Didn't I Feed You Yesterday__ A Mother's Guide to Sanity in Stilettos - Laura Bennett [46]
I WAS RECENTLY HIRED BY THE PHARMACEUTICAL GIANT Glaxo-SmithKline to design dresses for two women who had won a competition to lose weight by using a new diet pill the company had developed. I took part in the presentation of the dresses and a press conference. When the event was over, the executives invited me to dinner. I spent the meal buttonholing executives about the diet-pill potential of their other product, Nicorette.
“Oh, did you start chewing it to stop smoking?” one suit asked.
“No way,” I said. “Smoking’s for losers. I chew because nicotine keeps me sane.” I went on to regale them with my thoughts on the product, about how when I put a piece of that gum in my mouth, and I feel that spicy taste running down my throat, a feeling of calm comes over me and all is right with the world. The fact that my mouth is busy chewing gum and not rabbiting popcorn or nibbling Triscuits is an added benefit in that it cuts some calories out of my day. I was willing to admit that I am so addicted that I get nervous when my supplies are low, so I have hidden gum all over the house and in random purses for emergency situations. I even have a friend who “holds” a blister pack for me, she is so worried about my mental state should I find myself without a fix.
“Really,” I said, “I love it so much, I act like a pusher, constantly offering it to other people.” By this time, I noticed that a few of the suits had left the table and the ones who remained were eyeing me skeptically, but with a small glint in their eyes. I have been waiting for the spokesmodel call ever since, and believe me, if you are out there, Mr. Nicotine Suit, I am your girl.
ANOTHER WAY I TRY TO CONTAIN MY BUTT IS BY RUNNING. IF I TRY TO tell you that I exercise for my health, don’t believe me.
“Why don’t you just join the YMCA?” Peter asked me one night as I peeled yet another layer of Lycra off my body.
“Old people go to the Y,” I shot back.
“They have an indoor running track,” he said.
Well, it was love at first sight. If I have to exercise, I would rather not suffer. Climate control is the way to go. I don’t have to worry about freezing winter or steaming summer days. The track is small—an eighth of a mile—so I tend to feel like Hamster in his wheel, but after about fifteen minutes I zone into my endorphin high and don’t really notice. I can spend a full hour just going in circles, passing the same old guy with his walker at least fifty times. If that doesn’t make you feel good about yourself, what will? Sometimes, just to unwind, I will sit myself on an exercise bike alongside a woman with an oxygen mask, her personal video screen tuned to The Price Is Right. She’s my inspiration. She’s always there on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and I feel that she would be discouraged if I didn’t show up as well.
Of course, dieting is partly an attempt to retain or regain a youthful appearance, which is why the majority of liposuction is performed on women over forty. One day as I was viewing my backside for the billionth time in the mirror, I flirted with the idea. I pictured my body facedown on an operating table. Naked. Concentric circles marking zones of imperfection drawn over my butt and thighs. Anonymous men in surgical gear discussing whether to have sushi or subs for lunch. Nurses quietly judging me for being so damn shallow, but happy to get a paycheck on the fifteenth and thirtieth of every month. A long rod slides violently in and out of my flesh, pulling lumps of bright yellow fat into a tube and then a plastic Ziploc bag, to be deposited God knows where on the planet. Then there are the weeks of healing, oozing sores connected to yet more tubes that you have to measure and empty every few hours. Gack.
I am not sure who the woman is who would