“Then why are we screwing around at Target? Let’s check out and get gelato.” We start to walk away from the tiki display. “Take those out of the cart—we’re not getting them. We have ten thousand drink containers because you buy glasses everywhere we go.”
Huh. I guess that’s one mystery solved.
We proceed to the checkout, pushing our cart as fast as its wobbly little wheels will allow us. We pay for our purchases and I’m so excited about the prospect of my first cup of ice cream this whole summer that I don’t even correct the cashier for saying neither “hello” nor “thank you.”155
We load up the car and we’re at Caffe Gelato within minutes. Looks like everyone else in Wicker Park had the same idea as us, and we join a line that’s a good ten-people deep, all of them doing the inadvertent (and inevitable) side-to-side ice cream shuffle that happens when confronted with a case full of different flavors.
The wait gives me plenty of time to people watch and to pick the perfect combination of gelato flavors. Normally I’m a big fan of coconut and banana, but I figure if I’m indulging, I’m going whole hog. Nothing fruit-based for me today! I choose a small cup of hazelnut and mocha, and Fletch gets a chocolate chip-tiramisu swirl combination. While we wait for the cashier to ring us up, I contemplate bringing some home for the dogs.
“Thanks! That’ll be nine seventy-five, please,” says the girl working the register. I pay and drop a couple of bucks in her tip jar. “I was going to say we should get some vanilla for Maisy and Loki, but for ten bucks, the dogs can buy their own goddamned gelato.” We head for the cluster of tables out on the sidewalk. “Ten dollars! For a tiny cup! Ridiculous! Why would anyone pay that much for four stupid ounces of . . .” I take my first bite, and the creamy hazelnut flavor assaults every single taste bud. Bliss! “Um, never mind.”
We begin to eat, and as we talk I notice I’m not making much of a dent in the gelato. I chalk this up to my fantastic new ability to control myself, but then I realize the problem is the spoon. Or, rather, the wee spatula masquerading as a spoon. Measuring in at two inches long and half an inch wide, this flat piece of plastic is practically useless, especially since the heat of the evening is making everything melt quickly.
“You know what they ought to serve this with to make it more convenient? Chopsticks,” I say.
Fletch is already covered with a dozen tiny chocolate drips from his own dish. “A fork would be more effective right now.”
“Or a slotted spoon.”
“Or a spork!”
“Nah, a spork has a small basin at the end that holds liquid. This holds no liquid; it’s more like trying to eat with a matchbox.”
“Maybe a stick would be better? Or nothing. Nothing would be great. If they’d given us nothing I would be more able to get this gelato from my cup to my mouth.”
Our game is interrupted when a hipster crosses in front of our table. He’s wearing the trademark anachronistic T-shirt (this one bearing a Charles in Charge logo), stovepipe jeans, tattooed sleeves, Magnum PI moustache, and a messenger bag full of vinyl. He’s got coffee in his left hand and smokes in his right, and naturally, he’s wearing an iPod with the big stereophonic earphones. We’ve just seen twenty of his clones wander by in the past few minutes. How exactly is your look supposed to be considered edgy and ironic when everyone else in the neighborhood looks exactly the same? Christ; I’ve seen cheerleading uniforms with more individuality. Wearing my pink polo and green capris, I’m about the only one who doesn’t appear to have been plucked straight from central casting.156
This guy’s only saving grace is his do. His head is shaved except for a strip in the middle sticking straight up, and there are curling tendrils of hair hanging from his temples on either side of his face, like he’s a Hasidic student on spring break.
“Haven’t seen that before,” I muse.
Fletch says, “I bet he went in to his stylist and goes, ‘One Jew-hawk, please,’ ” causing me to choke on my ice cream.
Once I catch my breath, I survey my surroundings and have to smile. A beautiful night, a little gelato, newfound strongs, a smug feeling of self-satisfaction, and a whole lot of snark—my life suddenly makes sense again.
TO: angie_at_home
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Jealous?
Yo, yo, yo,
You know how on America’s Next Top Model they show those Cover-Girl infomercials with the previous season’s winners? And the girls go on and on about how glamorous their lives are now that they’re top models, while conspicuously applying a thick coating of lip gloss?
