Toes in position, my nocturnal track attack begins. Donna is wailing, “She works hard for the money, but he never treats her right.” Left, right, left. I stop, lost in thought, arms clinging to the padded chest support as if it’s a life raft.
It wasn’t just battling to lose weight that fueled my unease, it was feeling in my heart of hearts that I had betrayed a trust. As a journalist, I’d be the first one to point a finger at hypocrisy, yet outwardly I was championing fat acceptance while inwardly eschewing meat and potatoes for fish, fowl and field greens.
I could blame it on Mike Taylor, but if it wasn’t him something or someone else would have spurred me on to give it one last shot. The urge to get thin lingers in your system like nicotine. Years after giving it up, you’re never completely released from temptation. It’s an addiction, and you never recover, you are perpetually recovering.
It was consoling to think of this last all-out try as an outward-bound adventure. Living on the edge. It wouldn’t work out, but it was exhilarating to think that it might….
Of course I was Irish Catholic with the genes for dark introspection and misery. I could envision myself as a desperate character in a play, fifty years from now, with long trailing tendrils of gray hair as coarse as a Brillo pad. I’d be sweeping, trapped in a stone cottage by the ocean, the waves pounding on the shore outside, and the NordicTrack—along with a carton of corroded weights—a memorial to the past, standing by the fireplace like the bones of a long-dead mate.
Well, maybe it wasn’t guilt, just fear. I was in a panic at the thought of reaching out, stepping over the mundane borders of my life to make up for all those Saturday nights in my bedroom.
I head into the kitchen and start preparing dinner—a low-cal green pepper filled with rice and a smattering of beans. While I wait for the rice to boil, I watch the traffic outside going down Second Avenue. If I had any regrets in this life, I wanted them to be over what I had done, not avoided doing. I had already spent enough time on the sidelines.
Remember photographer Bert Stern writing that lame account of how he resisted the opportunity to sleep with Marilyn Monroe? He was glad, it would have ruined the fantasy, the myth of Marilyn, or some such nonsense. OH PUH-LEEZE.
Yet I have to admit I’m scared, panicked at the thought of doing something wildly out of the ordinary. Of course offers like this were as rare as fruitcakes in August, so why in hell shouldn’t I follow my passion? No, I wouldn’t think this thing to death. I’d just go—lightly—my luggage, the laptop, snug dresses, long-lasting makeup, a bottle of Contradictions, and…the SHOES.
Maybe what was slipping away was more than just pounds. I’d never felt better, and the truth was that thin was looking pretty good.
The Cure Can Be Worse Than the Disease
There’s always a better regimen, just a diet book away. You feel as though somewhere out there is the magic plan that will erase a lifetime of fat and abuse.
Everyone who has ever been caught up in the dieting trap—that means all of us—is like a quick-change artist who reinvents herself on one regimen or another, any or all of them bound to help in the short run, but ultimately destined to rebound, leaving us not only heavier, but also deeper in despair. It defies logic. The diet mind-set has an insidious life of its own. It’s about pipe dreams and prayers, not IQ.
If diets worked, no one would be fat.
But now experts tell us that while obesity might increase the risk of premature death to some degree, the risk is far less than they believed. By age 65 the risk was slight, and by age 74 it no longer existed.
According to the two top editors of the New England Journal of Medicine, “The cure for obesity may be worse than the condition.”
Others go so far as to say that dieting itself is a risk factor for developing an eating disorder.
How much science do we need to prove that deprivation diets aren’t the path to happiness and fulfillment? When does measured thinking take the place of drastic measures? Instead of zoning out on common sense, and opting for the life of pathetic greens and hard-boiled eggs and fly-by-night regimens that no one can stick with, it’s time to eat well and instead make some long-lasting lifestyle changes if your aim is to shed pounds.
And if you need some math to convince you that dieting alone is doomed to fail, here goes:
Every time you diet without exercising, you lose one-quarter pound of muscle for every three-quarters of a pound of fat.
