude awakening.

Roxanne and I padded into the wood-floored yoga studio in our bare feet.
The lighting was dim and a slow rhythmic song was playing on low volume. Spots
for yoga mats were rapidly being filled by lithe young women wearing actual
yoga outfits – stretch pants that clung to every curve, and small, sporty
tank tops. I didn’t spot a sport bra peeking out anywhere and automatically
felt self conscious of my own outfit; a pair of sweatpants, a baggy T-shirt and
an industrial-strength sport bra I’d worn to clamp my large breasts down and
keep them out of the way.

Our instructor introduced himself as Phil. He had a graying mustache and
was wearing a T-shirt and shorts. He looked like a normal guy, maybe a
friendly, youngish grandfather, not a yoga instructor, so I relaxed a little.
As we waited for practice to begin, Roxanne limbered up on her mat next to me,
bending into a right angle with her butt in the air in the only pose I could
name: downward dog. She bent each knee alternately, warming up her calves.

The other girls in the class were twisting into a number of poses I had
never seen and didn’t know the names of, much less how to perform. All of these
women were thin, flexible, and looked like they’d been doing this a long time.

I decided it couldn’t hurt to warm up myself, so I lifted my hands over
my head in a big morning-time wake-up stretch. I sat on the floor, bent my
knees and placed the soles of my feet together in a modified Indian-style. I
did a few neck rolls and then cracked a couple of knuckles. I looked around
uncomfortably as I waited for the practice to begin and then settled on staring
meditatively at my mat until Phil started the class.

Before beginning, Phil had an announcement.

“This is an intermediate level vinyasa flow,” he said loudly. “You should
have several classes under your belt before you attempt my class. I tend to be
a bit … vigorous.”

Phil let his gaze linger on me pointedly, since I was obviously a new
student. He assumed I did not belong in his class, and he was probably right. I
turned to Roxanne, who rolled her eyes and whispered, “Power trip. Ignore him
– you’ll be fine.”

It wasn’t like I had much of a choice. I’d made all the effort of getting
dressed and coming to the stupid class; I sure as hell wasn’t going to pack up
my mat and leave now.

Phil opened the class by leading us in a long “Om.” I mouthed my own
“Om,” unsure of what I was saying or doing. Roxanne looked completely unfazed
so I figured this must be a normal part of yoga.

Phil instructed us to find a wall to lean our backs against and to bend
our knees as though we were sitting in chairs. Excruciating seconds ticked by
as my thighs shook from the strain of holding myself up. Then Phil led the
class through the steps leading up to a headstand. About half the class was able
to achieve the headstand. Here it became obvious – if it hadn’t been
already – that I was the most junior member of the class. I struggled,
sweating and red-faced, to just plant my hands on the floor and walk my feet up
the wall without baring my pale and ample belly flesh to the class. I glimpsed
Phil’s face as he strode by to observe our poses and was sure I saw a look of
disapproval. He didn’t offer a smile or word of advice. It shocked me a bit.
I’d always thought yoga was supposed to be an open-minded “sport” in which any
and all were invited to give it a go. Phil suddenly did not seem inviting or
non-threatening.

He commanded us back to our mats. Other students gracefully glided
through a variety of poses as I struggled spasmodically and huffed and sweated
my own way through them. I was always a couple beats behind everyone else due
to my unfamiliarity with the poses and the strain of performing them. Sweat
poured off me and onto the mat, which I embarrassedly swiped at with my towel.
I found I couldn’t bend certain ways, not only because I lacked the
flexibility, but because my breasts or stomach rolls got in the way. I felt an
urge to laugh hysterically and a couple of times glanced at the women next to
me, hoping they might give me an understanding smile, but they seemed to be
doing their best to ignore me. The other students must have realized how out of
place I was among them. At least I had Roxanne with me – she offered an
encouraging: “You’re doing great!”

By the end of the hour and a half session, every muscle in my body was
burning. I’d never been so grateful to lie on my back, which I learned is
called savasana, or (fittingly) corpse pose. I lay on my mat, arms at my sides,
palms up, and felt my heart slow its thunderous beating until it was thumping
peacefully again. Just as I’d completely relaxed, Phil pulled us out of the
pose and slowly back into a sitting position to finish things up with another
melodic “Om.” I followed Roxanne’s lead and bowed to Phil before heaving myself
achingly to my feet and rolling up my mat. I sensed that my mascara had smeared
itself down below my eyes during the sweat-filled session and my hair was wet
and matted. Everything hurt – particularly my ego – but I felt
good. My body felt like it had been used for a good purpose and my brain felt
relaxed. I’d almost finished one whole day on my new program and things were
going well.

“What’d you think?” Roxanne asked. She looked like she hadn’t even broken
a sweat – and why should she? It wasn’t as though she had been struggling
to hold up almost three-hundred pounds during some of those poses. She probably
weighed one-fifteen soaking wet.

“That was hard, but good,” I answered.

“I know,” she answered. “I think Phil smelled fresh meat – he’s
never started a class with wall-sits and headstands before. But don’t let him
get to you. He’s not the only instructor, anyway. Come back on Friday. I go
Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.”

Well, if I was going to commit to a program, there was no better time
than right then to show that I was serious.

“All right,” I laughed a little, thinking of future torture sessions to
come. At the front desk, I signed up for a membership and paid for
one-hundred-twenty dollars to be withdrawn from my checking account on a
monthly basis. Yoga was apparently not cheap, but I reasoned that my health was
priceless.

I bid Roxanne farewell and drove myself home with arms and legs that felt
like Jell-O.