Conversations With the Fat Girl (24 page)

invitees. She recommends I send everyone a bulk "Save the Date" e-mail.

It's ironic that the three women who celebrated her shower a couple of

weeks ago know more about the actual event than I do. I read on. She

thanks me for her birthday gift, which arrived two days early. I sprang

for a spa package for her in Las Vegas so she could have some time to

herself during the big bridal-shower weekend. I got her a hot bath in

rose-scented water with a scalp massage, followed by a Vichy shower

where she will be rubbed down with coconut and other tropical oils. Our

birthdays are only days apart. Over the years, Olivia has showered me

with embarrassing gifts like dancing Candy Grams, Ferraris rented for

the day, and a weekend at the famous San Ysidro Ranch outside Santa

Barbara. When it comes to my birthday, Olivia goes all out. Even as our

friendship waned over the last few years, Olivia has never dropped the

ball when it came to my birthday.

I scroll back up to her list of shower invitees. Gwen is at the top of

the list, of course. I hate that we are communicating via e-mail. I

would love for her invitation to get lost in the mail. Now it would just

be me lying about getting her e-mail address wrong. Where's the drama in

that?

Olivia gives me a full bio on each of the remaining three girls.

Panchali Nagra runs an art gallery in Georgetown. She mentions that

Panchali lives with her husband and their dog,

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Luciano, in an apartment they've renovated over the gallery. She also

mentions offhandedly that she competes in triathlons around the world.

Yeah, there's someone I can relate to. Hannah Ratner is a corporate

lawyer for one of the top firms in the nation. She is single. That's all

on Hannah Ratner. She is single. I guess that's enough said. Then

there's Shawna Moss, a girl who's famous for having bowls of M&M's in

her office, which is dangerously close to Olivia's office at the PR

firm. Of course, Olivia goes on a three-paragraph tirade about how

Shawna just wants to get her fat. Or anyone to get fat-for Shawna is,

and I'll quote Olivia here, "an anorexic bitch who won't let her narrow

ass get past a size 0." There's a true friend. I can just see the toast

now at the rehearsal dinner: "Hi, I'm Shawna Moss and I'm trying to get

everyone fat because I'm an anorexic bitch who won't let anyone get

skinnier than my narrow ass." And . . . cue applause.

I reply to Olivia confirming the "Save the Date" e-mail. I go over some

of the details I've arranged for her shower in Las Vegas. Olivia and I

will meet for a martini before the festivities begin. I e-mail her that

we should meet at the Caramel Bar in the Bellagio, where they have a

whole menu of specialty martinis. I am looking forward to spending an

afternoon with just Olivia. Then I really think about it. What will the

new Olivia and Maggie have to talk about? How many times can we

fantasize about different people from high school stumbling onto her

wedding and being asked to leave (rather loudly and with much fuss)? Is

this it? I will try to resurrect our friendship in Las Vegas. I will set

aside all of my thoughts of Adam and his teensy hands. I will set aside

all of my insecurities and just focus on us.

That night, I put together and send the "Save the Date" bridal-shower

e-mail to Olivia's list of friends. I try to sound as mellow and fun as

possible:

200 194Liza Palmer

Viva, Las Vegas!

gain us at the Bellagio to celebrate

Olivia's impending

That sounds too frightening. The nuptials are impending so the hospital

must quarantine those already exposed. Just think breezy

Viva Las Vegas We're, partying like it's 1999

Woop Woop!

No.

I finally put together a basic list of the weekend's activities in a

neutral format. It's sterile and could be construed by some as breezy. I

can't help but look forward to the coming weeks. I know about the

elephant in the living room. And I know that Olivia and I are fine china

no longer fit to eat upon. But we have to have something to show for our

years together. We have been like sisters through some of the hardest

times in our lives-how can it all now be for naught?

201

Seabiscuit and The Corner

I 'd like to think that all this introspection and digging would have

prizes at the end. Find out you eat because you're lonely-get a trip to

Paris. Find out your best friend is a walking leftover from a lost

childhood-get a nice Crock-Pot. Realize you've run from men because the

fear of rejection or commitment scares the shit out of you-take home a

nice dining room set. But you don't get prizes. You get pain and an

inordinately heavy feeling that you've failed in absolutely every way

Gee, I wonder why more people don't try it?

This is the day I've been dreading my whole life. The day I dress my ass

up in "workout" clothes and walk myself into a gym. I imagine shrieks of

horror. I imagine small children being shielded from my hideousness by

their parents. Just your basic pointing and laughing.

Mom meets me out in front of the gym. She looks perfect. Her little pink

sweat suit is accented with black piping, and she is carrying a matching

shoulder holster with a perfectly chilled bottle of water. I, on the

other hand, have on pajama bottoms

202 196Liza Palmer

and an oversize men's white V-neck T-shirt. I am wearing a pink-and-gray

pair of Pumas, and my hair is up in a ponytail.

Mom and I approach the counter. She announces we are here to see Gabriel

James. "We have an appointment," Mom says, tapping her diamond Rolex

Lady President watch on the counter. The Rolex was an Arbor Day present

from Russell. The girl behind the counter, momentarily blinded by the

diamonds, regains her composure and announces over the intercom that

Gabriel is wanted at the front desk.