And while a pound of muscle burns fourteen calories a day, a pound of fat burns just two calories.
In other words, if you lose twenty pounds, you’ll lose five pounds of muscle, reducing the number of calories you burn each day from muscle by seventy.
So say you go off your diet and gain all the weight back, what happens? The weight you put back—assuming you’re still not lifting weights—will be all fat, not muscle.
Bottom line: Overall, your metabolism will have slowed down and you won’t even stay at your previous weight. If you keep eating just the way you did before dieting, you’ll eventually weigh more.
Five weeks into my routine, I am down thirty pounds, so what is wrong with the face that is staring back at me in the mirror? Not face. Faces, that’s it. The glaring pool of one-hundred-fifty-watt, soft-white bathroom light was indisputably illuminating not a single, but a double chin. Contouring with makeup, no matter how awe-inspiring the artistry, couldn’t make it disappear. Two palettes of Bobbi Brown’s toasty blusher later, the futility of a brownout hit me hard. So instead of groping for the bible of self-acceptance, I reach for the phone book and the number of a plastic surgeon who has gained a reputation for facial microsuctioning. I put in for a week off—enough time for the bruising to disappear, and buy myself a jar of vitamin K cream and another of arnica that I’ll use to ward off bruising.
“Here’s the game plan,” I tell Tamara, like a sergeant in the marine corps. “I’m out for a week of vacation. I’m tired, overworked, resting at home, doing a little apartment work. I’ll be in and out a lot, hard to reach…and a week later, I’ll be back, looking like the time off served me well.”
“Maggie, this has gone way beyond that small-potatoes diet—”
“We don’t use the d-word around here, remember?”
“You’re entering the major leagues now—you’re talking the knife, anesthesia—maybe you should think about—”
“No, I don’t want to think, it doesn’t burn fat. It’s time to act, and I’m depending on you to run interference for me, keep the newshounds at bay and share in my passion play.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes, I’m definitely doing it.”
“No, I mean about thinking burning fat.”
“God, who knows?”
Tamara gives me that look.
“You think I’m nuts, okay, say it.”
“Noooo, you’re just being sucked off into a midlife twister—but go ahead, do the crazy shit, get it out of your system. At least you’re single. Maybe it’ll work out in the end like it did for Flossie.”
“What did she do?”
“She got married and five years later ran off with the window cleaner.”
“And what happened then?”
“He kept her windows so spotless—”
“What happened to her?”
“Well, the love affair didn’t last but two months, and her marriage went bust, but Flossie’s no dope. She rounded up all of that stud’s friends, and started a house-cleaning service. Now she’s making half a million a year, and has her pick of the stable.”
Tamara sits in the softly lit waiting room with the husbands of other patients, waiting for me to emerge. When I come up, she’s deep into an article called “Facial Sculpting,” pinching the sides of her face and the slack under her chin. It’s contagious, I think. It occurs to me that maybe the good doctor gives a bulk discount. Tamara tries not to look startled, but fails miserably. That’s why I love her.
I know I look like t
he Pillsbury dough girl. The thickly wound compression bandage snugly puffs out my face. She runs over and hugs me.
“You poor pathetic creature,” she says, and her voice gives away the fact that tears are forming in her eyes.
“Don’t get soft on me, Tamara. It’s just like analysis, except the knife makes you feel better faster.”
I drape a knockoff Hermès scarf flecked with horse bits and saddles around my head, ’50s Italian-film-star-style and strut out of the office behind wraparound sunglasses. But nobody is fooled. Not one person comes running up to me yelling “Sophia Loren, cara.”
We cab it to my apartment, past the silent stares of the doorman. I make Tamara leave. I can’t stand to see her pathetically sad puss, and I go to bed with a Tylenol with codeine and the cold comfort offered by a body-bag-size sack of ice. The old me is disappearing, a little more every day.
“So Larry comes by and says, ‘Where’s Maggie hiding out these days? Haven’t seen much of her lately,’” Tamara says, in her daily phone report. “He pointedly left it unclear whether he was referring to your presence or your weight.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Lectures, guest appearances, Maggie is everywhere. Want her cell number?
