Bitter Is the New Black: Confessions of a Condescending, Egomaniacal, Self-Centered Smart-Ass, Or, Why You Should Never Carry a Prada Bag to the Unemployment Office : A Memoir (22 page)

I quickly assess myself in the hall mirror before walking out the door. My honey caramel highlights are magnificent as always, and I have the remnants of summer freckles still sprinkled across my nose. Too cute. I’m ravishing in an all-black Ralph Lauren Capri pant and cotton sweater ensemble. Yes, it’s plus-sized but I’m sure with the hair, jewelry, and Chanel bag, the size of my ass is barely noticeable.
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I appraise myself long and hard and conclude that, caboose be damned, I
am
fabulous. I grab a Twix for the road and I’m off.

I saddle up the Caddy and ride .6 miles to the expressway…and get stuck for an hour and fifteen minutes. Since I don’t commute anymore, I completely forgot about Friday afternoon traffic. Dammit, I should have know this was going to happen. Why did I even agree to this stupid errand? I put James’ “Laid” on the CD player and listen to it at full blast in an attempt to soothe my traffic-addled nerves.
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I finally get to a point where I can turn off the expressway. Because I’m such a savvy Chicago girl, I’ll just take a short cut and beat the rest of the traffic to McCormick. HA! Look at all the lemming tourists going the long way! Suckers!

Note to self: NEVER, EVER, EVER attempt to take a shortcut on the way to McCormick Place.

OK, picture a bunch of bombed-out storefronts, garbage-strewn roadways, and sad-looking people drinking brown liquid out of brown paper bags while assessing Carbohydrate Barbie FREAKING THE HELL OUT in her deluxe sedan, and you’ll get an accurate snapshot of the last half hour of my life.
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As stopping for directions was NOT an option, I did the only thing I knew how—I turned my fear into anger and I blamed the whole situation on other people.
Stupid Pete. Why couldn’t he run the Boston marathon? Stupid Carol. By all rights she should hate me by now. Why did she have to keep liking me? Stupid Fletch. How does he always know how to make me feel guilty? I should be watching Hildy staple kittens to a home owner’s wall right about now, not driving around the world’s scariest neighborhood. Stupid Mayor Daley. Why didn’t he post signs saying that clueless ex–sorority girls should not be cruising around in luxury cars through the Robert Taylor projects, like, ever?

I purposefully blew every light hoping the cops would notice and thus escort me out, but no luck.
Stupid police.
Somehow I made it to the convention center in one piece, although I cannot speak of the various traffic laws I violated to do so.

Anyway, here’s an interesting fact about the convention center. It’s big.

Awfully big.

Like a million square feet of exhibit space big.

As I walk the 1.2 miles from the parking garage to the main hallway, I curse Carol’s name a little more. Had I realized it was so far, I wouldn’t have worn such strappy shoes. With each step I take, the buckle embeds itself deeper into my skin. As I hobble along, I decide people-watching will take my mind off the pain.
Hmm…ugly…ugly…scrawny…ooh, lotta ear hair on that one…ugly…Chic jeans—ha! 1984 called and they want their pants back…blech, it’s cologne after shower, not instead of, sir…boring…wow, that person has amazing calf muscles…hmm, so does that one…nice mullet, jackass…yikes, it’s called
rhinoplasty,
look into it…too skinny…too skinny…ma’am, seriously, eat a sandwich or something, you’re WAY too thin
….

There are a lot of really toned people jogging past me. That’s kind of weird—am I late? I consult my Coach Tank watch and see that we have another whole hour, so why is everyone rushing? More people with whippet-slim waists careen by. Funny because Chicago isn’t really a “skinny” city, and that’s why I like it here. So what if I’ve put on a few
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pounds since I got laid off? An extra layer of fat is exactly what a gal needs to get through those chilly Chicago winters. A bit of excess weight is practically a necessity—it’s like I’m more evolved than these lollipop heads.

A group of girls with six-pack abs whizz by me so fast I almost get dragged along in their tailwind.
C’mon, ladies. Bulimia is going to ruin your teeth. Who cares how trim you are if you’ve got a mouthful of rotting canines and molars? And, God, look at that girl in the spandex shorts—she has thighs like a baby giraffe.
Self-consciously, I place hand on my own thigh. Definitely not baby giraffe material. The closer I get to the main hallway, the denser the crowd grows. There are six-packs and perfectly toned calves everywhere I look. Gah, what’s with these people? Why are they all so tall and thin??