Today my infomercial would go something like this:
“Hi, I’m Jen Lancaster and this is my life as a best-selling author.
Earlier today I put socks on the dogs and watched them slide around on the wood floors. Then I looked at cat pictures with funny captions for about an hour. And when I got dressed, I had to fix my only clean bra with duct tape.”
Jealous?
Jen
P.S. I have a dollar in my wallet.
P.P.S. And I got into a fight at Weight Watchers.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Enough with the Cake Already; God!
"Just hope it’s not incredibly queer.”
I’m standing by the mirror in the entry hall, putting on a coat of lipstick. I press my lips together to even out the matte Bobbi Brown Plumberry and I can’t help grinning back at my reflection. There are contours under my cheekbones now and they’ve been carved out by exercise and not three cleverly applied shades of blush. My chin is singular, not plural, and there’s jaw, not jowls, before my face merges into my neck. No more Mrs. Potato Head impersonations for me! A few new lines are evident around my eyes, but only when I smile, which seems to happen a lot lately. I look healthy and happy, but more important, I feel healthy and happy.
“Why do you think it will be ‘queer’?” Fletch asks. He’s working from home today and has a Circuit City’s worth of electronics spread out in front of him. Everything’s blinking either red or blue. His ad hoc desk is our snappy new leather ottoman, which Maisy has already punctured with her dew-claw. 157He’d look like the consummate professional were he not wearing a T-shirt that says DONKEY PUNCH with a picture of a grinning mule on it.
While he works, I’ve been standing here by the mirror for the past ten minutes trying to muster the motivation to attend my first Weight Watchers meeting. I’ve been following the plan online for a few weeks, and I’m delighted with the results. The online applications make it incredibly easy to map out meals, track progress, and, really, live a life that doesn’t feel like I’m constantly on a diet.
I particularly like the recipe planner because it lets me cook our favorite dinners. All I do is put in each ingredient, and the tool will tell me how many points a serving is worth. This way I can choose to adjust my portion size and supplement my meal with a big salad, or if I want to go whole hog, I’m able to know in advance how much extra time I should spend on the treadmill if I want an entire plateful. The very worst thing about dieting is feeling like everyone else is having something you can’t eat. Being able to have the same dinner as Fletch, even with a vastly smaller portion, has gotten me over a large psychological hurdle; thus, this online tool has been a godsend.
I’d be very content to continue to just use WeightWatchers .com because it’s so helpful. However, the site prominently features a message that those who attend meetings lose up to three times as much weight as those who do it on their own. With those kinds of stats, I can’t not give the meetings a try.
Yet I’m still hesitant. I hated the one meeting I attended ten years ago. The whole room was full of angry, bitter women. One gal—a plus-sized, emerald-eyed redhead with skin like a pitcher of cream—claimed her weight problem began when her company started to recognize birthdays. And ever since she’d been on Weight Watchers, she’d been campaigning to stop these celebrations. At that point, she’d only convinced her employers to supplem
ent the parties with a side of fresh fruit, but she was confident if she kept it up, she’d bring an end to serving cake all together.
Yes. That must have made her the most popular girl on the thirty-ninth floor. Can’t you picture the conference room at her workplace now?
Happy retirement, Jerry! We’d like to celebrate your achievement by sharing a fruit plate with you.
An apple? Really? After thirty-seven years with this company? Fuck all of you.
I felt bad for the redhead because she seemed so unhappy. I bet everyone at work hated her for being the Cake Police, but she probably figured they didn’t like her because of her weight. I wondered if she could see how gorgeous she was. Based on her tirade about cake and coworkers, I doubted it. Still, everyone cheered for her because she was brave enough to take a stand against the military-industrial-cake complex.
The redhead wasn’t the only one there who turned me off. Apparently work cake is a much larger problem than I ever imagined. A teacher described an issue she’d had when a colleague of hers was retiring. The home economics instructor baked a huge going-away cake, and Weight Watchers Teacher threw such a fit over it that the principal took her aside and begged her to calm down. The principal asked her if she wouldn’t please just hold a slice of the cake for a few minutes in order not to offend its baker or make the retiree feel bad. She refused, and with victory etched all over her face, the teacher explained how she was in the process of consulting an attorney, citing workplace harassment.
