Such a Pretty Fat-One Narcissist's Quest to Discover if Her Life Makes Her Ass Look Big, or Why Pie Is Not the Answer by Jen Lancaster

Author:Jen Lancaster
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Non-Fiction, Biography, Humour
ISBN: 9780451223890
Publisher: NAL Trade
Published: 2008-05-06T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Reaching Critical (M)ass

“Did anyone ever die from nerves? I might be dying. Do you think I’m dying?”

“Um … probably?”

“Wrong answer!” I swat Fletch on the arm. He’s seated at the computer, and I pace back and forth behind him, scowling at myself in the big mirror on the wall. Every article of clothing I own is currently piled up on the bed, and the dogs are cowering in the bathroom because they don’t understand why the Feeder is suddenly all shout-y. “Nothing! I have nothing!”

“Why didn’t you buy some clothes when you went shopping with Angie and Carol?”

“Like I’m going on TV in a shirt I got for a nickel? Riiight.” Bright Lights, Big Ass comes out tomorrow, and my publicist booked me on a local news segment in the morning. Earlier today I was all freaked out because there was confusion and the show thought I was coming to talk about dating in the city. Dating? Moi? The last time I dated was in 1994, and I managed to snare Fletch by saying the words guaranteed to drive all men wild:

“There’s gin at my house!”

All day I panicked about going on TV to waggle a bottle of Tanqueray.

Fortunately, we got it straightened out and now I’m having stress-kittens over my appearance. I’m down almost ten pounds, but the camera’s going to put those right back on me. I should be bouncing off the walls with excitement over Mary Ann scoring such a coup, because I’ve wanted to be on TV my whole life. And I’m mentally prepared, as I’ve practiced interviewing myself in the bathroom mirror for years. Yet I can’t get past the thought of my blubber being broadcast across the Greater Chicago area. I’m proud to have claimed a spot on the show without having done something spectacularly stupid—always a possibility—but my elaborate bathroom broadcast fantasies never entailed me wearing a girdle.

I’m so mad at myself—I’ve known for a year I’d have a bunch of events in May; why didn’t I try harder sooner? Why didn’t I do crunches all those times I parked myself in front of Idol and Veronica Mars and Lost? If I couldn’t get to the gym, why didn’t I just take the dogs out for vigorous strolls? Why did I let myself “celebrate” with cake, wine, and Whoppers whenever I went off my diet?103And why is it that anytime something good or bad happens, I gravitate toward anything fried, breaded, or con queso? I’d be much better off if I trained myself to celebrate or lament with an apple.

Generally I’m pretty happy with how I look, and there are only a handful of instances over the course of a year where I actively wish I were thinner. Tomorrow is one of those days. I’d kill for some sort of drug that would give me the illusion of being a size eight for a few hours. Like, I’d take it, and poof! Ten percent body fat! The weight would come back once I ate or drank something, and that’s totally fair.

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