All of a sudden it hits me…. This is a health and fitness fair…
AND I AM THE ONLY FAT PERSON HERE.

I break into a cold sweat, as it dawns on me that everyone else in this building is planning to run 26.2 miles on Sunday…which means these people never perspire while eating dinner. Or have to stop for a breather when climbing the stairs. They use their exercise bikes for exercise and not just to dry hand-knit sweaters and—HOLY CRAP!—they’re looking at me wondering
how on earth I’m going to compete in this race
!

At this moment, I realize all the Chanel handbags in the world aren’t going to camouflage the simple reality that I am grossly out of shape. This is SO much worse than being the only non–porn star at my hotel during my wedding. How am I supposed to lord myself over a bunch of clean-living fitness nuts? Impossible! These are the kind of people who think whole milk is a sin against nature and would rather DIE than put half-and-half on their Count Chocula.
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All I want to do is get the hell out of here, but if I don’t claim Pete’s chip, he can’t race and that’s six months of training down the drain. Plus there’s a discrepancy in the Big Book of Favors, so I force myself to press on.

Though normally superconfident, I am not prepared for the judgmental stares of the ultrafit. They don’t know me and have no idea of my prowess in the boardroom. They’re unfamiliar with my shoe collection and unaware that I live in the Dot-Com Palace. And they didn’t notice me pulling up in the Caddy. All they can see is how much space I occupy.

With each step I take, I feel cellulite blossoming on my arms, my stomach, and my calves.
Stop it!
I think my chin just multiplied and my thighs inflated.
No! Deflate! Deflate!
And I’m pretty sure I can see my own ass out of the corner of my eye.
Gah! Cut it out!!
Am I imagining things, or do my footsteps sound like those of the giant who stomped though the city in the beginning of
Underdog
?
And how did I go from aging-but-still-kind-of-hot ex–sorority girl to horrific, stompy cartoon monster in less than an hour?

My sleek and sexy python sandals have morphed into cloven hooves by the time I reach the line for the race packet. While I wait, the air is abuzz with tales of other marathons while many sets of eyes cut in my direction. Eventually an asshat in a
JUST DO IT
T-shirt asks me, “How’s
your
training going?”

“Great. I find carb-loading Big Macs and Hershey bars right before the race really helps me achieve my personal best,” I reply. And awkward silence falls over the group while they stare down at their hundred dollar running shoes.

“You guys understand I’m kidding, right? I’m just picking up the packet for a friend,” I add. They break out into relieved (and highly insulting) laughter. “Yes, haw, haw, haw, aren’t all fat people funny?” I snap. I whip out a Dior compact and aggressively powder my nose. The line grows silent. We continue to shuffle forward and eventually I get to the counter. I hand over my redemption brochure, and the spry old man in a high-tech track suit does a double-take when he sees me.

With much trepidation, he inquires, “This isn’t for you, is it?”

“Do I look like Peter Kohrs?” I tersely reply. “Let me assure you, I got suckered into this errand and will
not
be running this weekend. So you can take the EMS unit off of speed dial, Jack LaLanne.”

The fact I don’t choke him when he mutters, “Thank heavens,” is a testament to my remarkable self-restraint.
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I haul my ponderous bulk to the next station and try to make sure no small children topple in my wake. The wide-eyed stares at my midsection are making my self-consciousness almost unbearable. I want to shout at the top of my lungs,
“The average American woman is size fourteen! Jim Fixx died while jogging! You wish you had hair like this! And sometimes I eat salad for dinner!”
but I don’t for fear of drawing any additional attention.

When I get to the place where I have to activate the microchip, another misguided do-gooder tries to warn me about the health risks of overexertion. I politely thank him
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and move on to the main part of the fair, where I have to redeem the stupid T-shirt voucher.

And thus I enter the belly of the beast.

