“What has your relationship with food been—”
I hold up my hand. “Bup, bup, bup; let’s stop right there. I’m not here to talk about my feeelings.” Real mental health professionals have advanced degrees and years and years of professional training. Maybe this is why bus people call me a bitch, but I’m not about to solicit counseling from someone with a high school diploma, particularly when she’s speaking to me while flailing about on a stability ball. “Listen, I’m here so you can tell me how many Jenny Craig turkey burgers and slices of Jenny Craig lemon cake I can eat a week in order to lose weight. If you’re concerned about my emotional well-being, give me specific steps to follow to make numbers on the scale descend more quickly, and I assure you the emotion I feel will be happy.”
Maggie ends our session pretty quickly after that. I get my food and walk out to the parking lot. I stand there for a moment with an idiotic grin on my face, looking at Fletch’s new car. By the way? A big, shiny German automobile paid for with book money is way more motivational than any Jenny Craig-branded faux therapy.
The car is much nicer than I’d planned on it being. I was dead set against anything European or flashy because Fletch and I already lived a life where our sole purpose was to impress people and it did not end well. I wanted something safe, boring, and reliable that wouldn’t cost us any money in maintenance or interest. We were paying cash for a used Honda. Period.
In lieu of getting gelato earlier this week, Fletch and I walked the lot of a fancy car dealership, full of vehicles I’d deemed too excessive. As we strolled, touching glossy paint jobs and peering in at pristine leather interiors, Fletch talked me through all the safety features on his dream car, using comforting words like “side curtain airbags,” “panic buttons, ” “sensors,” “dual thresholds,” and “stability tracking.” Then he explained how every single bit of maintenance on Dream Car would be covered for the next three years, even oil changes, and we’d get a free loaner Dream Car any time ours needed service. We’d have to pay only for gas and the occasional air freshener.
I began to show signs of cracking.
He then whipped out a spreadsheet and demonstrated the positive impact financing a small portion of the car124 would have on our credit rating as opposed to paying cash. I felt my resolve evaporating. Then he delivered the punishing blow—he got my dad to tell me it was a wise decision.
So we’re a two-car family. And if Fletch ever gets laid off again, he’ll have a job at Perillo Pre-Owned Outlet selling snappy luxury cars to reluctant wives.
What sucks is I’m allowing myself to drive the new car only to the gym and Jenny Craig.
from the desk of miss jennifer ann lancaster
Dear Mom,
Attached you’ll find some clippings I thought you’d enjoy. Also, can you please reconfirm with Auntie Ann where you’re staying? I’m pretty sure the Woo Hoo hotel doesn’t exist—when I Googled it, the only entries were from blogs and people saying, “I’m in New York at the hotel, woo-hoo!”
My concern is that you and the aunties will get to the city and climb into some poor Pakistani guy’s cab, and when he says, “Where to?” you all start shouting, “Woo Hoo! Woo Hoo!” and he won’t understand, and then your group of aggressive Italian relatives will beat the cab driver with umbrellas in an effort to make him understand.
Just trying to avoid an international incident,
Jen
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Metamorpha-Sissy
If I keep doing Jenny Craig and my usual workout, I can count on losing only about two pounds per week. If I don’t step it up, I won’t reach my goal by the end of the summer, and that motivates me to buy a big package of personal-training sessions at the gym. I’ve done better by being accountable to someone else each week with the diet, and I’m sure the same holds true for exercise.
The trainer I worked with a few times a couple of years ago isn’t at my gym anymore. Which is fine. She scared me more than anything and had no sense of humor.125She worked me out hard, but I didn’t enjoy her company. Stacey says the key is finding a trainer with whom you have good chemistry. Having no clue how to determine who might be my chemistry buddy by looking at their framed photos on the wall by the locker room, I simply tell Mike, the gym’s manager, to assign someone. If he or she and I don’t gel, I can go with a different trainer.
But I’m not thinking about tomorrow’s training session. Right now, I’m at a party. A bunch of fun people came to my signing at the beginning of the month, and during Q and A, a girl named Kristin raised her hand and asked me if I’d attend their book club. My response? “Sure! What are you guys reading?” The whole audience laughed at me.
