Fat Chance (6 page)

F
edEx parks the wardrobe-size box in my building lobby with the doorman. No more nights spent cuddled up by the TV. No more evenings sprawled on the bed facing a snack tray with BBQ Pringles, Snyder's of Hanover homestyle pretzels, Entenmann's chocolate doughnuts and Diet Coke. From now on I'd be quaffing Fiji Water and snacking on orange wedges. NordicTrack time. The Dominican handyman rolls it up to my apartment door on a dolly and hauls it into the bedroom.

He looks at the box and laughs. “Everybody buy these things, these equipments, but nobody use them.”

“Well, it's good to stay in shape.”
How would I know?
He looks at me, shaking his head, laughing, as if I told him a good joke.

After a lightning-quick smile, I double-lock the door behind him. It would probably be fun. I'd make it fun. Sliding, gliding. I'm not the most coordinated person in the world, but I'd get the knack of it. I am a quick study.

I change into my sole pair of cycling shorts, which were secreted in the back of my drawer years ago. I start to tug them on, but when I stretch the waistline apart, it stays that way. I fling them into the garbage. At least my dresser drawers are getting roomier. I pull on a dress-length STOP HUNGER T-shirt, sweat socks and sneakers.

I tuck my feet into the toeholds, reflexively stiffening up as I slide forward, then back. Thighs make up one-quarter of women's weight. Indeed. The effort brings me back to my first riding lesson and the resistance before it flowed. I was stiff, uncoordinated. Maybe if I try to relax and move a little faster, smoother. The phrase
fluid movement
comes to mind, whatever that means.

I step up the pace but the machine begins working against me now, like a frisky horse that senses the unease of a new rider and starts to snort and buck. Like Mr. Ed—the first horse I was on at Camp Camelot, a weight-loss camp. When other kids were munching on bags of buttery popcorn at the movies, we walked in with Ziploc bags filled with sour pickles on sticks. Anyway, my Mr. Ed was named after the funny-talking horse on the '60s TV show. Okay, maybe I'm heavy, and unsteady, but this Scandinavian-style Mr. Ed is starting to list and then lean and then… Ohhhhhhhhh, shit, I inadvertently lose my balance and vrooooooom, never mind riding, I am s-k-i-i-n-g over to the side as if part of a giant slalom.

Mr. Ed crashes down on me with the weight of a work-horse, viciously slamming into my poor dimpled upper thigh.

“JESUS, OH JESUS.” It feels as if I just took a bullet. I can only imagine what my downstairs neighbor is imagining as she hears the deafening crash. She probably expects my couch to come barreling through her ceiling any minute.

I rub and rub the spot to prevent it from turning blue and magenta, and hobble to the refrigerator for ice. I deserve a
Sara Lee cheesecake for this. Or half a carrot cake. It's not fair. I have the noblest intentions, and it backfires. But I'm not going to be a self-saboteur. I grab a giant bag of frozen corn kernels and wrap it around my thigh like a blood pressure cuff.

I glare at the NordicTrack. I am
not
having fun. This is not about fitness, it is about pain and suffering. I feel desperately sorry for myself. All around the city, other women are dining out at restaurants, sitting in box seats at the opera, attending Broadway shows, or having marvelous mindless sex, and I'm here sweating like a pig with a black-and-blue mark the size of Texas tattooing my upper thigh. I want candy, a Milky Way. But there's no way I can even think of going out for one like this. I call Duane Reade.

“Do you deliver?” YES, there is a God. “Good. I'd like a Milky Way.

“A Milky Way. A MILKY WAY, you know the CANDY bar. Haven't you ever heard of it?” I cannot believe this. Is that such a hard question?

“Sorry? What do you mean, by ‘sorry'? Why can't you deliver it? I realize that it's not medicine…okay…okay…but you happen to be wrong, dear heart, it most definitely
does
serve a biological need.

“So how much do I have to spend before you'll deliver it? What?” I slam down the phone.

I lie back on the couch and stare up at the ceiling. Why am I doing this? Is it worth it? Maybe I will never get anywhere with the damn makeover anyway. Why am I putting myself through this punitive fitness crap? Am I a masochist? I want candy. I want to be happy. I don't like fucking cut-up vegetables. I don't want hot broth
without
noodles, and I happen to like the crispy chicken skin. It
kills
me to peel it off and throw it away, especially if it's sprinkled with salt and garlic.

