Slim to None (16 page)

"You just said ‘I love that food can take the place of things.’ What
things
does it replace?"

I shrug my shoulders while I try to come up with an answer. "Maybe what I mean is food can fill in for other things that aren’t there. Like food can take away sadness and replace it with happiness. It’s sorta like that pothole over there." I point to the nearby curb. "Obviously something’s missing in that road. Cars drive over that the wrong way, they lose their hubcaps. But then finally the city comes along, they fill it with asphalt, and it makes it better."

"But does it make it better for good? Or until the asphalt comes out and the hole returns?"

"Does it matter? It fixes what’s broken."

"I don’t know about that, Abbie. What you’re talking about only patches it up. It doesn’t exactly fix it. And probably creates other problems along the way. It’s like when I got tennis elbow. I kept playing tennis—I was in the club championships and I wasn’t about to screw over my doubles partner because of a little injury. But I tweaked my swing because it hurt so damned much. And tweaked it enough that the next thing I know, my shoulder was injured too. You do one thing, it screws up something else is all I’m saying."

"What if it
can’t
be fixed?"

"Everything can be fixed. You’re talking to a captain of industry. It was my job to fix anything and everything."

"Maybe where you come from things can be fixed. But in my world, it’s not so simple."

"Perhaps you’re just not looking at things the right way. Or maybe you’re trying to take the easy way out. Instead of repaving the road, you’re just filling up the pothole with—"

"—With homemade ravioli in a sage butter sauce," I say, actually thinking out loud again. "Or maybe freshly-ground pork sausage with fennel, grilled and served with Italian gravy over Tuscan pici."

"Did you ever think that food isn’t fixing your problems in life, Abbie, and maybe just contributing to them?"

I look over at him. "What are you, basking in advice from that fancy Park Avenue therapist of yours?"

George clasps his hands together as if in prayer. "Forgive me for overstepping. Maybe it’s easier to see how to fix someone else’s problems than one’s own. Or maybe I am being an armchair shrink. But I’m looking at your issues and I think you need to just think long and hard about what’s important to you. And maybe while you’re at it, figure out if you can get to the root of what it is you’re filling. And why."

He gets up to leave.

"Say, George, I was thinking," I say, hoping to catch him before he leaves. "Maybe I should take you and Sally up on that offer for dinner at your place. It might do me good to get out of the city for a night. What do you think?"

Caught off guard, he doesn’t have a chance to ponder it too much. "If you think that’ll help you out, I’m willing to consider it. Anything for you, Abbie."

* * *

I end the day with an alphabetical transition. In other words, I’ve unilaterally decided that the letter "M" diet has turned into the Letter "O" diet. This is because the only thing that will get my mind off of everything are the Oreo cookies I bought at the bodega up the block from my home. Someone told me about Weight Watchers point system and while I don’t have the actual point schedule—I mean, that would mean having to go weigh myself publicly to join, right?—I’m guesstimating. I figure I could have an orange ("O" food), or maybe four Oreos. That would be about the same volume of food, wouldn’t it? Perhaps my Oreo math isn’t quite kosher, but I can’t seem to stop this self-sabotage train on which I’m riding.

* * *

I’m so furious with myself for having snarfed down those cookies, I scurry up to the bathroom to brush away the evidence. Lady MacBeth, I am. Only trying to dispel with Oreo evidence, not blood. As I spit out my toothpaste, the telltale Oreo cookie effluent seems to mock me:
You’re only cheating yourself, Abbie Jennings. You’re only cheating yourself.
As penance I write my column before going to bed, even though I can’t wait for my head to hit the pillow.

IF IT DON’T FIT, DON’T FORCE IT

by Abbie Jennings

My husband rushed into the room to check on me when I was getting dressed recently.

"Sweetheart—is everything okay?"

"I’m fine! Why do you ask?"

"I was worried because you were talking normally and all of a sudden I heard a sharp intake of breath—I thought you’d hurt yourself."

A sharp intake of breath...Betrayed by the dreaded gut-sucking inhale, a trick I have mastered in order to wedge myself into my ill-fitting clothes. And now my dogged determination to pretend all is hunky dory in my weight-world has been thwarted.

With the dawn of each day, I confidently step out of bed embracing my newly-commenced diet with the zeal of a missionary. Yet as the day progresses, and my determination wanes, the notion of starting the diet tomorrow becomes more and more appealing. I’ve grown used to this pseudo-diet rhythm, the think-I-can ultimately yielding to the don’t-really-wanna. Alas, my clothes are now beyond snug, and much as I’d hoped that just cutting back on what I ate would melt the pounds away, I know deep down in my ample gut that the only way to thin-dom is by abandoning my jaded ways.