Fortunately everyone’s applause drowned out my snickering.
A third woman chimed in with her strategy on how to deal with the whole cake issue. She said she’d stay at her desk during the festivities (the first rational course of action I’d heard) and then as soon as they were over, she’d run to the cafeteria, toss the remains in the trash, and squeeze dish soap over the leftovers so she wouldn’t be tempted. Of course, I thought. You should definitely punish everyone because of your own lack of self-control. And when the group applauded again, I considered never returning.
During “sharing time” there was a lot of wailing and gnashing of teeth over the evils of food—even from the group’s leader—and I didn’t like it. I knew then and I’ve since relearned that food isn’t inherently evil. We need calories to stay alive. Food is fuel. Food gives us the energy to hug our husbands and chase after our kids and pets and rearrange all the furniture in our living rooms.
Food isn’t bad; food is life.
Hating the very thing that sustains us seemed like a recipe for failure, and I thought maybe what we should have been discussing was finding a sensible way to live with food and to love and appreciate food, but to not let food rule our lives. Ruining birthday cake for everyone else didn’t seem like the most effective strategy to make this happen . . . so I raised my hand and made this point.
Let’s just say the applause was not forthcoming.
I was the only one not to be invited to the postmeeting dinner. I never went back, mostly because I knew I wouldn’t be welcome.
I take a final look at myself, pick a few stray bits of fur off my pink polo, and sigh. “All right, I’m going to go do this thing. Let’s just hope this meeting is less birthday-cake centric.”
One of Fletch’s multiple devices begins to ring. “I’m sure that was an anomaly. Good luck and have fun!” he says, placing his Bluetooth back in his ear to take the call.
According to the Weight Watchers Web site, I’m supposed to arrive at the meeting half an hour early to register. Since I became a member online when I registered to use their e-tools, I have a pass to attend as many meetings as I want.158 I arrive at the right building and park in the garage. The meeting is a couple of floors up, and locating an elevator seems like a pain, so I just run up the two flights to get to my destination. How about that? I’m not even winded.
I enter the office, and it’s not nearly as nice as the Jenny Craig place. The lighting is bad, the carpet is worn, and the furniture is out of date. Oh, well; I’m not here for the aesthetics, right? Plus, I was always vaguely aware of being a customer at Jenny Craig, not a member, and the shoddy look of this place doesn’t make me feel like I should whip out my wallet. There are various Weight Watchers snack foods displayed on the walls, but I don’t pay much attention to them. The whole beauty of the plan is that I can make my own choices, so I don’t need to fill my cabinets with their food. Going straight from packages of Jenny food to packages of WW meals would teach me nothing.
I introduce myself to the woman behind the counter, asking if this is where the new campers check in. She introduces herself as Pat. I show Pat my all-access pass and she seems slightly disappointed for some reason. Um . . . OK? Should I be fatter to join? Or thinner? I don’t quite understand what’s up with her heavy sigh.
I fill out a form, and my next task is a weigh-in. I step on the scale without hesitation. Is that progress or what? Weight Watchers’ weigh-ins are confidential, so the display is behind the counter. I’m somewhat disappointed that I don’t get to see the numbers come up myself. I sort of dug when Jenny counselors shouted out how much I’d lost, because everyone up and down the hallway would cheer. A silent weigh-in feels like expectations are lower, somehow.
Pat records my weight and writes it down on a trifold piece of thick paper. “This is your membership book,” she says. “Be sure to bring it back every time you come.” She folds the book up and stuffs it in a little plastic sleeve, palming it to me like you might a tampon to your friend at a party.
Impatient, I tear the booklet out of the wrapper. Ha! I’m down six pounds since I quit Jenny and started using the online tools. I attribute this progress to my double workouts more than anything else.