But then the other voice in my head stops me. Do you like tight clothes? Do you like looking at yourself in the mirror? So stay the way you are. Eat candy and greasy chicken. Don't change. Don't pay your dues.

I vow to stop the negativity, the old excuses. No caving in to the self-saboteur. Hard work pays off. I'm going to succeed. The power is in my hands.

If you fall off a horse… I step back on and glide forward and back, steadier now. How dare they smile in the infomercials. Like sports, it looks a lot easier than it is. Bette Midler had it right. “I never do anything I can't do in high heels.”

Of course there are some women—heels or no—who don't even need a piece of exercise equipment. They can open up a magazine and follow an exercise plan. They can simply look at a photograph of an exercise and know what to do by reading the instructions. Now, I know I'm not stupid, but when it comes to coordinating body movements and understanding which foot, knee, arm, etc. gets lifted while the other sits on the floor and waits its turn, I'm out of my element. Maybe it's like map reading. Some people are good at it and others have to ask directions. Left-brain/right-brain kind of thing.

So instead I shell out hundreds on this new roommate. I brace my midsection against the padded center once again and try to coordinate the back-and-forth arm movements, but after only a few tries, I'm gasping for air. My body becomes sheathed in a cocoon of oily sweat and my T-shirt clings like my epidermis. I slow my pace and breathe deeply.

A nun in a Catholic school once chided a girl who complained that she was hot and sweating: “Horses sweat, men perspire and women glow.” So I
am
the horse. I sling a towel around my neck like a prizefighter in training. If water loss counts, by the end of the night my tightest jeans will billow.

The phone rings, and I hesitate. Should I ignore it and just continue exercising? Of course not, I'm a firm believer in breaks.

“Want to go out for some paella?” Tex says. “There's a new Spanish joint that we're reviewing tomorrow. Tonight will probably be the last time that we can get a table before the four-star review comes out.”

Spanish food. Paella. I love the way the sausage is mixed with chicken and the saffron rice. And who doesn't love a pitcher of icy sangria, the hearty red wine—and white is wonderful, too—lovingly sweetened with oranges and apples?

“Actually, I had an early dinner,” I lie. Can he tell?

“So have another one,” Tex said.

Tex is a man after my own heart, but somehow I summon the energy to keep my resolve. “Can I take a rain check? I'm kind of bushed anyway.”

“Big mistake. Listen to this review—‘The bunyol de bacalla, a mashed salt-cod-and-potato cake is ambrosial, teamed with a cilantro-mint salsa. Another favorite is the tortilla bandera, a frittata of tomatoes, Gruyere cheese and spinach—a party for your mouth.' Damn,” Tex says, “let me at it.”

I'm tempted to put the phone down and walk away as he continues to read the review. Are the gods testing me?

“Rain check,” I say again feebly, then hang up and put on my favorite golden oldie CD, Donna Summer's “Endless Summer.” Who said I can't take the heat?

 

Tamara and I had agreed to meet at the track around the Central Park reservoir. It's something we've been doing for two solid weeks now. Still, sometimes she shows, sometimes she doesn't. Often, she feigns sickness. One frosty morning I'm on the track with my face hidden behind a black nylon ski mask—one way to avoid putting on makeup.

“You look like you're gonna hold up Citibank,” Tamara says, making my day.

“The only thing I'm trying to hold up is my behind,” I say, puffing.

“And now there's twenty pounds less of it,” Tamara says, slowing to a crawl and stretching her arms over her head while she gulps oxygen. “I wish I could say the same thing. I need a Wonderbra to give my saggin' ass some lift. I ran my fastest speed into McDonald's to get an Egg McMuffin. Another time, I ordered pizza, and then a calzone—”

“Oh, that warm, soft ricotta cheese, God, how I—”

“More guilt,” Tamara says, “but that's progress, right? It means you know you shouldn't be eating things like cheese—”

“Can we talk about something other than food?”