To my horror, Gabriel James is a strapping young lad. No more than

twenty-two or twenty-three years old. Internationally good looking, with

a swagger equaled only by celluloid cowboys and the aging male movie

stars who play them. He is way over six feet tall, dwarfing me. I doubt

he can even see my poor, tiny mother from where he stands. His cocoa

skin is flawless and only emphasizes his light green eyes. He wears

Adidas workout pants and a T-shirt advertising some fraternity's big

all-alcohol summer blowout festival jamboree. This is the man who's

going to train me? This is the man to whom I'm going to tell my deepest,

darkest secrets? This is the man who is going to take on my Area? I

think not.

"Howdy, ladies." Gabriel extends his paw to my mother and then to me.

Mom is endearing and funny. She compliments him on his green eyes and

says she knows we're now in the best of hands. I grunt something like,

"Area . . . big . . . fatty . . . you . . pretty .....Gabriel takes my

hand and tells me it's a pleasure while looking right in my eyes. He

asks us to follow him "on back" to his office. I nod. Mom bats her

eyelashes.

He leads us around the gym like a couple of toddlers, showing us the

water fountain and saying hi to virtually everyone he passes. He knows

all of their names and exactly what to talk to

203 Conversations with the Fat Girl197

them about. With this one, it's the Dodgers. This one, it's the

stock market. This one, he talks about landscaping and carpools. He is

absolutely intoxicating. I loathe him.

He takes Mom and me into a back office filled with diplomas and framed

photos. There's Gabriel in a race car. Now he's

on a bike in the hills. Now he's standing next to a great white

shark, which he has apparently just caught. I sit in one of the chairs

and pull at my shirt. Mom settles in and takes a swig of her water.

Gabriel starts in with his spiel about health and exercise. He talks

about the epidemic that's sweeping the nation-cue scary

music-obesity. He says it as if it's some kind of modern-day leprosy. I

sit there a full-blown victim of such a disease. I feel a

tad vulnerable and even more untouchable. He goes on about metabolism

and keeping the fire burning by eating six times a

day. My ears perk up. He talks about almonds, avocados, and giving up

dairy. It still sounds okay: I've never been a dairy fan.

And eating six times a day sounds promising. He passes us two little

journals across his desk.

"These are your food diaries." Gabriel flips open a file and starts

jotting something down. He is left-handed.

"We have to write down what our food is feeling?" I ask.

"No .....Gabriel is laughing. His teeth are perfect. "This is where you

write down what foods you are eating and at what times."

"Why?" I ask.

"A little accountability. So I can see That you're putting in your body

during the week," Gabriel says,

"How long do we have to do that?" I ask. "Until I tell you to stop,"

Gabriel says,

"Oh, okay," I say. Fucking megalomaniac.

Mom schedules Monday and Friday mornings for both of

204 198Liza Palmer

us. We are responsible for fitting in "cardio" four or five times per

week. We'll start with thirty minutes per day. I am growing excited.

Gabriel never uses words that have to do with emotions or failure. It's

science to him. I have this tiny glint of hope for the first time in my

life. But then right after the hope, I cringe with fear. Hope is a scary

thing.

Gabriel leads us out into the gym and asks us to warm up on the

treadmill. He is a die-hard gentleman who always insists I go first. I

am uneasy walking in front of him. I imagine he's staring at my girth in

all its glory, so I walk quickly and give Mom a flat tire in the

process. She whips around and tells me to "back it up." I feel trapped

and hot. Gabriel puts his big paw out and steadies me.

I get on the treadmill and immediately get winded. My legs feel heavy,

and they are rubbing together at such an alarming rate that I believe

there will soon be a small fire between them. There is a ponytailed girl

next to me running at the pace of a young colt in a Virginia pasture.

Effortless and graceful. Her ponytail flips in syncopation with her

perfect gait. She even smiles at me at one point-her face glowing with

sweat, her eyes clear and bright. I thought girls like that in a gym

were supposed to act snobby and point and laugh. But the only one here

who looks like she might do that is me. Gabriel comes over now and again

and checks our progress. Mom is just as winded as I am, so he slows her

treadmill down. I feel a little better about myself. Then he slows me

down, too. Seabiscuit next to me makes a disappointed face-I fight the

temptation to snatch her bald-headed.

After what feels like five hours-really seven minutes and twenty-seven

seconds-he leads us to our first machine. It is a bench-press setup

right in front of a wall of mirrors. I am having flashbacks of my

nightmare. You lie back on this bench and he

205 Conversations with the Fat Girl199

helps you raise and lower a bar with weights. This is supposed to help

your chest. The last glimpse I get of myself lying down reminds me of a

shot that might come from a home video camera in the birthing room. All

that's missing is a pair of stirrups and a crowning baby

"Go ahead and give me seven more, Maggie. Gooood, and three, two, and

ten more." I almost drop the bar. Gabriel's voice is melodic, like an

X-ray technician or a doctor as he says, "Relax, this won't hurt a bit."

"Wait. You said seven more and then you went all the way back up to

ten," I say, raising and lowering the bar.

"You didn't look tired," Gabriel says while he leans on the bar itself.

The weight I have to lift has now doubled.

"Wait-what? Well, now you're just leaning on it!" I am horrified.

"Okay, good. Now give me three more." Now I know that Gabriel is a big,

fat leaning-on-the-bar liar. As far as I know, I could be here all

night. I do seven more and he finally hooks the bar back into the notch

on the equipment.

Mom is next. She does approximately five total. The whole time she looks

like she's in complete pain. Gabriel doesn't lean on the bar at all and

even passes my mother her perfect little water bottle when she's done.

As she's getting up from the bench, my mother winks at me. The bitch.