6. CONTACT 2
To: lucypattybrennan@hardass.com
From: julie@jillianmichaels.com
Subject: I Know It’s a Long Shot, But. .
Dear Lucy,
On behalf of Jillian Michaels, I’d like to thank you for your email. Unfortunately, due to the volume of correspondence we receive, it’s impossible for Jillian to answer personal inquiries, such as your own.
Thank you for your interest.
Best wishes,
Julie Truscott
To: lucypattybrennan@hardass.com
From: michelleparish@lifeparishioners.com
Subject: So Good To Hear From You!
Dear Lucy,
Nice to hear from you so soon!
It was lovely to meet you at my presentation in Miami, just too bad that there wasn’t much time to talk as such tours tend to be whistlestop! Your heroism is really inspiring to lots of people!
I’m so glad my comments about diet books resonated. Let me make it clear I wasn’t dismissing low-calorie, or even low-carb diets. They obviously have their place, but only as part of an integrated and balanced program. I’m afraid I have absolutely no tolerance whatsoever for the “quick fix” merchants. On that note, you should really insist to your clients that they do Morning Pages. It does yield quite revolutionary results.
Thank you for your kind words. Yes, it can be rather daunting being thrown into the media spotlight, as I can testify with my own experience on Shed That Gut! I find that when you deal with certain people you really have to keep your cards close to your chest. You can usually see exactly where they’re coming from. You’re a smart cookie, so I’m sure you’ll be able to figure them out!
Congratulations again on your success!
All the best,
Michelle Parish
7. VILLAIN
WE’RE PRACTICALLY ALL transplants in Miami Beach. Natives are thin on the ground in this town. The guys you can tell; they strut proudly in their home city baseball caps and football tees. Just don’t expect to actually see them back in Cleveland or Pittsburg anytime soon. Chicks? Well, I’m not above wearing my Red Sox cap on the odd occasion; at least it tells you where I’m from. You see an asshole in a FUCKING YANKEES cap, they’re as likely to be from England or France or shit like that.
Lena Sorenson. 5’2", 203 lbs. Should be one-twenty. That means she is carrying an extra eighty-odd pounds of fat. It’s on her gut, her ass, her thighs, and, most of all, that ugly strap around her face and chin. Like she’s stuck her head into a pink-colored tire.
I have to admit I’m surprised she’s back. Welcome to phat beach, fat beetch. If only we were at my friend Emilio’s spot at the Miami Mixed Martial Arts gym. I’d come on like a ghetto sergeant major and tell the corpulent hoe what she needed to hear: eat less, eat better, and get off your fat little ass. But I doubt she’d be seen dead in Emilio’s place; Mexicans are meant to sweat alone in your garden, not side by side with you in a gym. And despite her having the classic low-self-esteem fat-slob’s fashion sense, I suspect there’s some wealth here. But we’re at Bodysculpt; if I speak my mind and a client complains, my tenure will be over, even given the relationship I have with Jon. So it’s a lopsided grin, and a cheerful, — Well, we got a little work to get you back in shape, Mrs. Sorenson, and I check her reaction to my assumption of her marital status, but her expression stays glazed, — but the good news is you already made the biggest step by walking through that door.
That’s what the lardass wants to hear. They want to believe that it’s all easy from here on in. That it can literally be done in their sleep. Because heaven forbid that they interrupt sitting in front of the TV, rising only to refrigerator-raid and pack shit into their sneaky, blubbery mouths. They don’t wanna get up before ten, eleven. Perish the thought that any diet and exercise regime should impinge on those basic American freedoms. And I’m sorry, Michelle Parish, you hot-assed little visionary, but what they do not need is more procrastination by sitting on those blubbery butts writing Morning fucking Pages. — It’s not Mrs., it’s Mi. . Lena. . please, call me Lena.
— Right, I smile. You GET Lena, THEN I will call you Lena, bitch. — So let’s just get you on this treadmill, Ms. Sorenson. . sorry, Lena. . I smile, as she steps on and I set the speed to 5 mph, — . . a nice even pace. . there. . how’s that? It quickly racks up to the mark and soon Sorenson is pounding along, sweating like a skulking schoolyard pervert.
— I. . I. .
— Too much! Surely not?
I’m met by the face of the fat moaner: the apologist, the self-pitying, poor-me quitter. — It’s. . really. . fast. .
I hate those stupid expressions more than anything. The bloated dumbass oil tanker, where you search for light in those eyes; the frightened child looking for Momma’s sweet treats to make it all better; the belligerent asshole who wants to kill themself and really doesn’t know why they’re here. It doesn’t matter which of those archetypes show up, I just wanna punch out every time-wasting bum I see wearing one of those goddamn insults to humanity.
As her meaty thighs wobble in those yoga pants, Sorenson’s face blooms florid. — I like to give my clients a goal, Lena. One more specific than just weight loss. A half-marathon, 10k, 5k, it don’t really matter.
— I. . I couldn’t. . I just. . cooo. . Sorenson’s heavy legs clatter on the accelerating rubber belt.
— Don’t wanna hear that word, those words; couldn’t, can’t, shouldn’t! You have to stand up. You have to come forward!
Sorenson cringes under the violating impact of my words, but she doesn’t stop. Her terror-stricken pout tells me she’s not exactly full of grace, but she’s doing. I burn her this way for a solid forty-five minutes, bringing her to reasonable jogging speed, then back to walking, then jogging again. At the end of it she’s glowing like a red-hot ember. Sweaty and exhausted as she climbs off the treadmill, Sorenson finds herself unable, for once in her life, to open her fat mouth to take in anything but the sweet air she’s forcing into her puny lungs. — You did well today, I signal her to follow me into the office, and she wobbles behind me, still gasping. — But remember that exercise is only one component to this. I’m giving you a diet sheet, and I swipe one from a stack on my desk. Push it into her grasping paw. As Sorenson looks at it, I watch her face subside.
I grab a card from the rack. — Call me if you start to get cravings for shit over the weekend, and trust me, you will.
Sorenson’s face tells me she’s got them already. — You’re really. . professional and dedicated, she gulps, fear sparking in her eyes.
— I’m serious about you losing weight. . Lena, so you need to be too. It isn’t easy, especially at the start. So phone me if you feel yourself going off the rails. We are fighting an addiction to crappy eating habits as well as poor exercise ones, I explain, thinking of Michelle’s wise words. — We are looking at the whole picture. You didn’t put this weight on in one day, and it won’t come off in one day.
— I know. . it makes sense.
— Good. It’s important we’re on the same page here. So, tell me about you. What do you do for a living?
— I’m. . Sorenson hesitates, — . . sort of an artist.