 

To distract herself from eating, Tamara spends time in Barnes & Noble buying books and CDs. She dreams of writing a book, making a name for herself, earning more money and independence. On the weekends she's home reading and cooking, but these days the recipes are healthy ones. Tonight, instead of the brisket with caramelized onions and roasted potatoes that she would have gone with, she's making grilled shrimp and peppers. Her sister Flossie is coming for dinner.

She calls me up and describes the process. “Put the shrimps in a bowl and pour a dark ginger marinade over them.”

“What's in the marinade?” I'm getting hungry already.

“Rice wine, soy sauce, minced ginger, garlic and toasted sesame oil. Next you mix the dressing—more soy sauce, vinegar, sesame oil, sugar, sake and chopped cilantro.”

“Then?”

“You sauté fresh baby spinach in oil with fresh garlic, then thread the shrimp onto skewers alternating with chunks of
red, yellow and orange peppers. Broil them, then lay the skewers over the cooked spinach. Last thing you do is pour the cilantro dressing over the skewers.” I'm now considering calling the local Chinese restaurant and having them make the recipe for me.

After Flossie tastes the shrimp, she calls me herself. “You're definitely on to something.”

We hang up and I can imagine how they're dishing over my born-again makeover thanks to Michael Taylor.

“Who would have guessed that rock-solid Maggie would go gaga.”

“Honey, you never really know about people,” Flossie probably says. “The smart, tough-talkin' ones are the quickest to become unhinged. There's no connection between brains and success and how smart you love.”

In fact, despite all her dishing, Tamara was doing a great job keeping the makeover a tight secret. To throw off people in the office, we agreed to keep a box of Oreos on the desk, and a bowl of M&M's near her phone. I considered rubber-cementing some to the bottom of the bowl but decided against it. Someone would find out. Still, because it's a newspaper, people get paid for following hunches, and they were suspicious about me.

A comment or two had been made.

“Where's Maggie hiding herself?” Wendy the Weight Watcher asked Tamara.

My loyal assistant nipped that one in the bud. “Over at
Sports Illustrated,
being photographed for the swimsuit issue.”

And Tex. Ever since I started having California rolls for dinner, our friendship seemed to have gone as limp as seaweed and rumors that came my way indicated he was wining and dining not only Sharon but other stocky blondes around town.

Where would it all end? In my wildest dreams, could I
imagine a Hollywood hunk falling for me, especially if I wasn't fat anymore? I wondered how my own drama would play out.

Y
es, I felt guilty about ignoring Wharton. But how could I handle lunch with him in a four-star restaurant and order salad? If I didn't eat whole-hog, he'd be suspicious. After the second call, there was no place to hide. I decided I'd resort to the clichéd illness fable. Some sort of mysterious and lingering GI bug, just had to wait it out…these things didn't just go away overnight. I'd go without makeup so I looked washed-out, and order consommé, broiled fish, fruit. Ugh.

In the meantime, I'd hide the lost weight with camouflage gear.

“I need something to make me look fatter,” I tell Tamara.

“That's a switch. Who you tryin' to impress, a sumo wrestler?”

“Close, lunch with Wharton. You think the Zoo has an online boutique?”

“Zebra stripe couture?”

“Oh, maybe elephant pants. Anyway,” I yawn, “they
couldn't look worse than this.” From a mammoth shopping bag, I pull out a flouncy pink dress with puffy sleeves and crinolines under it. I pull it on over my dress.

Tamara's eyes widen in horror. “You trying out for Shakespeare in the Park? Give it up.”

“I plan to. At the end of this charade it goes priority to Stratford on Avon—at least I'll get a tax deduction. But you have to admit, I
don't
look thin.”

 

Weird clothes, plates of greens, my digestive system is in an uproar, my head is turned around, it was time to see my shrink.

I sit on her overstuffed down couch in her apartment on Central Park West and stare out of the leaded-glass windows at the tall trees. It's a co-op, in the kind of building that celebrities live in with mahogany-paneled dining rooms that can seat sixteen comfortably for Thanksgiving. Don't know who painted her walls, but they're lacquered to glossy perfection, free of cracks and goose bumps. I understand completely how she affords it—at one hundred and fifty bucks an hour, she should put up a brass plaque outside the office with my name on it, since I pay so much of the maintenance each month.

