Slim to None Read online

  I nod my head as if in complete agreement. "Barry, you’ve obviously mistaken me for someone who cares. Now if you’ll leave me to my work?"

  "Geeze, Abbie. No need to be a spoilsport about things. I can’t help it you’ve gone over the tipping point. I’m just glad I was here to pick up the pieces."

  I wad up a ball of paper and whip it at his face. "Tip this, Newman."

  Finally he leaves and I count to ten. Then I count to ten again. And again. I think I get to about 988 before I can breathe without fear of a panic attack (or a need for a bite of something). I decide to channel my anger into my writing. I’m sure somewhere someone has said that writing can be therapy. And if food can’t be my therapy, then something’s gotta be.

  Neurotic Obsessive or Quixotic Realist?

  OrYou Can’t Fight City Hall, Especially if YouCan’t Fit Through the Doorway

  Once again, I caved. I couldn’t sustain my dieting nature for twelve measly waking hours. My food compulsion got the best of me, despite myself. So perhaps rather than fighting my nature, I should accept it. Sort of embrace my inner cow.

  You know, I wrestle with this fat versus thin concept pretty much all day and all night. Not that I’m fixated or anything, but it is a bit of an obsession. I mean, how can it not be? If you’re one of those thin-by-nature people, well, you’ll never understand. But if you’re like me—and I know there are lots of us out there—-then you know with practically every commercial on TV (except maybe for the cellphone ads), every magazine at the grocery store with a scrumptious dessert on its cover, even songs like that one by Train where they’re talking about fried chicken—food is everywhere.

  And for me, merely thinking about food practically makes me gain weight, so at some point I just have to give up sweating about it and give in to the siren call. Ride the horse in the direction it’s going. Play the ball where the monkey drops it, as my friend Jess likes to say.

  So I decided to make a list, to bolster my psyche about this embracing-you-inner-cow movement. After all, there must be legitimate pluses to being a bit overweight. So just to get off on the right foot, here are some advantages to toting around some excess poundage:

  A FEW GOOD REASONS FOR BEING A LITTLE BIT FAT

  1. Your outie becomes an innie with that extra pooch of fat on your stomach

  2. Blubber provides greater ease in floating (any whale or polar bear will tell you that!)

  3. Extra weight keeps your fat clothes from collecting dust

  4. Leaves you better prepared for famine

  5. Keeps you warm during those cold winter months

  6. Makes you better-appreciate being thin

  7. Much easier to pierce your navel with a bit of gut to grab onto

  8. Fatter face means you look younger (those hollow gaunt faces betray ones age)

  9. You learn the limitations to elastic’s ability to hold things in

  10. Greater cushioning for a fall

  11. Bigger bod = bigger boobs

  12. More padding for riding bicycles

  13. Gives you a good excuse to avoid the pool during peak crowded hours

  14. Built for comfort, not speed

  15. Eliminates having to debate whether to say that bogus obligatory phrase "oh, no, I couldn’t, I’m too full" when the waitress asks if you want dessert

  16. Fluffy is an affectionate term of endearment

  17. You have a blues song named after you (Fat Bottom Girls)

  18. Your stomach makes a comfy pillow for your child

  19. Polar bears are cute, and polar bears are fat, therefore fat is cute

  20. In Africa, your voluminous size would indicate wealth and stature in society, so somewhere out there it’s good to be fat

  21. Living fat=living large, literally

  Of course, because of the continual weight-related ying-yang with which I wrestle, I had to torture myself with these following truths as well.

