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 (13 page)

I’m better than that.

I can do more.

I didn’t become a vice president because I followed the rules and met my goals; I pushed myself relentlessly.
⁸⁵
I was never satisfied with good enough. Now writing is my career, and I can’t let myself be lazy.

Plus, there’s no way I’m earning myself a seat on Oprah’s couch if I don’t approach this with one hundred percent intensity.

Now, how the hell do I get started?

If I’m going to do this—wait, there’s no “if” here—I need a real baseline of how much I weigh. I can’t just rely on my inner carnival barker; I actually need to see numbers on a scale. I have too much pride not to do this right, and that means getting an honest assessment of where I’m starting.

Why am I suddenly so afraid?

I strip down to my sensible underpants and utilitarian bra and enter my guest bathroom. This is normally such a happy place; it’s where I sit in a tub scented with tea-tree oil and read good books. This is where I do my hair in the giant trifold mirror. Look at the festive plaid shower curtain—bad stuff can’t happen in here, right?

I’m confident I already know what number’s going to come up. Pretty? No, but probably manageable. And it’s nice to know that whatever number it is, it won’t be that high again anytime soon. In my proposal, I said I’d like to drop fifty pounds. With this loss, I’ll be back at a normal weight, and then, damn, I will really look good.

I take a deep breath and step on the scale. The scale I have is all old school with a spring-loaded dial. I’m greatly dismayed at how fast the needle dives to the right once I step on.

I’m even more dismayed when I see where it lands.

No.

Wrong.

This number is obviously a mistake. I step off so the scale can reset itself, and I hop on again. The same number, the same
awful, horrible, completely devastating number
, comes up again.

I step on and off a third time with the same result.

I don’t weigh this much. I can’t weigh this much. I’m a cute ex-sorority girl, not some six-foot-four, corn-fed line-backer from Nebraska. I belong in a pedicure chair, not on a football field, trying to keep the quarterback from getting his ass handed to him.

This weight is wrong.
Wrong
. I’m not a professional wrestler. Or a baby beluga. Or a barrel full of butter.

I step on and off a fourth time.

Why? Why is the scale lying to me? And what of my inner carnival barker? She’s never off by more than a minute or a dollar or a degree; there’s no way she could be off by almost fifty pounds.

Fifth time up to bat and I honestly expect it will be different, but it’s not. How am I fifty pounds heavier than I thought? I love me—I would never let myself get this kind of fat. I would never, ever weigh this much. Ridiculous! I’d sooner dye my hair orange with a box of color from the grocery store. I’d sooner wear frosty white eye shadow. I’d sooner sell
s-e-x
stories to
Penthouse Forum
. This is impossible.

A lightbulb goes off and I smack my hand to my head. Of course! The scale is wrong.
That’s
what it is. Silly old-school scale! You should be digital and accurate and not
lie
to the pretty, vibrant girls who stand on you. Because telling them they weigh this much is
mean.
Cruel, even. Showing them this kind of wrong number will make them
cry
. Why do you want to make me cry, scale? I’ve been so good to you, letting you sit in the corner of my bathroom for years, gathering dust and making you work only once or twice a year when a random guest steps on you.

Liar. That’s what you are. A terrible, terrible liar. Telling this kind of lie is exactly what’s going to get you set out with the next round of trash. Obviously I don’t eat like someone who’d weigh this much. I don’t drink like a huge, huge person. I move often enough to not weigh this . . . right? I went to the gym three times in a row! People who go to the gym three times in a row can’t possibly put up these numbers.

Stupid scale. Stupid, lying, inaccurate scale.

Hate you.

So much.

The only thing to do is to go to Fletch’s bathroom, use his digital scale, and figure out what I
really
weigh. Yes, genius!

I trot down the hall—which I can do because I’m
not
completely obese—and try to calm myself down. I’m totally overreacting here. I am fine. I know I’m fine. Whatever I weigh is just a number. I’m fun and smart and I can perfectly blend three shades of eyeliner. I enjoy my own company and I make myself laugh. I dress well, even on a budget while wearing Crocs, and no one makes a banana daiquiri like I can.

I sit on the edge of the bed and take a number of deep breaths, trying to slow my pulse. Ahh, OK. I can do this. Think sand. White sand, warmed by the sun. Palm trees. Trade winds. The scent of Coppertone and coconuts in the air. A tin drum plays in the distance. Relax . . . relax. A shady harbor. Calm blue waters. Gentle waves lightly buffeting the shoreline. Tide comes in,
whoosh
. Tide goes out,
whoosh
. Pretty shells left in the wake of the wave. Sparkly. Calm. Relaxed. Lovely flat sea. A sea in which I would never drown because I’m so fucking buoyant.