I sit in the corner of the couch, near the Kleenex box and the small gold Tiffany clock that she sees without looking at. I mean she must. We always finish on time, ten to the hour.

There's a pen-and-ink sketch of an oak tree opposite the couch, and one branch holds a flock of sparrows. All of the sparrows have their heads turned in the same direction, except for one. Guess who identifies with the oddball?

“One phone call, and I was the high priestess of the overweight, but enter Mike Taylor, and I came unglued.”

“We all have uncertainties about who we are depending on—”

“Uncertainties? I'm a knock-kneed teenager waiting for
the latest issue of
True Romance
to hit the newsstands. You know the word
crush?
”

She sits back in her moss-green velvet wing chair and smiles benignly. “Aren't you being a little hard on yourself, Maggie?”

I smile tightly. “It gets to be a habit.” I turn and stare out the window. It always feels so safe here. All feelings are allowed. Tolerated. In fact, if things are going better than average, I almost feel I'm disappointing her. As if we need to do crisis management, otherwise what's the point? She doesn't take notes, and I can't decide if I like that or not. Does she have an extraordinary memory? Or do I just repeat the same stories and themes so often that there's no need for her to write the same things down, over and over. Or is it simply that she feels as though taking notes would inhibit me, as if she were a detective recording every detail for the record? This way, at least, no one can subpoena her notes.

“Okay, let's put another spin on this. A celebrity's call for help prompts a savvy journalist to offer her body in the interest of science. Can maximum motivation edge out body chemistry?” I rather like that.

“Maggie, maybe you've made a habit of putting your own spin on things, instead of dealing with what you really feel…”

“What I really feel? It's been so long since I've given vent to— I mean, I'm perpetually thwarted, dammit…” I reach for the Kleenex. I wonder how many boxes she goes through in a year. Do other women get as weepy as I do? I doubt it. I'm the type who cries at funerals even if I didn't know the deceased. I feel for the family. I know how I'd feel if it were my mother. Everyone else, however, always seems so self-possessed. What is that?

She sits forward in her chair. I know by now what that means. “I'm afraid we're out of time,” she says. “Let's start with that next time.” I go to the bathroom, and then pass the next
patient who's waiting in the living room as I go out. As usual, I'm tempted to look at her, and ask her what her issues are. But I avert my eyes, and head out to the elevator, then step back and turn toward the staircase.

 

Wharton booked a table at Le Cirque 2000, the venerated four-star celebrity haunt, now gaily redone in harlequin-like decor.

“Bill, I wasn't ignoring you. I would never do that. I…I was out with some viral bug or something for a few days. I'm trying to slowly get back to myself. I mean, you lose muscle mass when you just lie there and vegetate.” I hold my arms along my sides as though I'm an eight-year-old doing show-and-tell in class. He's not an idiot, why am I showing him what a prone position looks like?

“Mmmm,” he says, with a bewildered expression on his face.

“I mean, it's like being weightless, like you're in outer space.” I blabber on, filling the void. “You need to walk, move, do weight-bearing exercises or you just turn to mush. So I bought a couple of videos, and I'm trying to get my strength back.”

He seems to be considering that. Actually, it's hard to know what is behind the pained expression etched into his soft, punching-bag-shaped face. Those horizontal ridges etched into his forehead, the hangdog look. The man appears as though he's never had a truly relaxing day in his life.

“Well, I'm starting with the escargots,” he belches out, as if to release the discomfort he is bottling up listening to me. “And then I'll segue into the ris de veau with the sauteed wild mushrooms. How about you, Maggie? Betcha can't top that.”

I smile weakly. My eyes seize on the succulent lobster with coral risotto, the seared duck breast with its curry braised leg and desserts like crème brûlée and chocolate fondant.

“I'm really on culinary R&R right now. Just some consommé and then monkfish and fiddlehead ferns.” I'm at a four-star restaurant, and I'm ordering like I'm in the ICU.

Wharton stares at me in disbelief. “Maggie, is there something that you want to tell me? You're not going through some conversion, some born-again fitness philosophy or altered state of consciousness, are you?”

I consider ordering fresh-squeezed celery juice to really freak him out, but no, it might be too jarring.

“Bill,” I coo, elbowing him. “You know me better than that.”