  SURE SIGNS THAT YOU HAVE OVERRIDING WEIGHT ISSUES

  1. You view food poisoning as a positive thing because of the accompanying (though inevitably brief) weight loss

  2. Your first reaction when you find out that you have to have any sort of -ectomy (appendectomy, hysterectomy, kidney-ectomy) is one of good cheer—the loss of an organ at least means a few pounds down on the scale

  3. A little part of you secretly hates your best friend for losing two dress sizes

  4. You start to strategize how to approach stepping on the scale in order to soften the psychological blow of seeing the registered poundage

  5. You figure that eating ice cream out of the carton means the calories don’t count

  6. You enviously view liposuction as a Hollywood trade secret

  7. You catch sight of your reflection and assume it’s someone else, because you couldn’t be that big

  8. You look longingly at pictures of a younger you, wishing you were that thin (even though at that time you’d looked longingly at pictures of a still younger you, wishing you were that thin (even though at that time you’d looked longingly at pictures of a still even younger you, wishing you were that thin (you get my drift; it’s kind of like seeing yourself in a mirrored room—you become increasingly distant and smaller in the infinite reflections)

  9. The idea of wearing horizontal stripes is as foreign to you as the notion of sticking to a diet

  10. You spy a picture of Kate Hudson in a pair of Levi’s and either a) tape it to your refrigerator as incentive not to eat, or b) say a little prayer that she gets really, really fat with her next pregnancy and stays fat afterward

  11. You welcome the idea of travel in a third-world country, knowing that you’ll at least lose weight because you aren’t keen on eating cat or dog, and as an added bonus might even contract a parasite which would mean dramatic weight loss

  12. You cling desperately to the theory that your extra pounds are merely "muscle weight" from all that exercising you’ve been doing

  13. You map out your strategy before arriving at your doctor’s appointment to avoid having to step on the scale for the nurse

  14. The saccharine strains of Barbra Streisand singing "The Way We Were" drift through your mind as you drive past Baskin-Robbins whenever you’re on a diet

  15. Most milestones of your life are accompanied by the thought, "Oh, I was thin then," or "Yeah, that’s when I was really fat."

  16. Your definition of brave is tucking in your shirt

  17. Your wardrobe is limited to varying shades of black (after all, black is slimming)

  18. You’ve given up on control top, because after a while, why bother?

  19. You’re starting to look like Bea Arthur during her Maude days, wearing long duster jackets that conceal your fat ass

  20. Strangers in the grocery store pat your burgeoning tummy and ask you when your baby is due

  21. You refuse to consider purchasing new underwear, even if the elastic is disintegrated in yours, because the indignity of seeing your dimpled flesh strain through those delicate fabrics in a dressing room mirror is too damned demoralizing

  22. Upon seeing home movies you silently reflect wistfully at how beautiful and slender you looked just hours before delivering your last child.

  23. The phrase "such a pretty face" makes you want to slug someone

  24. You’ve lost significant amounts of weight for two or more of the following life events: high school graduation, college graduation, family reunions, new boyfriend, your wedding, wedding of anyone at which people who haven’t seen you in a while may be in attendance, high school reunion, college reunion (if only you could have advance warning for funerals)

  25. Your family photographs are starting to have a lot of you with your hand blocking the camera lens when it’s pointed in your direction

  26. You envy those Indian women who get to wear saris...Nothing clinging about those outfits

  I am of two minds when it comes to weight and dieting. The s
tubborn part of me wants to reject our cultural obsession with thin, which requires a complete denial of all things indulgent. I want to say—and truly believe—that life’s too short to worry about size and shape. That the pleasurable sensory quest of food is worth the downside that accompanies it.

  But then the other side of me knows that I’m far happier if I’m thinner and look good in my clothes. I even take better care of myself when I’m thinner—I wear make-up every day, even paint my nails, I don’t schlep around in oversized sweatshirts and sneakers.

  But still I wonder if Dr. Atkins had any regrets about spending his entire adult life passing on the banana splits. On his deathbed, was he satisfied that life was over and he had deprived himself of a lifetime of yummy food?

  I’ll end the chapter with this freakish thought I had last week, after not splurging all day: "Hey, I did good today. All I had for breakfast was two small bites of a low-carb bar." That was the extent of my gustatory pleasure while enduring my last low-carb diet. Life truly is too short for that, isn’t it?