Pat has recorded my goal weight, which is what I weigh now minus ten percent. Seems like I should have had a say in the goal setting, but sure, OK, ten percent is as good as anything else to aim for. Honestly, I stopped thinking in terms of numbers a while back. My real goal is to be able to have the strength and endurance to take the dogs on a run. Also, I’d like my arms to be toned enough that I can go sleeveless with confidence, but if we need a number, fine; ten percent will do nicely.
Pat takes me into the meeting room and explains that she and I will spend some time together in an orientation after the main meeting. I say hello to the two women already in the room and we all just sort of look at each other. Feels like we should have some sort of conversation, but I don’t know what to say, like, Hey, let’s all be less fat together! or Is it just me or is Pat kind of a bitch? so I start to read my brochures instead.
A welcome packet explains WW’s origins and outlines how their various plans work. I’ve been following the Flex plan, which is based on an algorithm. Essentially, calories are factored with fat and fiber grams to come up with a POINTS equivalent. I’m allowed so many POINTS per day, but I can consume them however I’d like. I try to eat lower-POINTS-VALUED food so I can have more, but this particular plan also allows me the occasional gelato. For those who don’t want to record everything they eat, there’s the Core plan. There’s a select variety of low-fat, nutritious foods to choose from, and you can eat whatever you want from the list without tracking.
There’s also a quick reference guide called Weight Loss on the Go, and it looks pretty handy. Clear instructions are included on what to order when I find myself in a restaurant for a regular meal and not one that’s a special occasion. For example, if a drive-thru is the only breakfast alternative, I should opt for a McMuffin-type sandwich minus the cheese. The booklet gives an estimated POINTS value, and the cheeseless McMuffin is totally reasonable. Even with cheese, it’s not ridiculous when other meals consumed that day are lower in points. Who knew?159
Five minutes with this guidebook and I already have more information about eating out than any of my Jenny Craig counselors could impart in two months.
The literature also includes a number of menus and all sorts of advice on how to add fitness to one’s daily routine. I�
��ve got my strongs covered already, so I skim over that part. Sprinkled throughout the booklets are a couple of reminders that the monthly pass works out to less than ten dollars a week, but they’re not overt or obnoxious. People make themselves vulnerable when they walk into a weight-loss center, and I’m pleased WW doesn’t take advantage of their lowered defenses with a lot of in-your-face sales pitches.
A few more members shuffle in, and I try to look at all of them without being obvious, but most of them are sitting behind me, and I catch only little glimpses. There are ten of us in the meeting, spanning the scale from why-are-you-even-here size to oh-bless-your-heart size. I fall somewhere in the middle, although I appear to be the only one with any muscle tone. Most of the members are women, but I think I spotted a couple of men, too.
Pat opens the session by introducing herself and saying we’re all here because we love food but we recognize food is bad.
Uh-oh.
Pat tells us how one of her friends is going backpacking in the Grand Canyon soon and how she’s struggling to pack ef ficiently because everything she carries down will have to be carried back up. Pat says her friend finally had her “aha” moment when she realized if she lost ten pounds then she’d have ten pounds less to carry. Then Pat asks us how long we’ve been carrying around our weight burdens. Pat explained she carried around an extra seventy-five pounds for five years after she had a baby. But thanks to WW, she lost the weight and kept it off, and she’s now been a WW leader for fifteen years.
OK, not to be the biggest cynic in the world, but I’m guessing Pat’s “friend” has been packing for this Grand Canyon trip for about as long as Pat’s been leading WW sessions.
Pat moves on to having everyone discuss their week, and she hands out little star stickers that say BRAVO when someone has “good sharing.” (This is what I meant by “queer.”) Apparently these stickers go on a Weight Watchers book-mark that you receive once you’ve come to two consecutive meetings . . . and that I’m pretty sure I’m going to throw away the minute I get it. (If I want a touchstone of how far I’ve come, I’ll simply look at my triceps.) You get a snappy bronze key ring when you hit the ten percent goal, but if the annoyance level of the first five minutes of this meeting is any indication, I’ll be long gone before that ever happens.
Such a pretty fat: one narcissist's quest to discover if her life makes her ass look big Page 22