Trying to relax isn’t helping. The only way I can fix this is by accepting it as reality.

I step on Fletch’s scale.

A different number comes up.

It’s two pounds more.

I’m not sure if I want to throw up or buy a third scale. I can’t believe this is true . . . although it would explain a lot. Possibly this is why I sweat when I eat. Perhaps this is why I don’t care to bend. Maybe this is why I can’t climb a flight of stairs without sucking wind and why I peter out so easily at the gym. Conceivably this is why my mother clucks about my health whenever she sees me.

Is it possible my raging self-esteem has kept me from confronting this truth? I guess I’ll find out in the next six months.

The worst thing is that if this number is accurate—and I’m grudgingly beginning to believe it may be—even when I lose fifty pounds,
I will still be fat
.

Shit.

from the desk of miss jennifer ann lancaster

Dear Ice Cube,

Dude, um . . . what happened? You used to be all scary and badass, singing about how today you didn’t even have to use your AK. Like, your life in Compton was so hard-core, you were all surprised you didn’t need your AK. And that gave you credibility and made your music so powerful. Yet now I’m seeing movie trailers starring you and a wacky deer and a station wagon full of precocious, scene-stealing kids.

It hurts my heart to think you’re all grown up and living in suburbia, minus your AK (because of block association rules). On the other hand, you’re probably really rich now, so I guess it’s not so bad?

Best,

Jen Lancaster

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I Like New York in June; How About You?

I’ve been to the gym what feels like a thousand times in the past week, although it’s really more like four. Now that this is my job, I’m literally and figuratively attempting to work my ass off.
⁸⁶

The problem is, the more I do, the more I hear the same damn songs on my iPod, and I’m beginning to tire of my superfantastic treadmill mix. Although it remains superfantastic, I need to add some new superfantastic music because I am superfantastically sick of all its superfantasticness. I’ve listened to these songs so many times, they’re no longer effective at keeping me going. I’ve gotten so bored with all my favorite tunes that lately when I’m midworkout, I’ve been making up new lyrics.

For example, “Straight Outta Compton” now sounds like this on the turntable in my head:

Straight outta Bucktown, crazy motherfucker
named Jennifer
This goddamned treadmill gonna be the end of her
Now she’s pissed off, she wanna sit down
Eat up the chocolate cake ’til her body is
completely round

“Faith” has morphed into:

Well, I guess it would be nice
If I could thin my body
Too bad not everybody
Metabolizes like you

“Somebody Told Me” new lyrics:

Well somebody told me
That you had some Trimspa
But that would be cheating
And nobody buys books penned by a fibber
Just look at James Frey
He told a fat lie
And enraged Miss Oprah Winfrey

And my favorite, “Do Me,” Jen style:

Backstage, overweight, with a cocktail
How ya doin’? “Drunk,” I replied
And sighed . . . “I’d like to order pizza
Extra cheese please,
Hot and fresh, and don’t forget
The O, the L, the I, the V, the ES
And maybe Diet Coke.”

After yet another yawn of a workout, I go directly upstairs to my computer, not even stopping to reward myself with a little snack, because the best treat in the world would be to never hear Kelly Clarkson again. Seriously, I hit a wall at the gym today, and I cannot listen to this mix one more time. It’s hard enough just getting my ass on the treadmill; being bored with what I’m listening to just makes it ten thousand times worse, and I run out of patience before I run out of steam.

I need new music, better music, more stimulating music, or, failing that, possibly just some songs that won’t make Fletch laugh at me. I sit down in my sweaty clothing and begin to trawl playlists on iTunes to find more inspiration to supplement my perspiration.

I’m a solid hour into my search when Fletch returns from his new job. I talked him into taking the train today so I could use the car to go to the gym. He comes upstairs looking very professional in his suit. He also looks extraordinarily aggravated. He’s scowling and wagging a finger when he enters the guest room.

“New rule,” he says, sitting on the bed and loosening his tie. “From now on, I only travel to and from work in vehicles where people can’t spit on my shoes.”

I consider his statement. “I have no idea what that means.”

“It means this morning a homeless lady spat on my foot just as I was getting on the el.”

I have yet to come to terms with the el, Chicago’s elevated mass-transit system, because it’s so badly designed. Our train system operates on a hub-and-spoke system rather than a grid. All trains are routed to one place in the center of the city, and then if you need to go elsewhere, you have to go downtown, ride around the Loop, and switch trains. So, if I want to go to Lincoln Park from my house (a mile away) I have to travel almost seven because the only other crosstown option is the bus, which . . . no.