Oh. That’s right. They’re reading my book.
So I’m here, and I’m trying not to eat, and it’s hard, especially because these guys have put out quite a spread, with so many treats I love, like toffee cookies and guacamole. One of the girls, Jessica, makes the group’s signature dish—a creamy, cheesy corn dip with diced jalapeños. Gesturing toward the big, gelatinous bowl of yellow lumps, she says, “Disgusting, right? But try it; I promise you’ll love it.” I take a bite. And I do.
I’m frustrated because I told my Jenny counselor I was coming to this party tonight and I wasn’t sure how to handle myself when faced with a buffet. I didn’t catch the counselor ’s name today126because I was too focused on her ginormous, Guinness-book-esque birthmark. I felt like an asshole for staring, but I was trying to ascertain if she could even rest her chin in her hand because of it, and it was all I could do not to urge her to get a biopsy on that thing, like, yesterday, and I kept wondering if people always tell her she should see the movie Uncle Buck by way of broad hint, and—
Ahem.
Anyway, I assumed the counselor would suggest I graze on crudités if available, which is logical . . . yet doesn’t reflect reality. I didn’t want to be all Hey, thanks for spending a hundred dollars on groceries and three hours cooking and assembling, but I’m just going to eat this here carrot, alrighty? So I asked how I could go about skipping dinner and picking at the appetizers so I wouldn’t feel like I was being rude, turning my nose up at their extensive preparations. Birthmarkie Mark’s response? “You should eat your Jenny Craig meal and have club soda at the party.”
OK, then.
I’ve been nursing the same glass of wine since I got here because the girls literally put it in my hand when I walked in the door. And how much of an asshole would I have been to say, “Oh, no; club soda for me, thanks!” I mean, there’s diet and there’s real life, and to be successful, there’s got to be some middle ground. Tonight my middle ground is slightly oaky with notes of pear and apple. Because I have been dry since I started on Jenny, the wine is a huge treat.
We’re outside on the hostess’s deck when it starts to drizzle, so we bring the party inside. While we’re sitting around the dining room table, we hear the opening strains of “Back in Black.” We’re all confused where the AC/DC is coming from until I realize it’s my phone. Because I never use it, I’ve heard it ring only a couple of times. I scramble to snap it open before the call goes to voice mail and Fletch is forced to show me how to retrieve the message.
I step into the hallway to take the call.
When I return, I’m ashen. Kristin asks, “Is everything all right?”
I slowly reply, “Yes. Or no. I’m not . . . I’m not sure.”
“What happened?” Jessica asks.
Shell-shocked, I begin to explain. “The call . . . that was my trainer; my new trainer. At my gym. We start tomorrow. And . . . and . . . and her name is Barbie and she sounds fifteen. I’m training with a little girl named Barbie.” I sit down heavily in my chair.
Kristin pats me on the shoulder and snatches up my empty glass. “Sounds like you’re going to need a refill.”
Three hours later, Fletch comes to get me in the new car. My shirt and shorts are soaked because at some point while telling a story, I gestured too dramatically
and threw an entire glass of red wine all over myself and my handbag. Everyone gasped and tried to help me, but I was fine. “This is the kind of bag you can wash in the sink!” I exclaimed before dousing it under the tap.127
I pour myself into the car idling at the curb. “Hi! My bra is wet!” I tell him.
“What happened to you?” he asks.
I shrug. “I forgot to not drink.”
Later, as I run my shirt through the washer for the thirty- sixth time in an attempt to remove the Cabernet stains, I have to laugh.
Because club soda would have really been useful.
It occurs to me that if I’m going to do a book about the weight-loss process, I should probably start taking notes. I begin today, documenting my first training session.
God help me.