I’ve always had a yin yang-ish relationship with food. Intensely connected to food, glorious food. An indulgence of the senses: the texture, the taste, the feel, the sound. Not just nourishment, but so much more. The intangible lure of the nirvana-esque experience of biting into something so transforming that you want to name your first-born child after it. Yet there’s that dark side: food, so determined to make me lumpy, fat and frumpy. So easy to add on layer upon layer of food byproduct (i.e. fat) onto my body. The price for a moment of sheer gastronomic pleasure equals a lifetime of hard work paying penance for my dining sins.

That’s where I find myself in my complicated relationship with food—not caught with my pants down so much as unable to get them up in the first place. In this no-carb, no fat, no flavor, no pleasure world in which we live, I now must weigh—that most unforgiving of verbs—my options. Is it worth the momentary pleasure of a bite of this or that, for the enduring suffering that ultimately accompanies it? Ah, ah, ah, a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips. I’m living proof of that old chestnut (there I go, always thinking food).

I lament the damage done from my intimate relationship with edibles. The closet full of clothes that once looked great on me, now relegated to decorating my hangers. The realization that my sagging willpower—or lack thereof—has left me in a state of excess.

I’m ready to admit that the Momily warnings were true: my metabolism is rapidly slowing down with age, just as every mother warns you. In fact, I fear I may have to forego sustenance entirely lest I’m resigned to wearing duvets, tents or tablecloths for lack of better fitting clothes.

I’ve long wrestled with dueling intent when it comes to body weight. On the one hand, I was raised by my mother to worry about it, taught that how much someone weighs is very important. On the other hand, I also learned early on from my grandmother to love and appreciate food. Conflicting wants and needs irrevocably ingrained and entwined in my psyche. And stubbornly, I want to fight our national predisposition for feminine thinness, for continual denial of food in exchange for having the boyish figure of a teenager. I want to live in a world in which size is irrelevant, that who we are far outweighs how we look.

But overriding that, alas, I also wouldn’t mind fitting into my clothes again.

Okay, so maybe once I re-lose the weight I’ve gained and lost a dozen times in the past fifteen years, I’ll be able to moderate my intake. Occasionally indulge in a celebratory apple or something. But then again, maybe life’s too short to worry so much about it.

Maybe my destiny is to enjoy the here and now, and just get bigger clothes.

Chop Six Nuts, Eat until Full

It’s breakfast time, yet again. Time to figure out what in the hell I can actually eat that might inspire dieting success. Before me on a doll-sized rose-patterned china plate (really a demitasse saucer from Grandma Gigi’s china service) are the following items: two cubes of cheese, one inch by one inch in proportion, a half strip of bacon, and six peanuts, split into halves to go further psychologically. In the accompanying demitasse teacup is exactly one half-cup of homemade chicken stock.

Once William is seated, I too sit down at the table. I lift my fork and knife to my plate in preparation for cutting.

"What the heck is that on your plate? And why is it Lilliputian?"

"It’s my breakfast," I say as I begin to cut my peanuts with a knife. The first nut shoots off my plate, pings William in the eye, then ricochets back up to the end of the table.

"Ouch!"

"Oh, honey, I’m so sorry!"

Who’d have known that a small breakfast could be so treacherous? After checking his eyeball for damage, I reach across the table to salvage my marauding nut; I can’t afford to lose one fifth of my entire breakfast so randomly.

William looks down at the dog, shaking his head. "What do you say, Cognac? I’m betting this diet lasts till oh, about 10:21.
a.m
."

"Ha. Ha. Very funny," I say, trying again to carve my peanuts into smaller pieces, thinking I can extend the duration of this meal just a little bit this way.

"Abbie, don’t torture yourself like this. I love you just the way you are."

I smile, feeling somewhat gratified. I know I’m lucky to have married a guy who likes a little meat on his woman’s bones. "I appreciate your moral support. But really, I’m going to do it this time. This time I’m going to love this diet and stick to it, come hell or high water."

William, whose patience with me is wearing quite thin, I know, rolls his eyes as he wolfs down the pancakes I fixed for him. I’m personally very impressed with my willpower—I didn’t even nibble the dribbled pancake dots that fell onto the griddle as I cooked his breakfast. Normally I could make an entire meal on those alone (drenched in a puddle of warm Vermont maple syrup of course). Well, especially because I rationalize that the pancake drippings that just happen to cook alongside the actual pancakes don’t have calories, since they’re not really pancakes. Right?