This is why the city has such a traffic problem. Driving is the least of all evils. But when I drove Fletch the three miles to his job yesterday, it took me forty-five minutes to get there and forty-five minutes to get home. And then when I picked him up, it was the same exact thing. It’s a wonder anyone who doesn’t telecommute is ever in a good mood. The mayor ’s solution is to ride a bike to work, but how are you supposed to do that if you have to wear a suit and don’t have shower facilities in your office? And yesterday when we were in the car it was a gorgeous early spring day, so there were hundreds of bikes on the road, none of which were obeying basic traffic laws. I was all,
“Where are we? China?”

Still, I’m sorry Fletch was spat on, and I try to muster appropriate sympathy. “Hmm . . . was it like a loogie or just excess saliva?”

“Does it matter? Her nasty bodily fluids hit my foot just as the door closed, so I couldn’t even yell her stupid. I’d rather she tried to pick my pocket to avoid the biohazard.”

“Was she aiming for you?”

“Again, you’re missing the point. Me. Spit. Foot. Brief stop at the shoeshine place before I hit the office.” I look down at his shoes, and they’re so shiny they’re practically incandescent.

“They look very nice. What did you do to make her spit on you?”

Fletch throws his hands in the air. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I was reading the
Sun Times
and she’s more of a
Tribune
fan? Maybe she was mad that I got Starbucks and she’d rather I support local coffee shops. Or maybe it’s because she was wearing a garbage bag stuffed with socks and had an aluminum foil cap and her decision-making process is skewed. Kind of hard to tell what was the exacerbating factor.”

“That reminds me—one time a guy, um . . .
exacerbated
on my friend’s coat on the Red Line. She got to her office and threw up in a trash can. She was traumatized way more than you.”

“I should be thankful no one jerked off on me?”

I giggle and blush. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“You won’t be laughing tomorrow morning at seven o’clock when you drive me to work. That is, if you want to use the car.”

“We really need another vehicle, and I don’t mean a bike.” Although I would be pro-Vespa if I were allowed to drive it on the sidewalk.

“I’m aware of that. When you get your next check, we’ll buy a second car. ’Til then, see you at seven a.m.”

“Um . . . other than the spitting, how did you enjoy the play, Mrs. Lincoln?”

He shrugs. “I had a good day, but there was nowhere to go but up after that. And what are you doing? Downloading more shit?”

“Don’t touch me because I stink. And no, I’m buying really good stuff,” I reply.

He guffaws. “I’ll bet. What are the damages so far?” He leans over my shoulder to look at what I’ve purchased and wrinkles his nose. I can’t tell if he’s more repelled by me or by my choices. “Let’s see, first, Asia . . .
Asia
? Why would you buy Asia? Do you have a head injury?”

This is a legitimate question. I accidentally bump my noggin so many times a day, Fletch has suggested a helmet. Last year I was bent over looking in the fridge, and when I stood up I hit the open freezer door so hard, the whole unit lifted off the floor. Everything tasted green for a while, and when Fletch asked me who the president was, I said,
“You?”

“Because of
The 40-Year-Old Virgin
, of course. The bike scene made me remember how much I liked that song back in high school.”

He makes a little disapproving noise. “Yeah, I liked parachute pants in high school, but you don’t see me buying them now. What else? Ah . . .
very
nice. Vanilla Ice.”

Will everyone’s incessant Robert Van Winkle bashing never stop? “Number one, he had fantastic hair, and you can’t say he didn’t, because I’ve seen the photos where you tried to copy it. Unsuccessfully, I might add. Number two, the man knew how to groom his eyebrows. And number three, he was rollin’! In his 5.0! He had the top flipped down so his glorious hair could blow! And all the girlies? Were totally on standby and they were waiting just to say hi. Did he stop?
No!
He just kept rollin’. Try to argue with the fine, fine wordsmithery in that song. I dare you.”

“Do you even have any clue what a 5.0 is?”

“A car? Of some sort?”

“A Mustang.”

“Whatev. That downbeat was groundbreaking.”

“Yeah, I imagine that’s what David Bowie and Queen thought when they came out with it in the first place.”

I look over my shoulder and give Fletch a withering glance. “You’re awfully smug for a man who paid to see
Cool as Ice
⁸⁷
in the theater.”

Fletch clears his throat. “Err, what else do you have? Aqua? Who are Aqua?”

“They sing the ‘Barbie Girl’ song. Which is thirty-one flavors of awesome.”

“Mmm-hmm. Let’s see, Ricky Martin . . . ridiculous; Pat Benatar . . .”

