Fat Chance

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“But?”

“…something’s missing.”

Then I walked in, my head on her body, wearing the same bikini. He was mesmerized…. Okay, so I’ll never look like Jolie, but after two weeks, I’ve already lost ten pounds.

But then I wake up in a sweat, sheets tangled around me. I am sick. So sick. Along with the weight, I’m losing my grounding.

If it isn’t bad enough that I’m involved in an underground makeover, the phone rings and it’s a call from a local gourmet store that asked me many months ago if I would help them taste-test a new line of pasta sauces from a famed Italian importer. Who was I to say no, especially since the free-lance change would help pay for the maintenance surcharge that my East-side co-op had just tacked on to cover waterproofing the aging bricks.

But now, who needs this? As if it weren’t hard enough to resist temptation, I now have to deal with a team of white-clad Italian chefs who walk in promptly at eleven o’clock on the dot, bearing steaming pans of penne, rigatoni, linguini and farfalle, each covered with a mound of rich sauce. Instantly, the air is perfumed with the scents of garlic, onion, sun-dried tomatoes and olives, and my “friends” from the news department, who have noses as keen as bomb-sniffing dogs, come flocking to my door, ready to pounce.

Tex, who is usually glued to the computer screen, leads the parade, working hard to pretend that he’s surprised to find food.

“Hey, what’s this?” he says, acting like it’s the first time he’s come upon Italian food.

“Pasta,” I answer dryly. “You know the starchy stuff they serve in Italian restaurants?”

“You wouldn’t happen to have an extra bowl for a man who’s had nothing the entire day except bacon and eggs for breakfast and a meager muffin and coffee, over an hour ago, would you?” he says, ignoring my sarcasm, and trying to get on my good side by coming up behind me and massaging my shoulders. I’m tempted to close my eyes and promise him anything if he continues since it’s been so long since I had a pair of hands working on me, but I snap to.

“It’s barely eleven-thirty, Tex.”

“Exactly my point,” he says, sliding the bowl out of my hand. “My blood-sugar level’s starting to go south.” He lifts a giant forkful to his mouth and tastes.

“Definitely respectable, if you don’t count the fact that it really needs a little more garlic and maybe some dill,” he says, continuing to eat.

“But that’s not stopping you.”

He shakes his head and continues. “Not terrible. About equal to Ragu. Not close to Rao’s.”

How would I know? I haven’t had a forkful yet. “If you’re going to eat my portion, you might as well fill out the questionnaire,” I say.

“I’d love to, sugar, but I’ve got a mountain of work waiting for me,” he says. “I just came by looking for a stapler.” He waves a piece of paper in the air as if that explains it. Tex starts to leave and then comes back and hands me the bowl. He pivots only to face a stack of garlic bread. In a nanosecond, his hand clamps down over a piece.

Tamara stares at him, saying nothing.

“Now this is good,” Tex says, reaching for a second. As he turns, Larry makes his entrance and they nearly collide.

“I knew I wasn’t crazy. I knew that I smelled garlic.” He laughs hysterically. “How ’bout sharing the wealth?”

Tamara looks at me and shakes her head. “Are we running a soup kitchen here?”

“What?” Larry says, holding his hands out helplessly. “We’re helping Maggie.”

“Do you think you could find room in your heart to leave just a little behind so that I can get just a forkful and fill out the survey that they’re paying me thousands of dollars to complete?” I ask.

“Nobody can judge food after just one tasting,” Tex says. “Tell them to bring a new round of plates over the course of the next few days,” he says, trying to wipe a red spaghetti stain from the front of his shirt that resembles blood oozing from a chest wound.

“I think you’d better get back to Metro,” I say softly. “I just heard that the stock market took a nosedive and the Dow slid to a record-low level.”

Tex and Larry look at each other, drop their plates and go running out of my office.

“Is that true?” Tamara says after they’re gone.

“So, I heard wrong,” I say, helping myself to just a strand of spaghetti with each of the different sauces.

I fill out the survey, and then, don’t ask me how, put the leftovers out into the newsroom, then write my column as the sharks attack.

Diet Foods: High in Calories, Low in Taste

America’s obsession with losing weight is to blame for the food industry’s outpouring of “low-fat” and “no-fat” versions of virtually all the foods we love: low and no-fat ice cream, yogurt, cookies, pudding, whipped cream, mayo, cream cheese, cottage cheese, milk, cake, chips, and my—ugh—favorite, fat-free salad dressings that are gluey-tasting syrups made up basically of sugar.

The truth is: Not only doesn’t the low-fat stuff taste good, it’s finally being unmasked for the fraud that it is. The idea behind low-fat foods is that they’re supposed to save you fat and calories, make you healthier and help you lose weight.

The truth is: America is getting fatter because of low-fat products. Guilt-free goodies, people think, give them license to eat more, and eat with impunity.

The truth is: Not only don’t low-fat and no-fat NOT mean low in calories, these poor imitations are often HIGHER in calories than the original, because they have added amounts of sugar in an attempt to mask flavor that is lost when fat is reduced.

