Getting Waisted (24 page)

My evening walks were magical. The perfume from the night-blooming jasmine, lime and orange trees, and rose gardens wafted around me. The air was always cool and the softly lit glow from the houses gave any décor-voyeur an aspirational window into the beautiful homes en route to the business triangle and Rodeo Drive with all its platinum brands: Neiman Marcus, Barneys, Saks, Chanel, Louis Vuitton. They were all places that had nothing to do with my life but it was fun to pretend, except, even in fantasy, the clothes were too tight.

Unfortunately, the triangle was also home to some of my favorite restaurants; The Cheescake Factory being at the top of my list, filled with infinite mouthwatering varieties of dessert luring me in. Reese’s peanut butter chocolate cake cheesecake, banana cream pie cheesecake, and dulce de leche caramel cheesecake were just the tip of the sugar tree. They had the power of Sirens, calling out in their come-hither voices to those of us whose willpower was always on a sliding scale, to follow them to wherever danger lay. I could never resist. Just like in “Cheers,” all the waiters knew my name.

I was not alone. Food has become a national neurosis. Instead of bringing sustenance and pleasure, we’re warned that this road can only lead to unhappiness. We’ve been made to feel as if we have committed a capital crime simply because we like dessert. When I look at the black-and-white photographs of our ancestors, who came in all shapes and sizes, they seem a lot less obsessed and anxious than we’ve become. Possibly, because they had a lot less time on their hands to worry about what they ate, just that they needed to.
Oh, that old Devil’s playground.

22

Body of Evidence

Diet #25
Hypnosis

Cost
$600.00

Weight lost
Some

Weight gained
Some more

There was so much to celebrate
in our California life, not the least of which was the gorgeous weather, but it was a lesson to be careful what you wish for. The relentless sun, which I was no fan of with my white British skin, came with the need to wear sleeveless things, which was anathema to my unofficial Canadian Bill of Rights, specifically
: the right not to bare arms.
No matter how hot it got I never succumbed to wearing shorts either,
preferring to hide myself under thin layers of gauzy material. Gilles and I moved into a gorgeous Spanish duplex with an enormous banana palm tree right outside our bedroom window. It filled me with joy every morning when I woke up. Everything about that tree was sexy: its fronds undulating in warm winds with clusters of bananas ripe for the picking, reminding me how lucky we were to be exactly where we were. We ate breakfast outside almost every day under the shade of a beautiful willow tree that sparkled at night with a hundred twinkle lights.

Our new home became a mecca for a never-ending parade of smart, funny people, many of whom, like us, had come to L.A. to join the ranks of nomadic actors and writers all seeking their place in the sun. They often joined us at our courtyard dinner table where Gilles served up meals and we all served up fun. But my secret self was feeling like a failure. Mostly I was embarrassed; why could I not lose this weight?
“Well,” said my doctor who was also a friend, “it seems you like to face your danger zones head on, by sitting endlessly at a table laden with food. You could try bowling instead.”

My problem became magnified in this town, which attracted the most beautiful people in the world, and I was only too willing to use that as an excuse. But I knew I had brought this neurosis with me all the way from Scotland, via Canada; it wasn’t born in L.A. The part I really struggled with had less to do with my weight and more to do with why I cared so much about my weight. Intellectually I had this covered, but emotionally, not so much. Was it my constant shape-shifting that made me have so little sense of sel
f
? One would think I would be used to that. It was all I’d ever known. Sometimes, I thought it was because I had grown tired of the tap dance; I had been working to get noticed and be loved since I was a little girl. Yes, I had baggage, who didn’t? But I still felt these were superficial ideas. Why couldn’t I have been more like some of my heroes? Jane Goodall, a renowned primatologist and pacifist, devoted her life to caring for the protection of chimpanzees in the wilds of
Tanzania. She probably didn’t give a damn about how she was perceived physically. Of course she only hung out with hairy big-bottomed chimpanzees, who had a very different set of priorities for what they wanted from a woman. Bananas! And Gloria Steinem, a brilliant journalist, eschewed all makeup and artifice to get her message of feminism across to a generation; of course the fact that she had already been a Playboy Bunny most likely gave her confidence to do without lipstick and a bra.

The complicated part for me was that it took me so long to believe I was attractive. I had grown up with far too many mixed messages on that front, although I’m pretty sure that could be said for most people. If we were to go back and look at the photos of our twenty-two-year-old selves, we’d see we were beautiful. We just didn’t have the confidence to know it and that is the irony. Being attractive is so much more than just being pretty; it is about the whole package, replete with energy, kindness, humor, brains, a forgiving heart and, for me, one of the biggies—authenticity. But having knowledge doesn’t always mean we are capable of applying it. That sometimes requires a lifetime of trial and error. I was very good at both. Hopefully I would be given a long life. It appeared I would need it.

I really shouldn’t have worried about being superficial, given I was living in the land that bred the highest achievers in that category. I was surrounded by movie stars and models, all armed with black belts in the art of show-not-tell.