But no pancakes for me, since today, I’m trying the South Beach plan. I mean if it worked for Jennifer Anniston, surely it can work for me. Only thing is I’m not exactly following the proscribed South Beach recipe plan. I just can’t bring myself to settle for some of the vile recipes the author passes off as food. I mean, throughout that entire diet, the highlight of it is a "treat" known as Cinnamon Surprise. Would you like to know what Cinnamon Surprise consists of? A piece of whole-wheat toast with a dollop of low-fat cottage cheese, topped with a generous sprinkling of cinnamon. Broiled. Oh, my God, I truly think if I have to resort to spending my days looking forward to my Cinnamon Surprise, that life as I know it is over. Just take me out back and put me out of my misery.

So instead, I’m flying by the seat of my amply-sized pants, and hoping for the best.

William kisses me on the head as he gets up to leave for work. "Well, I hope you have better luck with this than the Alphabet Diet."

I choose to ignore that comment, knowing as I do that the Alphabet Diet wasn’t exactly a home-run for me as far as diets go, and wave goodbye to him as he leaves.

On my way out the door a few minutes later I notice that William left his mobile phone on the kitchen counter. I grab it, figuring I’ll swing it by his office since I’m headed to the gym, which is only a couple of blocks away from there.

The usual morning rush hour chaos is dizzying. I feel quite removed from it, now that I’m not going to my own office on a regular basis. It makes me feel as if I’m playing at being a city girl. It’s almost as if I don’t belong.

I’m about to cross the street from his building when I see none other than William buzzing by on his motorcycle. Only he’s not alone. He’s got a helmeted woman with long dark hair and a short red skirt riding behind him. Not riding behind him on a separate motorcycle, mind you; she’s actually on the back seat of motorcycle. Who is this person? And why does she have her hands around William’s waist and her legs snuggled up behind his? Before I can notice anything more, they zip around a corner and disappear into a parking garage about a block away, leaving me to stand on the street corner in my black (it’s slimming) velour sweatsuit, blinking back tears. Could there be a more public venue to discover your husband with another woman, first thing in the morning, but for smack dab in mid-town Manhattan as a bazillion cars, trucks and taxis crawl by?

I simply cannot believe it’s possible that William could be off cavorting with another woman. That’s just not in his nature. It would be like Cognac taking up with a new owner. I don’t even think a big, fat, juicy, raw steak could lure him away. And trust me, that woman, from what I saw, was serious slab of rare Kobe beef tenderloin, complete with a sauce Bearnaise. And garlic mashed potatoes, with heaping gobs of whipping cream and cream cheese, lightly browned in the oven with pats of butter.

How can I think about food at a time like this!

Worse yet, what am I supposed to do about this?

First things first. I can’t assume the worst. There must be a perfectly reasonable explanation. I think I’ll just go home, get gussied up, and come back to surprise William at lunchtime. That’s what I’ll do. We’ll go have lunch at Angus Amongus, a very manly steak house that has gargantuan bullheads mounted along the walls (it appeals to all those Wall Street types). And we’ll talk over a hearty meal. That will make things better.

As I wander toward a taxi stand, my head lost in despair over what I’ve just witnessed, I smack headlong into a bulldog of a man, someone who looks like he won’t take kindly to strange women wandering into him.

"Watch where you’re going," he growls at me, before I’ve even had a chance to pardon myself.

"Huh?"

"I said watch it, you fat bitch!" I get a good look at his face and he looks like a particularly ugly member of ZZ Top: long tangled beard, eyes covered by a thicket of greasy hair. Dressed like he’s been wearing the same woodsman outfit since rescuing Peter from the wolf in those menacing Russian woods lo, those many years ago.

He looks me up and down and no doubt can tell that I’m in shock that someone would be so ugly to another human being, right here on the streets of Manhattan. For a minute I try to speak but nothing wants to come out. But I’m not about to be intimidated by an oversized ogre of a person, one whose narrow-mindedness is so blatant he has no other conversational launch point.

"Excuse me?" I say, mustering up just a hint of
you talking to me
? into my voice, for authority’s sake.

What I really should say now is "sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me" while sticking out my tongue. But I’m too fired up, and I can’t pass up a chance to shove it back to this idiot. But not before he further insults me.

"Hey, I know you—aren’t you—" he’s pointing at me, snapping his fingers to jog his memory, and dammit, now I know what he’s going to say. "New York Post! Fat food critic! That was
hilarious
!"

He starts to laugh, a deep-down belly laugh that would almost sound funny if his aim wasn’t to humiliate. "And now you’re the one writing about how great it is to be fat. Clearly you know what you’re talking about, Suzie Q."

"My name is not Suzie Q. And let me tell you something, you odious creature," I say to him, ready to poke him in that icky man-boobed chest of his if I must to make my point. "As you stand before me with a pot belly hanging over your soiled blue jeans, a beard that looks a bit too much like the pubic hair on the Jolly Green Giant, a florid whiskey nose that betrays your favorite pastime, and enough teeth missing that they should be pictured on the backs of milk cartons, you’re in no position to be commenting on
my
physical appearance."