“‘Cell?’ he says. ‘Where is she, in solitary at Rikers Island?’
“I yawn and tell him to go get someone indicted and then strut away in my Manolos. And you know what he says?”
“I give up.”
“‘Mama mia. What have you got on your feet?’
“‘Just shoes,’ I say. ‘Shoes that show toe cleavage.’
“‘What? Show what?’
“‘Toe cleavage.’
“‘And I thought I heard of everything,’ he says.
“They work! THEY’RE BAD!” Tamara says.
I hang up. I can’t laugh anymore, my face is too sore.
Minus a chin, and plus a new palette of earth-toned makeup applied with techniques I’ve culled from a Vogue beauty book, I make my grand entrance into the office.
“Maggie,” the receptionist shrieks. “You are sumpt’n else.”
I blow her a kiss. After intentionally threading my way through the newsroom and generating a buzz of whispering, I sidle into my office. “Buon giorno.”
Tamara looks. Her look alone is worth it all. “Lord have mercy. Bless that surgeon.”
I pat the underside of my chin, and smile. “What surgeon?”
Justine eyes me strutting through the newsroom and freezes. She comes running.
“How did you do it? How? How?” she says before she’s crossed the threshold. She crosses herself. “What diet did you go on, tell me.”
The health-food gestapo asking moi about my diet. This is great.
“I guess we all just have our natural set points,” I say, tossing a green and then a yellow M&M up into the air and catching them in my mouth. “The weight at which our bodies feel most comfy. So I just let nature take its course. I grazed—had a little of this, a little of that, some German potato salad, teeny slivers of brat, a pinch or two of terra chips, and it just happened. Just like that.” I hold out my hands, as if in wonder. “You know me. I don’t believe in dieting.”
Connors isn’t buying it. “You had your stomach stapled, didn’t you? Who did it? Was it that guy from Baden Baden who’s at Mount Sinai?”
“WHAT?”
“Did you take Leptin? Or was it Fen-phen? I know it kills your valves, but it works, for God’s sake. We’ve got more than we need anyway, haven’t we? I mean, planes run on one engine, why can’t a heart get by— So what did you use? You didn’t go to Switzerland for the sleep cure, did you?”
My hand goes up around my throat. “Justine, you are truly making me nauseous. Other than my new DK contouring body stocking…there’s nothing terribly different that I’m doing.”
She shoots me a dirty look. “Fine, Maggie,” she says, pivoting. She starts to walk off and then pivots once again. Is this a routine she learned from Martha Graham? “Just don’t come running to me when you want the inside track on sample sales. I’ll give you a map pointing you to Bergdorf’s.” I scrunch up my nose and rock back on my heels.
“The last sample sale she told me about was for Kalso Earth Shoes. I was literally off my rocker.” I grab a handful of M&M’s and throw them at her as she leaves.
Wharton is the next drop-in. News travels fast in the newsroom. He stares in disbelief.
“How was your vacation?”
“Great, fine.”
“Go anyplace special?”
“Nah, just hung out at home. Did some sprucing up…”
Wharton sits silently for a moment like a husband knowing full well he has been cuckolded, but fearful of the consequences of acknowledging it. “Maggie…is there anything you want to tell me?”
“Yeah, I caught Monster in a Box on HBO last night. Did you see it? That Spalding Gray is a scream, I swear.” Silence.
“Maggie,” he says, resigned. “I guess I’ll just come right out and say it. You don’t look like our fat columnist anymore. I mean, you’re just not fat anymore. I…I don’t know what to say. I’m concerned. I’m worried—”
“Bill, I—”
“Your column is the most popular one in the history of this newspaper. We want to continue with it, build on your success. But what’s going on with you? I mean, can you keep writing a column like that if you look like this?”
“So I lost a few pounds. I’m into exercise these days that’s all. I still have the same beliefs, the same goodwill message to everyone else who’s overweight. I—”
“Okay, if you say so. I hope you’re not changing. You’ll keep doing what you’ve been doing all along, right?”