One morning Gilles and I were at our neighborhood grocery store when I overheard him talking to a very attractive, curvy, older woman who was knocking back some giant green drink. He commented on the concoction and she, in a very frustrated voice, responded that she had been drinking these spinach-kale-apple things for months and hadn’t dropped an ounce. He looked at her and, as only Gilles could get away with, suggested that perhaps she was intended to be beautiful and curvy. She practically cried at the compliment but then looked at him and said; “You’re not from around here are you?”

It truly was a whole other world. One of my neighbors, a stunning woman who was probably in her mid forties but looked only thirty-something, as is the law of this land, confided in me that she was leaving her boring, lawyer husband. She hadn’t broken the news to him yet, as she needed to get all that she could from him and then shore it up before he found out and went ballistic with the full force of his law firm behind him. Having been privy to what happens to many former wives of successful men, she went in for breast augmentation surgery, teeth bleaching, and hair extensions. Her unwitting, soon-to-be-ex thought she was doing this as a gift for him and he more than happily nursed her back to health.

When she was healed, she took to showing almost everyone her new and improved curb appeal, even if they weren’t interested in being given a viewing. I was provided the privilege over breakfast.
Eggs sunny side-up were served, how perfect.
One early morning after her car pool, she stopped by to flash me. What does one say . . . “Nice work”? I got it. She was leaving her man and would be hunting new game imminently; therefore redoing her breasts was akin to arming the warheads in preparation. By the time her tough-guy lawyer hubby was served notice, she was already hooked up with even bigger game and had the big fat diamond ring ready to pop on her finger to prove it. It was just another story in the almost naked city, but there were so many and they surrounded me.

Another beauty, Liza, who had recently moved in upstairs with two other beauties from the Barbie-doll catalogue, was truly stunning, warm, friendly—and very insecure. Once again, I couldn’t put an age on her and that was exactly the effect she wanted. She had been on the dating scene for far too long and was finally with a man who was ready to close the deal and marry her. He was handsome in a stuffed-shirt way and appeared to be harmless but for some reason, instead of being happy, Liza was jittery and tense. It was the end of the day and we were sitting outside on the steps when I asked her what was wrong. She explained she was a nervous wreck and didn’t want to blow it but she was terrified to live with him because then he would find out how much money it actually cost to be
her
. Her monthly maintenance cost more than his Beverly Hills condo fees. Yikes! It was hard to imagine what Liza was having done every month that could rack up those bills so, of course, I asked. Other than the expected—teeth whitening, hair extensions,
natural
highlighting, and full waxing—there was something called Thermage, which tightened the skin with some high-tech, roller-like apparatus; bimonthly vampire face-lifts,
not kidding,
fillers using one’s own blood; and, my favorite, migraine management, which I was in need of just at the thought of being that high maintenance. If I were to seek that level of perfection, they would have to throw a drop cloth over me and shut me down like they did the Statue of Liberty for at least a year. There would be scaffolding and men at work—masons, a variety of sandblasters, artisans skilled in the art of sculpting, and then a team of painters and paper-hangers. And at the end of it all, I still wouldn’t be able to wear a thong. In that moment, I was so glad to be me. It cost mere pennies to have me be this undone. Liza and so many women like her put themselves through so much to get approval, not knowing they were already beautiful. It was tragic that they felt they weren’t enough just as they were. But it was just as tragic that I couldn’t get that message myself. “
Ding. Ding. Epiphany alert . . . oooooo.

You would think at this point I might have found a therapist
. . . but I had British-European roots. We didn’t go to therapy; we nailed one foot to the floor and spun faster, believing that would solve our problems.

There was no making sense of the business I was in. Success could come as a result of talent, hard work, or a lucky break, but only if blessed by fate, connections, and a dollop of magic. There was no rhyme or reason for any of it. To be an actor, one had to have faith and another career. Show business was random, as if written on a Magic Slate, with far too much downtime. I was dangerously bored and I could feel myself sliding backward into childhood habits: eating too fast, too much and then hiding the evidence, candy wrappers instantly shoved to the bottom of trash baskets. If I didn’t see them, the crime had not happened. There were secret trips to the market to stuff my face with potato chips and peanut-butter cups before I was even out of the store; chocolates that didn’t stand a chance of surviving the night were tucked into recesses of cabinets and drawers. I blamed my slide on all manner of failures, which was really the flip side of fear. Excuses, I had a million of them: too much unemployment—mostly mine; overfishing—I didn’t want to miss out on real crab salad; our dependence on oil—good Italian olive oil was so expensive.

I was angry that I continually hobbled myself, and Gilles tried to make me feel better by telling me he loved my appetite. By the look on my face, he immediately knew I had taken that the wrong way. He spoke quickly, “It is your appetite for living the big life, not about eating but for having fun, for being interested in everything that brings so much to me, to my life.” And for an accidental but not so sweet icing, he added; “You make jokes, but I think they are real. Maybe not so many jokes would be better.” All his assurances were interpreted by my inner-Gestapo as packs of lies! What the hell was his deal? What jokes? Didn’t he see the planet was overpopulated and we were in danger of running out of food? That would be very bad for him, given how irritable I would become.