As I descend into the depths of the fair, I see not a few dozen fit people, not a couple hundred, but multiple thousands of sinewy hard bodies. I doubt anyone’s body fat percentage here is above 5 percent. I can’t help but notice all the beady eyes that narrow as I descend the escalator. Of course, the runners are all zooming down the adjacent stairs, so it’s just me on the machine, floating down like a Ralph Lauren–designed Goodyear blimp.

When Lara Flynn Boyle’s evil twin remarks to a wafer-thin friend, “I thought this was a
fitness
fair, not Lane Bryant,” I reach my breaking point. I whip around to face her.

“Listen, you anorexic bitch, how
dare
you make fun of me for being chunky? I’d think you’d be happy that a porky chick is running against you. I mean, you’re a competitive person, right? Shouldn’t you be
glad
to race someone you can beat? And where exactly is the great love and camaraderie that runners are supposed to have for each other? Or does that only apply to the thin and cute participants? Shouldn’t all those endorphins in your system make you happy to the point that you wouldn’t attack a total stranger? And you know what? If our plane crashed in the Andes? You’d
wish
I was there because I guarantee you that all this extra fat would make me ABSOLUTELY DELICIOUS,” I hiss approximately three inches from her face. I find when being confrontational you’re a lot scarier up close and quiet than loud and distant.

She and her friend sprint away from me while I shout, “Maybe if you run that fast on Sunday, you’ll win! Good luck!”

At this point, every single person on the south end of the exhibit hall is watching me. So I pull the Twix bar out of my bag and begin to masticate loudly and obnoxiously. I do an exaggerated waddle up to the T-shirt area and see the lines are broken down by size. I wave a chocolate-coated hand at the volunteer and shout in a faux–New York accent, “Yo, yuh, you, little girlie. You got dese shirts in triple XLs? Gotta make sure it covers all my beauty-ful curves.” Karen Carpenter II meekly raises an emaciated finger in the direction of the biggest shirts and I’m off.
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I shove the rest of the candy bar in my mouth, lick my chops noisily, and wipe my chocolaty paw on the Studebaker also known as my ass. I announce, “Damn. Them Twixes aahh tasty!” to the New Balance–clad Ally McBeal behind me. “Hey, I need me a smoke wicked bad. You got a light?” I ask her.

She’s beyond appalled. “Smoking is not allowed in the convention center. And furthermore, it’s very bad for you.”

“So’s Jack Daniel’s shooters and my boyfriend Snake, but that don’t mean it ain’t fun!” I reply, punctuating the statement with a resounding smack on my own butt and a quick pelvic thrust.

The look on her gaunt little face is priceless.

Dignity
and
T-shirt redeemed, I exit.
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I’m so glad to be away from the health and fitness Nazis that I don’t even mind the next hour on the expressway.

Because in the Big Book of Favors, Carol and I are now even.

Now that Fletch has his days free, we have plenty of time to take Maisy and Loki to the park. Chicago is a dog-friendly city, and there are tons of specific areas that are double-gated and completely enclosed so dogs can run to their hearts’ content. The parks have low doggie drinking fountains, benches for their owners, and gratis poop bags.
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Our dogs adore jaunts to the park because they can get the kind of exercise their fat primary caregiver can’t give them. I tried to run with them a couple of times but with them clotheslining my legs with their leashes and stopping short to sniff and causing me to tumble over them, and my own exertion-based stabbing chest pains, I figured it was too dangerous.

The best part about the doggie park is the interaction. Even for someone like me who has a hard time being friendly, it’s easy to break the ice—all you have to do is talk about your dogs! I’ve met a ton of interesting people at Walsh Park, and we’ve totally bonded.

Blending seamlessly with the cool, tattooed, band-having, this-is-just-my-day-job professional dog walkers are ex–marketing gurus, unemployed MBAs, and laid-off project managers. It’s an eclectic mix of people, but we seem to mesh. When someone new joins our group, we always ask, “What did you used to do for a living?” For a while we even had a Tuesday Afternoon Drinking Club—exactly what it sounds like—but finding us shit-faced at four p.m. annoyed too many of our respective employed significant others and band members. Going to the park has been like group therapy for me, and the only downside is all the doody touching.

Lately Fletch and I have taken the dogs to Churchill Park—it’s brand-new and right around the corner from our loft. I still prefer Walsh Park, but it’s a half hour walk,
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and the dogs are just as happy.