  * * *

  William has been awfully quiet since my gut-spilling episode, and his silence makes everything seem a bit off. Like when you pour the shampoo into your left hand instead of your right hand and begin to lather up, and it just feels wrong. In fact he’s been spending an awful lot of time at work, I suspect being a typical man, off in his cave mulling things over. And perhaps the lack of him contrasted by my near omnipresence at home draws particular attention to the situation. The silence is downright distracting. It’s enough to make me lose my appetite. Well, not quite. I fear it would take an act of Biblical proportion for that to occur.

  Since I’ve got so much more time on my hands, I’ve decided to start taking over some of the dog walking duties. This is something that has always been William’s job, since Cognac is so powerful and easily distracted into making a break for it the minute he sees something interesting ahead. Up until now I’ve assumed my rotator cuff wasn’t up to the task. I guess we’ll soon see. I might as well walk the dog, now that I only write one measly column a week, which I can knock out in about ten minutes flat. Thank goodness, because then I don’t have to hang out at the office and feel inferior. A girl can only take so much of watching Barry jaunt off to his three-martini lunches on the expense account. The one I so closely guarded (and coveted).

  I figure while I take Cognac for his constitutional, I’ll divert by way of George and bring him something to eat. I throw together a box lunch with curried chicken salad, couscous and red lentils from the fridge.

  I call for the dog, who comes running the minute he sees the leash being taken out of the coat closet. He sits patiently, his enthusiastic tail sweeping the floor, his loving brown gaze fixed on mine, a cuddly teddy bear of a dog, not expecting a thing from me. It’s so refreshing. Someone—make that something—that doesn’t want me to lose weight or have babies or pretend I give a shit about this, that or the other. I suppose this is what they call unconditional love. Or maybe he just wants a doggy biscuit. Which is fine, because if nothing else, I’m all about satisfying hunger.

  "Come on, boy, let’s start this walk off on the right foot, with a yummy treat." I toss him a slice of organic dehydrated yam, which isn’t exactly the pig’s hoof he’d probably choose, but it’s way better on his breath.

  We head up the street at a brisk pace and after about ten minutes I realize that this effort somehow approximates exercise. I’m actually sweating. Who knew taking the dog to go potty was like walking on a treadmill. Minus the swarm of beautiful people around whom I feel inferior to the extreme.

  I’d completely forgotten that William and I used to walk Cognac together all the time, when he was a puppy. It was our quiet time, really. After being gone all day at our respective jobs, we’d come home, walk the dog, return back and fix dinner. It was lovely, really. I wonder what happened to those days. Why did we stop with our daily ritual?

  Because I got too busy with work. And I had openings to attend. Restaurants to review. Long, belabored dinners that William found to be tedious and bled one into the other. That’s why. Because of me.

  Things were so much easier when we were young and traveling around Europe, picking up odd jobs wherever possible. Working as dishwashers at Michelin-starred restaurants in the French countryside, watching, learning, absorbing. And if we were lucky, dining on the scraps of others’ indulgences. Geeze. That sounds a lot like George. Dining on the scraps of others’ indulgences...Not so different, really. By choice, in fact. Exactly like George.

  Ahhh, those were the days. Nothing but us and that crazy Italian scooter that carried us across the continent and back. Back when I could fit on an Italian scooter without blowing the shock absorbers or busting the tires. I think we had a total of four outfits between us that we stowed in a tiny knapsack along with our toothbrushes. Simple. Keep it simple, stupid.

  I start to think about the phrase, less is more. Less is more. It’s so true, on so man levels. Less is more. More simply complicates things, causes misunderstandings, resentment, bitterness. I mean, look at us. When we had next to nothing was when we were happiest. Once we added in high-powered jobs, crazy schedules, a fancy home, all of that, then it got crazy. In a bad way. How does one strike a balance between nothing and too much?