When I go to the grocery story, I look for food-food. What does that mean? The real McCoy. Plain butter. Not air pumped. Plain milk. Not the kind where the fat is removed. Nothing added. Nothing taken away. Nothing genetically engineered. Do I have to buy a farm? Raise my own animals? Grow my own crops? It may come to that. Stay tuned.

It’s almost become a routine now. Every month or so, Bill Wharton takes me to lunch. Very simply, I’m his cash cow, and his goal in life is to keep the paper a success, something he’s done for over twenty years by vigilantly watching the bottom line. The Daily Record is having a banner fourth quarter, and Bill is particularly proud of “Fat Chance.” But also, he likes me. Somewhere in that enlarged, underexercised heart of his, he has a soft spot for my loud mouth and pleasing plumpness, I think, not to mention my irreverent wit and occasionally off-color jokes. He’s got five boys, and, well, you get the picture.

Of course, not all of Wharton’s innovations at the paper are as successful as the column. The style section’s recent cover stories make him wonder if he’s getting too old for all this stuff.

“Cross-dressing birthday parties; Upper East Siders who color-scheme their homes to coordinate with their dog’s fur; and hair stylists who are buzz-cutting customers’ astrological signs onto the backs of their heads. The editor is a moron,” he hisses. “But I’ll keep mum and give her more rope to hang herself before I pounce and obliterate her authority.” He gulps down some Maalox and scratches his head.

“I used to have a handle on the news, a gut feeling about what was fresh,” he said, one day over an osso bucco lunch at Carmine’s. “Now that part of the job is in the hands of a bunch of kids who think that Charlotte Russe was a star of film noir.”

So why, on this day, a full week after he called me, did I still not return his phone call?

“The fourth-quarter numbers look great,” his message said. “Your column continues to be a smash, why don’t we break out some champagne over lunch, restaurant of your choice.”

In hindsight, I now realize what a mistake it was to ignore him. Just as Tamara and I were—for the tenth time—cranking up the volume of our nauseating fitness tape, we saw the door of my office open and who should stand before us, a horrified look on his face, but old Wharton. Shit. Double shit. And what did I do? Wave. He closed the door as quietly as he opened it.

Next thing I know, a messenger is delivering a Bailey’s Irish cream cheesecake, to me, from, guess who? That was followed by a voice-mail message—“When your dancing fever subsides, call your publisher about lunch.”

“Tex might be on to you,” Tamara tells me after lunch one day.

This is not a particularly welcome development. “What did he say?”

I get the whole conversation verbatim.

“Something’s up with Maggie,” Tamara says he told her one day while she was sitting with him and Larry. “But I don’t know what.”

“I looked at him straight-faced,” Tamara says. “I asked him what he meant.”

“She hasn’t been herself lately.”

“Probably something you said.”

“Can’t think of anything,” Tex says, “but yeah, it doesn’t take a lot to get women pissed. Once at a party, I got a drink for myself, but forgot to get my date one.” He nods his head, as if remembering. “I walk back to her and she says, ‘Didn’t it ever occur to you that I might want something to drink?’ I said, ‘I didn’t think you wanted one,’ then she pushes right past me and says, ‘Right, you didn’t think.’”

Then Larry chimes in. “Great material, we should write a screenplay. Once, I bought a gift for a woman. This black lace nightgown, great, sexy, I couldn’t wait to see her in it.” He shakes his head. “How was I supposed to know she wasn’t an extralarge?”

“Observant, aren’t you, Larry?” I say. Tex laughs.

“So she takes it back for a small and finds out that it was the last one and came off the clearance rack.” Larry looks down at his drink and mixes it with his finger and then licks his finger. “So she says, ‘The one thing I hate is men who are cheap and stupid!’ So I said, ‘That’s two things.’”

Tex nods his head. “Yeah, the old one-two punch.” His voice trails off. “I think there’s some basic resentment of the opposite sex. It bobs along the surface until one day, propelled by some deep seismic forces, it explodes in your face.”

“PMS,” Larry says.

“No, that’s not it with Maggie. She’s just distant…less eager to eat out. She’s even starting to look different.”

“Different?” I say. “What do you mean by different?”

“I’m enjoying baiting him, Maggie. He is so unbelievably dense sometimes.”

“I’m not sure,” Tex says, as though he’s afraid to divulge what he’s thinking.

So Larry pipes up.

“Better,” he said. “Maybe she’s on a diet.”

“Nah, impossible,” Tex says. “Not old trencher woman Maggie. She never diets or takes off for spas like some of the women I know.” He shakes his head. “She doesn’t think about things like that. That’s the great thing about her.”

“Absolutely right,” I say. “You guys read her stuff. Maggie doesn’t diet.”

“Take her out for ribs,” Larry says. “See what’s up.”

“I looked at them both, trying hard to keep from laughing,” Tamara says. “If these two geniuses were directing the investigative reporting at the paper, then the Times, the Daily News and the Post could rest assured that they had nothing to fear.”

six

FedEx 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.”