Wharton looks back at me for a moment without saying anything. He's about to break apart a second roll when he stops and turns to me.

“You're not unhappy at the paper, are you? I've tried to give you all the perks that I could to make you happy. Is there something you need? More file drawers? New office furniture? Even more vacation time?”

Now that I've lost weight, I consider asking for a wardrobe allowance, but then think better of it. “I'm perfectly happy, Bill, I swear. Relax.”

Some of the tension melts out of him.

“Good,” he says, patting my hand like the parish priest. “Good. Well, here come the appetizers.”

I sit and glumly sip from the shallow bowl of pale yellow broth flecked with scallions, mesmerized by the sight of Wharton energetically downing his escargots and then soaking up their fragrant garlic-infused broth with thick heels of crusty French bread.

He passes his plate under my nose. “At least have a taste.”

I smile brightly and shake my head, then glance down and catch the reflection of my shining green eyes in the shimmering silver of the oversize soup spoon. I might be starving to death, but I was proving to myself that I had willpower
worthy of a listing in the
Guinness Book of World Records.
And now, for a change, my head is in charge, not my gut. Suddenly, my mood brightens. Three weeks down, five more to go. It was a piece of cake!

 

After three weeks into my new routine, I decide pampering is in order. I wriggle my toes. Time to book a pedicure at Arden and then head over to the shrine. I deserve a gift. I had to reward myself. No one else would. Who was it who said we're becoming the men we want to marry?

I lean against the edge of Tamara's desk. “You're finished for the day. We're outta here.”

“What's our cover?”

“A reducing seminar.”

“What are we reducing?”

“Our wallets.”

We enter the famed Red Door of Elizabeth Arden, walking past displays of lipsticks in tempting colors like cherry soufflé, strawberry ice and orange float, and take the elevator up. We sit elbow to elbow while our feet are buffed and sloughed, and our toenails painted persimmon. To prevent the polish from getting stamped with the impression from our shoes, the pedicurist slips plastic baggies over our toes before our stockings go back on. I grab the check. “It's on me.”

“Let me at least cover the big toes,” Tamara says.

“I'm buying your silence.” I grab her arm. “Next stop,” I say, ushering her into a cab, “is the shrine.” We pull up in front of a store on West 55th Street.

“Shrine? What in God's name—”

“Genuflect and then saunter in as if you're a regular. And don't reach for your inhaler when you see the prices—which are in dollars, not in lira.”

I see them the moment I walk in. They are on a par with no other. A black snakeskin stiletto with a four-inch heel and a stiff cord that snakes up the calf.
Helmut Newton, where are you?
No contest, these were Manolo Blahnik's crowning achievement.

“THESE!” I screech to the salesman. “THESE!”

Tamara crosses herself and looks up. “Forgive her, Father.” She grabs me by the upper arm. “You're losing more brain cells than pounds.” The look on my face makes her drop her voice to a basso profundo. “Twelve hundred dollars?”

“Don't put a price on my happiness!” I slide out of my pumps, forgetting about the wrapping around my toes, and grin sweetly at the salesman. “Condoms to protect the pedicure.”

“And what size for madam?”

“Who cares, they'll kill no matter what size they are,” I cry, as if suddenly high on laughing gas.

“Nine,” Tamara says snootily.

He nods, failing to share the joke, then heads into the back. I stroll around the store, narrowing my eyes and examining shoe after shoe, lifting each one, turning it, holding it up to the light, studying the craftsmanship from every angle, as a diamond dealer might study each facet of a prized specimen. Finally, the salesman reappears, carrying a box that he places before me.

I separate the tissue gingerly, lifting out a shoe as if I am unearthing the Holy Grail. I slip one on, and then the other, and slowly stand. I've been reborn. I'm a contender. I'm feeling as beautiful as that cover girl, Giselle whatever her name is.

“Tall at last,” I utter, walking my new seductive walk. “I'm breathless.”

Tamara's not buying it and glares at the salesman's icy face. “Attitude sickness.”

I teeter totter over to the mirror and study my feet. This is better than therapy. “I'll take them,” I whisper, breathlessly.

“In what color, madam?”

I extend my platinum card between two fingers. “E-V-E-R-Y color.”