  And if less is more in life, would the same hold true that less is more with food? Could I be totally satisfied with eating far less? Have I simply lost my perspective? Less means not filled. Can I be happy not being full? Is this different than being unfulfilled? Is that what it is—that I somehow have created a situation whereby I need to be fulfilled? And if so, then why?

  Lost in thought, I barely notice that Cognac has begun to tug hard on the leash and he’s got me up to a trot. I am so not trotting material. He recognizes George before I do, apparently. Only George is sitting with someone at the bench. I squint to get a better look. I’ll be darned. It’s a woman. A very attractive older woman.

  I try to lay low and observe, in case George needs his space, but Cognac won’t grant me that courtesy and instead tugs me along till I’m front and center before George and a lovely, very classy-looking woman with a shoulder-length silver bob and inviting blue eyes. She’s got on a pair of black suede Tod’s driving shoes and crisply-pressed khakis. Her white button-down is tucked neatly into her waist, which is concealed with a smart belt (which she probably needs, unlike me). A scarf is wrapped snugly around her neck the way the French know how to do so well. I swear I’ve seen this woman before on a Dove soap commercial.

  "Abbie!" George greets me like a long-lost friend.

  The woman’s eyes track me head to toe and I can’t help but feel a little bit interrogated just with her mistrusting gaze.

  I reach out with my little care package. "I brought you a little something. It’s not much."

  George takes the food and then elaborates. "Abbie, this is my wife, Sally. Sally, Abbie keeps me dining like a king."

  Sally arches her eyebrow with suspicion. I reach out my hand to shake it. She hesitates before extending her own. The diamond on her finger could be Plymouth Rock, it’s so enormous. "Pleased to meet you. I was so happy to learn that George has such a lovely family."

  She glares at George for a long, cool minute, clearly in a mental wrestling match about whether to discuss their lives with me present.

  "Hmph. George was never one to go for your run-of-the-mill cliché midlife crisis. He couldn’t have just gotten a sports car—"

  "I already had the sports car," he interjects. "Two, in fact. You’re just lucky I didn’t go for the mistress."

  Crossing her arms tightly to her chest, she rolls her eyes at him so hard I think she might cause ocular damage.

  "As if one would want you."

  It’s George’s turn to glare now. I feel like I should’ve brought along a missile interceptor or something, what with the
bombs being lobbed left and right near me.

  "Besides, Dr. Saravio said you need to self-actualize more."

  "What do you call this? I’m self-actualizing as we speak. I’ve just not self-actualized myself back to Pound Ridge."

  "I guess you aren’t quite done punishing me."

  "If I can interrupt for just a second, I’ll be going now," I poke my hand up to interject. "I just wanted to drop off this meal. Buon appetito!" I wave with cupped hand and turn to leave.

  "Aww, Abbie. I’m sorry! I guess you can see why me and the missus are in therapy."

  Sally looks embarrassed. Because they’re fighting in public? Or that I officially know they’re in therapy.

  "No, no, really, it’s fine," I insist.

  "It most definitely is not fine," Sally says. She has a look on her face like she’s scheming—like a teenager who’s figured out how to sneak out even though he’s been grounded. She drums her fingers atop her still-crossed arms. "Wherever are our manners, George? I think we ought to invite your lovely friend to our home for dinner to make up for our rudeness."

  "She’s the food critic for the New York Sentinel," he says. "I don’t think that Gretl’s cooking is enough of a lure to bring her all the way up to Pound Ridge, frankly."

  Gretl? They’ve got the little girl from the Sound of Music cooking meals for them? They really must be rich.

  "Correction—was the food critic for the New York Sentinel," I say, holding my hands up in surrender. "On indefinite hiatus."

  Sally taps her fingernail to her mouth on her tooth in thought, then holds up her pointer finger in her light bulb moment (which seem to be contagious lately). "So that’s how I recognize you. The New York Post!" Now she’s pointing straight at me, interrogation-style.

  I shrink back, humiliated.

  "What’s wrong with them? You’re the best darned critic they’ve had in years. Makes a hell of a trout amandine, too." He winks at me.