I’ve always wished that I was someone who really didn’t care what I looked like, but I do. And yet, even though I end up caring about it almost more than absolutely anything, it takes way more than a lot to get me to do anything about it. So, wide bottom line, I would rather stay in my house, unnoticed and ashamed, than go out and subject other people to having to think of something nice to say to me like, “I like your shirt.” Or, “You look so… healthy!” Rather than hearing someone I respected until that moment lie to my fat face and say, “Wow, you’re looking good!” and rather than subject us all to hidden painful social experiences like this, I remained behind closed doors.
Now, I’ve always heard that one of the most important things in life is to be comfortable in one’s own skin. Well, I may have unconsciously come to the not illogical conclusion that the more skin you have, the more comfort you’ll feel! Presumably you’ve heard of making a mountain out of a molehill? Well, that once fussy molehill was now this eternally black-clad mountain. And, if my alleged resemblance to Elton John turns out to be a problem for anyone out there, all I can really say (politely and in a sing-song voice) is “blow my big bovine, tiny dancer cock!” Or you could just skip the whole thing—your choice.
Anyway, I finally reached the point where nothing in my closet fit other than a few socks, some hats, and a scarf. Ultimately it might just as well have been an entire other human’s closet. Basically, I was drifting closer and closer to that point of no return where one has to buy two seats on an airplane and/or their families are forced to bury them in grand pianos.
But come the fuck on, how many women do you know who are over forty-five, or over fifty—and don’t get me started on over fifty-five—how many women of this ever-advancing age do you know who are effortlessly lean and impishly lithe? Oh sure, I’d be thin, too, if I starved myself and spent a tragically huge portion of the day jogging and/or hurling myself ever forward, drenched in sweat and downward dogging my sunrise salutations, before moving on to Pilates sessions filled with far-from-free weights. Sure, if I did all that, it would be virtually impossible to not resemble a busty clothespin. But to be a feast for an army of snacking eyes requires devoting enormous chunks of your time to denying yourself on the one hand and forcing yourself on the other.
There’s a breed of women in Hollywood who wander among us looking very tense and very mad. Of course they’re angry. Who wouldn’t be enraged about having to ensure you’re looking an age you haven’t been in a generation? Regarding the concept of letting yourself go, shouldn’t we be able to at some point? Of course, whether or not we should be able is moot. There are two choices post forty-five: letting ourselves go or making ourselves sit like good, well-groomed, obliging pets, coats smooth and wrinkle-free, stomachs flat, muscles taut, teeth clean, hair dyed, nails manicured—everything just so. The thing is, though, not only is this completely unnatural, requiring warehouses full of self-control and perseverance, but it demands a level of discomfort you have to be willing to live with ’til death by lap band or liposuction. Until then, everyone marvels at how almost completely unengaged you look! It’s spooky. You look like a teenager! To the point where I kind of want to ground you. “Go to your room! Because I said so. And no dinner!”
People spend oceans of time ensuring that they are camera ready at all times. They glide through this unofficial American-Idolized world aching to impress the very judgmental audience that we move among, inspiring them to say, “No! I don’t believe it! You can’t be. I could have sworn you were sisters! You must tell me your secret! Please!” Because given a choice between youth and beauty or age and wisdom, I’ll let you guess which one most of us would opt for. Take all the time you need. I’ll wait here…
Then, just when I’d almost resigned myself to living out my remaining years as Betty the fat girl, my unexpected ship came in, the S.S. Jenny Craig.
I mean, is this an amazing planet or what? There I am, ginormously minding my own business—show, monkey, and otherwise—when where should I suddenly find myself but right up there in lights on none other than Jenny Craig’s list!
That’s right. I am getting paid to do something I ought to have done years and years and pounds and pounds ago.
Now, before you think, Sure, just because she’s a celebrity she gets all the breaks while all the noncelebrity…
Hang on. Before you go any further, don’t forget—not only do I win the wacky Jenny Craig lottery, I’m also a bipolar recovering addict who woke up next to a dead friend after getting left for a man—these and a few other such shrink-employing events could be seen, from a certain vantage point, to kind of balance out the Jenny eat-less luck fest.
Of course the Jenny Craig folks are always on the lookout for giantly fat celebrities to go on their program and prove how easy and effective it is. And I was humiliated—being the poster girl for enormousness is not something any kid grows up aspiring to.
And though much of this makes me a whore of giant proportions, I also wouldn’t be a whore with just any John. See, I’m not that good a liar. I mean, there’s a lot of other things I could do for money. I could sell autographed ECT machines or rhinestoned mood stabilizers or even Star Wars scented laxatives. But do I do that? Do I do a commercial on television to (attempt to) sell a medication while running around some random backyard with some rented golden retriever laughing and looking cured and totally amazed to be so worry-free while a voice comes on and says, “Reginol is not recommended for wayward fish or Libras with dementia. If you notice swelling in your femur or notice a subtle beam of backlight glowing northward from your anus or the anus of someone you went to school with, call your doctor immediately as this could be a symptom of hydrocephalus that could lead to roughhousing and misguided bloat. Reginol is not recommended for pregnant Nazis or yodelers over seventy. Reginol does not protect you from unpopularity or autism…”
All I’m ultimately saying is, how great is it that I’ve been paid handsomely to get healthy and weigh what people have to weigh to be pretty? Or pretty thin. In any event, this is a fuckin’ awesome confluence of debt reduction and cutting my swollen self down to social life size.
Craig is great,
Craig is good,
Thank you for this portion-appropriate food. A-men!
And by “men” I mean the four or five that might look at me again in a few Jennified months. And when I say look, I don’t just mean in amazement at my vague resemblance to a space princess from the silent screen era, but because I look good for my age, and maybe even for the age I was a year or two ago.
The Senator
What else was I going to tell you? Oh, yeah! About the time I went on a blind date with a senator from Connecticut. (No, sorry, it wasn’t Joe Lieberman.)