unsound, but lowers blood pressure); the U.S. Senate Diet (no promise of a Congressional seat); The Prudent Man’s Diet, by Norman Jolliffe M.D. (became the basis for the Weight Watcher’s diet); Live Longer Now by Nathan Pritikin (tough to follow); The Amazing Diet Secret of a Desperate Housewife (you don’t want to know); The Paul Michael Weight Loss Plan (“If your intake of carbohydrates is low, some of the fat will pass right through your system without being broken down and stored in adipose tissue”—“Pure nonsense,” said Consumer Guide magazine); and on and on, up to and including prestigious tomes of today such as Eat, Cheat, and Melt the Fat Away, and The Zone.
Tamara can leave any diet bigwig on the mat with her grasp of diet lore, but all for naught. None of the regimens work for long, and the proof hangs limply in her closet. Dresses starting at size 12, barreling out to 18. Yo-yo couture.
A copy editor pokes his head into the office, jarring me from my thoughts. “You sure the fat doctor you mentioned is affiliated with Yale?”
“Let me check.”
I press Play on the VCR and am about to fast-forward it, but I freeze. What’s wrong with this picture? Instead of a medical conference, the screen explodes with an odd menagerie of Great Danes, goats and horses jumping, panting, pushing, heaving, whining and neighing in the midst of sexual delirium.
“WHAT IN THE WORLD?” I pop out the tape: Mammals Mating.
Barsky—that animal!
I peer into the newsroom to make sure Alan Barsky is there, then grab the Yellow Pages and phone a West Village sex boutique. For the next hour, I monitor the newsroom until I see a delivery man hauling a carton in his direction. The bold black typeface reads: CONDOMS FOR SMALL PECKERS: ONE GROSS. Over the hush of the newsroom, a single voice rings out.
“WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?”
I ring his extension and at the sound of his voice, I sing the Marvin Gaye song “Let’s Get It On.”
Time to get serious, and I turn back to my work. I make a note to do a column on the down side of exercise—in rats, anyway. Science News reported that rats who were forced to run on treadmills had lower antibody levels than the ones free to run at will. Of course. Can’t trick the old immune system. If exercise makes you miserable, you might get thinner, but your killer cells pay the price.
Another column I’m sketching out looks at the pressures of dieting on women as a form of oppression. By starving, they put themselves at a distinct disadvantage to their energetic, burger-and-fry-packin’ male counterparts in the workplace. In effect, dieting is political suicide. It not only reduces women’s stamina, but also leaves them handicapped because they crave satisfaction.
That hits close to home. After living under the tyranny of a diet binge, I once walked into a chocolate shop and bought a giant replica of the Statue of Liberty. Bitter chocolate. First I bit off Ms. Liberty’s head, then I devoured the rest of her. It felt…liberating.
Reggie, the mail carrier, empties a canvas sack of letters on my desk. “You really read all this crap?”
“It’s my bread and butter.”
From the day I started the column, the mail was my window on the world. Hard to imagine that it’s been only four years since giving birth both to the column and the realization that in losing—again—the war against fat I’ve fought all my life, nature has the upper hand. The size-sixteen rack was my destiny, and the only real choice I had was whether or not to accept it. But instead of looking at fat in terms of defeat, my publisher and I used it as a springboard to offer America a fresh take on obesity. As I made that quantum leap to fat acceptance, I’ve been crusading to carry overweight America with me. What I never imagined was that I would become not only a columnist but also a “Dear Abby” to the weight challenged.
Dear Maggie:
I’m twenty-five years old and fat. I’ve been trying to lose weight since I was six. I diet and diet, lose a few pounds, and then gain it all back. Everyone makes fun of me. My parents nag me all the time about controlling my eating, and it drives me insane. They say they’d stop if I just lost the weight, but I can’t. What should I do?
Women of all sizes, shapes, ages and temperaments now seek me out as a sounding board, shrink and diet counselor. But so do some censorious health experts who insist that I’m in perpetual denial, advising me to get my “fat head” out of the sand. Either way, the calls and letters never stop. Yes, I’m popular—at least with readers.
Popularity, of course, is a rare commodity for the overweight, and sympathy is, well, slim. We’re blamed for lacking willpower, and self-control. Few can fathom the intractability of the problem. Ironically, the overweight resent each other. One reader said:
Even though I’m heavy, I still feel that I can control myself and can lose weight if I want to. But other overweight people disgust me. I think that they’re just indulging themselves, and not showing any self-control.
There is no shortage of themes. Overweight infiltrates every part of one’s life, from bedroom to boardroom to the altar. But who said life was fair? Remember what the jury did to Jean Harris? No, she wasn’t fat, she was just mad. Okay, okay, so she killed a man, but you know, not so terrible—after all, he was a diet doctor. In some circles, women thought she deserved sainthood. Personally, I’m not against killing certain men. I doubt that there is any woman over thirty who hasn’t already come across at least one guy who deserves a toxic martini.
My phone rings nonstop, and even though I’m no longer on deadline, I try to avoid answering it. But where is my so-called secretary?
“Tamara? T A M A R A?” It’s futile.
“Maggie, my name is Robert Clancy. I’m an executive producer with Horizons Entertainment in Los Angeles.”
Ugh. “What can I do you for?”
“We’re starting production on a new blockbuster movie called Dangerous Lies. We’re all very excited about it. It’s going to be a very, very big film about a diet doctor in a weight-loss clinic who has to care for women obsessed with becoming thin…”
“Sorry, I can’t take the lead. I’ve already committed to playing Scarlett in the remake of Gone With the Wind….”
“Cute…but…the movie’s cast, Maggie. What we’d love to do is hire you as a consultant.”
“Pourquoi?”
“To coach our lead actor about the milieu of the overweight world and bring him up to speed on the mind-set of weight-obsessed women…”
What? No overweight women in Los Angeles? He had to call me? But to be fair, maybe there were some before they were all forced out of the city limits under the cover of darkness by a death squad of diet police.
“Look, Bob, I’m pretty tied up here with the column and—”
“Of course, I understand, but this wouldn’t take that much of your time, maybe just a couple of weeks.”
“Weeks?” I start opening the mail.
“We pay pretty well…would you just consider it?”
“Mmmm…I doubt it, but leave me your number.” I grab a Chinese menu and jot it down along the border