I poke him with an accusatory finger. “Do not even start on Pat Benatar. Her stuff is classic, and if you don’t believe me, ask anyone on
I Love the ’80s
. You want to argue with me about the impact ‘Love Is a Battlefield’ had on every girl born between 1960 and 1975? No. Because you can’t.” Every time I hear her I still want to don a skirt made of rags and all the eyeliner in the tristate area.

“Hey, you’ve got the Mighty Mighty Bosstones. I actually like them.”

“And what movie brought them into the mainstream? That’s right.
Clueless.
Which you claim—wrongly—was dumb.” Oh, Cher Horowitz, your legacy continues to impact my life in so many ways. Thank you again for teaching me the importance of designing a lighting concept.

“The Bosstones. Huh. Maybe there’s hope for you ye—Wait . . . did you download
the Spice Girls
?” His lip curls with revulsion.

The Spice Girls . . . my secret shame. Fletch isn’t supposed to know I like them. Kind of like how he’s not supposed to know I put deodorant on every part of my body that bends, creases, or folds
⁸⁸
or that I lie when I say I rinsed off the tip of the whipped cream container after I squirted it into the dogs’ mouths. Although I’m all for open communication, I feel there’s some stuff he’d prefer to be in the dark about. “That was a mistake. I didn’t mean to download them.”

“You have six of their songs on here. I see ‘Wannabe,’ ‘Spice Up Your Life’—”

“And I made six separate mistakes. My fingers slipped. I was drunk. And distracted. Shut up.”

He begins to smirk in earnest as he clicks through my list. “MC Hammer . . . Kriss Kross . . .”

“Stirring tunes and interesting pants. What of it?”

"Smash Mouth . . . Positive K ... New Edition . . . and Lynyrd Skynyrd? Did you mean to put them on here?”

“Um, duh? They sing ‘Sweet Home Alabama,’ do they not?” And possibly when I get bored on the treadmill, “Sweet Home Jennsylvania.”

“But Skynyrd had talent.”

“Hence my download.”

“Five bucks says the only reason you have any idea who they are is because someone sang this song on
American Idol
.”

“Ha!” I exclaim. “Shows what you know. I am thoroughly familiar with Skynyrd, thank you.” Despite Bo Bice’s stirring rendition in season four. And Ruben’s in season two.

“Because of the KFC commercial?”

"Yeah, right.”
Yes, right
.
⁸⁹

“And finally, Lou Bega and Naughty by Nature. Wow. This is a cavalcade of suck.”

“Mock me as much as you want, but when all my working out gives me big
strongs
”—I curl my biceps—“we’ll see who’s laughing.”

“I already know who’ll be laughing. Me. At your deplorable playlist.”

Through clenched lips I ask, “Shouldn’t you be changing out of your spitty clothes right about now?”

“On my way.” He places a hand on my shoulder before leaving the guest room. I can hear him digging around in his closet, and I recognize the sound of him neatly folding and placing his garments in the dry-cleaning basket and insertingcedar trees into his shoes. I’m perpetually amused at how careful he is with all of his clothes. If he wears one of his dress shirts for even an hour, it goes right in the basket. He goes through so many outfits each week, for the past four years our dry cleaners have given him a Christmas present.
⁹⁰
He goes past the guest room wearing a crisp pair of track pants—ironed?—and a starchy white T-shirt on his way down the stairs. “Hey, don’t forget to download ‘The Macarena,’ ” he jokes.

Ooh, good call!

The good news is, I’m getting ready to go to New York. The bad news is, I decided to get my roots fixed before I go. In so doing, I’ve placed myself in the hands of a fresh-from-beauty-school assistant. She’s washing my hair, and by washing, I mean banging my skull around like it’s a maraca.

“Goddamn it, it’s a
head
and not a
coconut
! Will you
please
be more careful?” I shout.

“Oh, sorry; did you say something?” she asks. The assistant is coiffed with two enormous blond pigtails—Hi; you’re how old? Thirty?—streaked with an entire spectrum of colors, and she sports six different shades of eye shadow. She’s having trouble reaching the shampoo bowl because she’s extratall and highly unstable due to her goofy goth moon boots with ridiculous platform heels. Here’s a tip, Rainbow Brite—start wearing sensible kicks to work. And try to not snap your customers’ necks when rinsing out their conditioner.

“I did. I guess you couldn’t hear me over the sound of my skull thudding repeatedly against the porcelain,” I tell her.

“You’re so funny!” she squeals.

“Yeah, hilarious,” I agree. “And I’ve got a great idea. Why don’t you bang my head one more time and we can see how hysterical it is when I forget how to drive home?”

She giggles and wrenches my hair, twisting the last bit of water out before throwing a towel in the general direction of my face and leading me to my stylist, Monique. “Here’s your next victim!” she exclaims.