My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [14]
Stacey suggests, “Try not to sleep on the plane because that’ll wreak havoc on you later when you try to go to bed in the hotel.”
I snort. “Pfft, I never sleep on the plane. I have to be awake and using my mind power to keep it in the air.”
“I . . . see.” Stacey hesitates for a second because it’s clear she does not see. Gamely, she presses on. “Your best bet is to not drink on the plane because you’re already going to be dehydrated, and flying’s going to make it worse. Probably mess with your circadian rhythms, too. Oh, and be as comfortable as you can—maybe wear yoga pants and a hoodie.”
“No, no, I have to drink or I get too nervous. Also, whenever I fly, I try to wear a black Lacoste shirt. I find they best mask Bloody Mary spills.”
“Of course . . . I’m curious, though—the drinking doesn’t interfere with your, um, what is it you said, mind power?”
I shake my head. “I steer the plane better drunk.”
Stacey clears her throat and quickly switches topics. “What are you going to wear to your events?”
“Hopefully it’ll be warm and I can wear my standard summer uniform of black or khaki shorts and a pastel polo shirt. But what do I do if it’s cold?” I wonder.
“Maybe you could bring a little trench?”
“If I wore a trench over shorts, I’d look like a flasher.”
“Then bring some capris.”
“I want to wear my shorts so everyone can see that I have nice calf muscles.”
Stacey tries hard to not sigh. “Um, fine, then why don’t you pack a cute jean jacket?”
“Sure . . . I could do that. Of course I’d have to go back to 1985 to get one. Bah! BAH HA HA HA HA!”
Stacey waits for me to finish. When she thinks I’m done, she continues. “Ahem, right. Then how about—”
I start howling with laughter again. “BAH HA HA HA! 1985! HA!”
“Maybe you could—”
“HA! JEAN JACKET! GET IT? NO ONE’S WORN ONE SINCE 1985! GET IT? HA HA HA!!”
Stacey gives my brilliant humor a small nod and then tries to move on, unsuccessfully. “So . . .”
“HA! HAA!! 1985! I’D BETTER PACK EVERYTHING IN MY TRAVELPRO TIME MACHINE! HA!!”
After five full minutes of side-clenching laughter—all of it exclusively on my part—I finally compose myself and meet Stacey’s gaze. I notice her pinched lips and lowered brow. “Wait, this is why no one ever wants to help me with anything, isn’t it?”
I buy a bunch of cute Empire-waist sundresses and matching cardigans so that whole wardrobe thing is now under control. Plus, I go to Stacey’s luggage store and find a great bag. I’m vaguely disappointed that it’s black, so I pick up a fluorescent pink-and-green luggage tag to add a touch of my personality.
Also? I find a jean jacket. When I put it on, it reminds me of the one I used to love but then abandoned back in 1985 after learning too late that one does not wear a jean jacket to a sorority rush.
And FYI, the Kappas can suck it if they don’t like it because it looks hot.
“Stop holding out on me!” Barbie shouts.
“I’m not!” I grunt.
“You can keep going!”
“Pretty sure (gasp) I can’t.”
“Breathe!” Breathe? She wants me to breathe? My lungs feel like I’m trying to suck a bowling ball through a garden hose. Trust me, if I could draw breath right now, I would.
I’m at the gym getting in my second-to-last workout with my personal trainer before I leave to go on tour next week.
I wrote the book because I figured the best way to shake off all my baby (back rib) weight was to challenge myself to write about the process.25 Somewhere between the Atkins and Zone diets, I accidentally stumbled upon what’s been at the root of my weight problem—my refusal to behave like an adult. By mocking the birthday cake Nazis at Weight Watchers and quietly selecting/competing against various nemeses at the gym, I inadvertently began to grow up, improving my well-being in the process.
Even though I’m not yet thin, I’m healthier both physically and spiritually. 26
Unfortunately, all my effort will be for naught if Barbie kills me on this goddamned treadmill.
For our final session, Barbie decides we’re going to do yoga. Ugh. Yoga. I’ve done this before and