Personal Training, Session One
I’m standing at the front desk, waiting for the mythical “Barbie ” to appear. While I was sucking down water and aspirin earlier today, trying to shed my hangover, I started thinking about how judgmental I can be. I mean, why should I have instantly freaked out when I heard someone named Barbie was going to be my trainer? Sure, the name brings up images of gorgeous girls with long blond hair, shiny white teeth, deep tans, and impossible-to-achieve, completely enviable figures, but maybe this Barbie is different. Maybe Trainer Barbie is a dark, homely girl with an overbite and she took up fitness to feel better about her hump and her skin condition.
Yes, that’s it. Barbie is all hideous and disfigured and she will have a heart of gold, and because of this, she’ll be devoted to nothing but making me lose weight.
While I wait for my Troll Barbie to appear, I walk over to the wall of framed trainers’ photographs. Hers isn’t posted yet, so I can’t confirm her cleft lip and club foot, but I’m sure it’s coming.
I stand by the magazine rack, and I’m about to pull out this week’s In Touch when I hear my name being called. I turn around and look for my gargoyle of a trainer.
But I don’t see any monsters.
All I see is a gorgeous girl with long blond hair, shiny white teeth, a deep tan, and an impossible-to-achieve, completely enviable figure standing there. “Hey, are you Jen?” she asks. “I’m Barbie!”
Of course you are.
Of course you fucking are.
I get home from my first session and head directly to the shower. I have to sit on the small stool I use as a ledge when shaving my legs because I’m too sore to stand. I practically crawl out of the bathroom and throw on pajamas, proceeding to cry briefly before falling asleep for the next six hours.
Hate Barbie.
Hate training.
Hate everything.
Princess Big Birthmark and I are in her office. I just weighed in and lost only a pound this week. I’m not happy, but after swallowing a barrel full of wine at the book club, I realize that it could be a lot worse.
“Are you doing any exercise?” she asks.
“I am. I’ve started personal training, and I had my first session yesterday. God, I worked so freaking hard. The trainer made me do this one move where I held on to heavy weights and kept stepping up and down on this platform that was easily twenty-four inches high. I had to cut my very last set of reps short because I literally thought I’d burst a valve. My heart rate was over 175 beats per minute.”
Nodding, she tells me, “You should just try walking.”
Um . . . what?
“Walking burns about seven hundred less calories per hour,” I argue.
“You should get one of our pedometers and track how many steps you take in a day, because walking is a really good exercise.”
“Yeah, totally! Why bother pushing myself to burn twelve hundred calories when I can burn five hundred instead?”
“Right!” she agrees. Arrggh. “Have you got anything coming up this week that you’re concerned about?”
Seething, I reply, “Actually, I do. I’m traveling to Philadelphia and New York for work.128I’ll be going to a couple of big events and I’m going to need some help planning for them. What do I do? How do I handle eating there?”
“Bring your Jenny Craig meals with you!” she says with great conviction.
“Yeah, that’s not going to work. I’m not dragging a bunch of frozen food on a plane. What am I supposed to do, pack a cooler? And a microwave?”
“Take the ones that don’t need to be refrigerated,” she counters.
“Perhaps I’m not making myself clear. I’m going to be in a couple of huge cities, staying in hotels, and going out for meals. One of the places I’m eating is a Mario Batali restaurant. Pretty sure he’d have my ankles broken if I whipped out a plate of Jenny Craig fettuccini.”
Concern flashes across her features. “I guess . . . um . . . order some fish or something? Or, like, a salad?”
This is the advice I spent five hundred dollars to solicit?
“Great; sure; I’ll do just that,” I snap.
While Miss Melanoma goes off to the cooler to get my food, I notice there’s quite a crowd of clients in here today. One of them is talking to Maggie and saying how she has only five more pounds to go before her bridesmaid dress looks awesome. Up and down I inspect her, taking in her pointy clavicles, her knobby elbows and knees, and her visible hip bones. The client is maybe a size six, bordering on a size four. The only way she’s losing five pounds is via an amputation.
And that’s when I really become aware of what the other people here weigh. Everyone is small, and I don’t mean in-comparison -to-me small. I mean low-BMI small. Falls-within -the-normal-range-on-the-weight-chart small. I don’t understand—why are all these healthy people at a weight-loss center?