“Of course, of course, Bill.”
“Okay, okay,” he says, getting up and leaving. “Okay.” He keeps parroting it like a mantra. The next thing I know, a messenger is delivering two dozen Italian pastries to me from Ferraras in Little Italy. I take the box and put it out on the Metro desk for the staff. Half an hour later, the piranhas have devoured every crumb.
I lean back in my chair. For the first time there is more wiggle room in it now. Six weeks have gone by since I started dieting and working out. I’ve dropped thirty pounds and am down almost three sizes. Two more weeks to count-down. Still ahead: Body wraps to smooth the skin, capillary zapping to banish the pesky red threadlike streaks that cropped up on my cheeks, sclerotherapy to get rid of leg veins, a manicure, leg waxing, eyebrow shaping, bleaching to whiten my teeth, a hair trim, highlights to add mock sunshine to hair that barely sees the sun, and about one hundred more miles to run. Natural beauty? An oxymoron. This makeover was draining me physically and financially. I even considered taking out a second mortgage on my apartment. Well, priorities. In Brazil, where women make a career of looking gorgeous, there are more Avon ladies than soldiers.
I scan the medical journals to catch up on the latest findings about weight control. By now, someone should have given me an honorary degree, an M.D. No one would know that it really stood for a Master’s in deceit.
nine
I’ve spoken to Mike Taylor several times since his initial call.
“We’re still on, right?” he asks, and I want to laugh out loud.
Instead I answer, demurely, “I’ll be there.”
“Need anything special? A private phone line, a DVD player?”
“I’m easy,” I say. Am I ever. “Just my laptop.” God, even that sounds…What is happening to me?
“Any special foods?” he asks. Is he nervous? I’m loving this more by the minute. Just a few pounds of Beluga, I’m thinking, but I bite my tongue. “Nothing special at all.”
Before heading to my apartment to pack up, I clean out my desk. Mike Taylor should only know the effect that his calls have had on my life. I’m lightening up everywhere. There are two piles: save and toss. It reminds me of the fashion columns that offer a column of what’s passé and au courant.
An u
nexpected advantage of losing weight, I’ve discovered, is that a smaller wardrobe takes up less room in a suitcase. And for once, I’m not embarrassed to wear clothes made of stretchy fabrics that don’t wrinkle. A master of packing, I roll each garment tightly and find that I’ve room to spare. I’m now humming—“Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile, smile, smile…” Songs fall into your head that way. The mind acts like a giant Kazaa that stores this huge inventory and then pulls out the appropriate song that gives quick feedback on what you’re thinking before you even know it.
I zip the bag and sit on the edge of the bed like a kid contemplating running away from home. I want to go, I do, but I’m afraid to cross the street.
Everything’s ready and I watch the red digital numbers change, second by second, on the clock radio like a little electronic guillotine, killing time before I fly from one zone and one kind of life to another. An hour until the cab comes.
I haven’t seen Tex in weeks. Ever since the dinner at Rosa Mexicano, things have been strained. I never told him about the makeover, or the trip, but he knows. Even though he’s just a friend, I don’t need him holding up a magnifying glass and examining my motives. And certainly no guy needs to hear about how infatuated you are with another guy and the lengths you’d go to snare him. That was inside baseball—something best shared with another neurotic girlfriend, or better still, kept to yourself. The results would speak for themselves. Anyway, I know how I feel when a guy starts raving about some fabulous broad. SHUT UP.
I dial Texas’s number and am surprised when he picks it up himself, on the first ring.
“Hey.”
“Hey back, where are you?”
“Home, I’m flying to L.A. later today.”
“Panning for gold,” Tex says. “Don’t turn into one of them.”
“One of them?”
“Stay Maggie.”
“Whoever she is.”
“Quit the shrink talk.”
“Not easy. It’s been a lifetime,” I remind Tex.
Fat Chance Page 8