The guy looks at me sort of dopey-like. I figure he has no idea what some of those words I used mean.

"Look here, you fat bitch," he repeats himself. I’m mad enough at this man that I’m ready to slug him if need be.

I’m on the verge of tears—I mean who wouldn’t be with a creepy stranger insulting you based purely upon your weight?—when some lovely young man intercedes on my behalf.

"Look, buddy, leave the lady alone," my knight-in-shining-trenchcoat says.

As the creepy man starts to raise his voice above than his simple ugly name-calling, we both realize the offender is as drunk as a skunk. At nine in the morning. Charming. We both turn away from the rancid aroma of stale liquor emanating from his filthy mouth. Finally my savior manages to convince ZZ to leave me alone, I thank him profusely, then flee the confines of that imbroglio and race home.

* * *

I arrive home, a little shaken by the incident. I don’t get why insults about a woman’s body size are considered socially acceptable. Especially coming from someone so skuzzy. As repugnant as his appearance was, I’d never have commented to him about it out of the blue like that. I shake it off and walk over to my desk.

I glance down at my computer and notice I have a bunch more e-mails, forwarded by Mortie. More fan mail! Who’d have thought? It’s like receiving a love letter. Just what I need after what I just experienced. A quick perusal and I see that solidarity for us bigger girls is a cause that’s needed a celeb. Sure, there was Camryn Manheim. Rosie O’Donnell. Oh, even that other Rosie, from that sitcom. But then she had all that fat sucked out of her, the cheater. Well, if I become the default spokesperson for the chubettos of the world, so be it. I’m up to the task. But now, I’ve got more pressing matters to attend to.

I rip apart my closet searching for something flattering. I’m starting to realize flattering and flabby do not go hand in hand terribly readily. At least not in my case. All I’ve got available is camo: a closet full of chubby chick camo. Chic chubby chick camo.
She sells seashells down by the seashore
. I’m losing it. I’m freaking losing it.

I wedge into my Flexees, which don’t quite seem to need a shoehorn as much as when I last donned them. This could be modest progress. Despite my stress-binging. Maybe I have something modest to celebrate! That is if my husband was just giving a damsel in distress a ride, and not zipping around with a surprise mistress.

Christ, Abbie. Listen to yourself. Obsessing about how you look. Come on, girl. Take pride in your accomplishments. To hell with superficiality such as physical dimensions. Yeah, right. That’s all fine and good till the next caustic remark from some vulgar stranger picks open that scab of embarrassment.

As I paint the finishing touches on my make-up, the doorbell rings.

I run downstairs amidst the dog’s barking frenzy, and open the door to find
me
. Well, more like a skinny me. Only it’s not me. It’s someone who looks damned similar though.

"Can I help you?"

The woman reaches her hand out to me. "Jane Greer. We’ve, er, met before, actually." I cock my head and squint at her like she’s a little crazy and is babbling in tongues.

"We’ve met?"

"Yes, yes. Only not formally. And it’s been years. Many years, in fact. I believe we share something very important to me. And I would hope somewhat important to you, as well."

I’m hesitant to ask this woman to come into my home, because she’s spooking me. But she looks normal enough. That is, assuming
I
look normal enough on any given day. I hate to admit it, but "I" look much better in the thin version of me.

"I’m sorry, but I’m a bit confused about what you’re getting at."

"I believe you’re my half sister."

I freeze in place, trying to process what she’s just said, and she keeps on speaking.

"My maiden name is Cartwright."

I feel as if space aliens have invaded my home. Like standing before me is a scary green Martian who is going to suck my brain out of my head. Damn, I wish Martians would suck the fat out of my body instead. That I wouldn’t mind so much.

I am feeling a little faint, so without words, I motion for her to follow me into the living room, where I sprawl out on the sofa. Which, yes, gasps under my weight yet again. Where’s my fainting chair when I need it? Jane Greer sits down on the edge of a cranberry red overstuffed chair across from me, teetering on the edge of the seat, her hands propped atop her legs, which are politely clasped together, her ankles touching. I notice that her chair doesn’t even breathe a gentle sigh when she sits in it.

"How in the world did you find me?"

From her purse she extracts and unfolds a creased copy of the now-infamous New York Post picture, tapping across my gaping blow-job mouth with her Jersey-girl red French-tipped acrylic fingernail.

Is this ghost gonna haunt me the rest of my days? And what is up with those nails? Why don’t they paint the bottom half of their fingernails as well?

"My father saw this. He told me you worked at the Sentinel. He’s been bellyaching for ages about trying to talk to you, but now the doctors are extremely worried about his health, so I finally decided to just go down to the paper to find you before it was too late."