It’s possible they’re all Jenny success stories.
But I doubt it.
There’s a stack of magazines on the table next to me. The one on top is a Star with Nicole Richie on the cover. She really didn’t get famous until she got pin thin. Ditto Kate Bosworth and Lindsay Lohan. And no one would have even remembered Mary Kate Olsen if she’d just eaten a sandwich once in while. This makes me wonder how much the media plays into the self-image of the other people in this room. Did they call Jenny because fashion and gossip magazines force photos of hungry women down our throats and try to make us believe their boyish bodies are the ideal? If so, we’re all destined to fail.
Personally, I never want to be as thin as most of the women in this magazine; they look gross to me. The only ribs I want to see are covered in barbecue sauce. If I could choose whom I looked like, it would be Barbie from my session yesterday. In the few minutes I wasn’t busy plotting her untimely death, I really admired how toned she was. She’s not thin because she exists on a diet of Red Bull and blow; she’s fit because she teaches ten exercise classes a week when she’s not busy training. And although it made me want to disembowel her when she told me, she can eat and drink what she wants because she’s active. I think I’d rather work harder and get the chance to enjoy food, too.
“Are you ready?” Gorbachev asks, returning with a couple of baskets of frozen meals. To ensure that all my items are enclosed, I have to read the pick list back to her while she places my items in grocery bags. I walk over to her129and we begin the count.
When the job is complete, she tells me to have a good day.
And I will.
Because I don’t have to see her again for a whole week.
Session Two
Today I try to beg off on finishing my squats because my (mythological) doctor told me to take it easy. Also? I inform Barbie my blood pressure’s kind of a problem so we can’t do that many moves where my head dips below my heart.
Barbie smiles and chats with me about Hollywood gossip, barely changing our pacing.
Hate her. So much.
Session Three
Today at exactly sixty grueling minutes after we started, Barbie says, “We can get in one more set!”
“We’ve already gone an hour!” I protest.
“I don’t mind; we can
go a little longer—I don’t have another appointment this afternoon.”
I’m so spent, I don’t even have the strength to curse her out properly. Instead, I moan, “You are a very bad girl!”
To which she replies, “Three more; let’s go!”
I wonder how much it would cost to have her killed.
Session Four
OW! OW! OW! HATE! OW! OW! SUCKS! OW! OW! OW! OW! HATE! OW! OW! SUCKS! NO MORE SETS! OW! NO MORE SETS! OW! YOU MUST DIE! YOU MUST DIE! OW! OW! OW! WOULD PUT THIS BITCH IN THE GROUND BUT CAN’T PICK UP A SHOVEL! OW! OW! OW!
Session Five
There’s such pain and exertion involved in these sessions, my body hijacks my brain and continues to invent entirely new problems in an attempt to get Barbie to take it easy on me, e.g., “These lunges just sprained my prostate, so let’s not finish the set, OK?”
Sadly, I’ve cried wolf one too many times, and now unless we can see bone sticking out, she doesn’t even pretend to listen when I beg for a moment to tend to all my “injuries.” She just smiles and tells me how many more I need to do.
I am so going to buy her a pony when we reach my goal.
That is, if she doesn’t kill me first.
Or vice versa.
“I owe the entire city of Philadelphia a huge apology.”
I started my book tour yesterday, and now I’m standing at the cash register of a shoe store off South Street in Philly, talking to the clerk who’s ringing up my black Croc flip- flops. Angie told me she wouldn’t consider me her style icon anymore if I dared bring my goofy clown shoes on this trip. I acquiesced, packing three gorgeous pairs of thong sandals instead. There’s a silver jeweled pair of Beverly Feldmans, and I love them even more than the Chanel sling-backs Maisy ate. The second is a pair of Jessica Bennetts in brown suede with pink mother-of-pearl discs attached with brown strings and amber beads. They clatter delightfully with each step I take, like my feet are belly dancing. Completing my shoe arsenal is a black patent-leather stack-heeled pair of Donald J. Pliners.
Such a pretty fat: one narcissist's quest to discover if her life makes her ass look big Page 18
