these years.
Fact #2: I do not have an underactive thyroid. Or type-two diabetes. Or undiagnosed edema of any kind. No systemic medical condition is to blame. An emergency lunchtime visit to my doctor on Wednesday confirmed these findings. Not at all worth the $120 fee to rush the results of the blood test.
Fact #3: Pregnancy causes weight gain.
Fact #4: I am not pregnant. That is, unless there has been an immaculate conception.
Fact #5: In 1991, doctors at Stanford University Medical Center removed a 303-pound tumor from the right ovary of an otherwise healthy thirty-four-year-old woman. She made a full recovery.
Fact #6: There is no such tumor in either of my ovaries, also confirmed by my doctor. I do not even have a small tumor.
Fact #7: Obsessing over one’s weight can be a sign of anorexia. Might I be teetering on the brink of losing half my body weight?
Fact #8: After completing 14 self-diagnosis questionnaires, it appears the only eating disorder I might be afflicted with is something called binge-eating disorder. Symptoms include eating until feeling painfully full, eating alone due to embarrassment, eating when not hungry, and feeling disgusted and depressed after overeating. The prognosis? Weight gain and, eventually, obesity.
By Thursday afternoon, I had reluctantly drifted away from the hopeful expectations of the medical Web sites to the more familiar depression-inducing body mass index calculators of the diet sites. There, I was forced to concede that my symptoms, although severe, were not altogether uncommon. In fact, they were quite mundane. What I did learn is that my body has betrayed me in a way as cruel as any organic disease, as ferocious as any pathological malignancy. It seems the years of yo-yo dieting have taken their toll. The culprit? A wonky metabolism. The cure? None to speak of, although one thing has been known to help other sufferers—exercise. The time of desperation was nearly upon me; the only option, painfully clear.
I would have to join a gym.
What else could I do? If I’d learned anything from my research—aside from the fact that there were also downsides to thyroid problems and massive abdominal tumors—it was that I was verging on an unhealthy attitude regarding weight loss. I would have to accept that, despite all promises to the contrary, there is no quick fix, no magical ampoule full of ginseng that would make my ass fat morph into muscle. Only hard work and a healthy outlook could prevail.
As I stared at the daunting pile of color-coded folders Thelma had gradually been depositing in my In Box, I realized that I’d done nothing all week but pray for various horrible illnesses, research the best liposuction clinics in the five boroughs, and neglect my professional responsibilities. Pathetic. How could I expect to be promoted if I can’t even bother returning an e-mail or two? Bruce was right—I was in danger of losing it. Well, not anymore.
On Friday afternoon I left early since I figured it would be my last chance for a while, with Pruscilla’s return just one short weekend away. While I’d been embroiled in online research, Thelma had spent the better part of the week pulling her hair out in Pruscilla’s office, which was by now a complete mess. The tension in the air was almost palpable, and it floated out of the office and hung over my cubby. I didn’t envy her—she’d probably be in there all weekend. But it was hard to feel sorry for her. The simplest things seemed confusing for Thelma, even deciphering Pruscilla’s handwriting proved nearly impossible for the poor woman. But it was no trouble for me. I’d gotten quite used to it, in fact, and almost looked forward to typing her long-winded reports and memos (Pruscilla’s typing is slower than her writing), since it afforded me the rare opportunity to look busy while keeping my headspace completely free. I was getting quite good at drawing it out as long as possible.
The first week Pruscilla was gone, I didn’t mind interpreting for Thelma all of the purple little Post-its Pruscilla had left stuck to everything. But then she started bothering me twenty-five times a day with questions about how Pruscilla does this and how Pruscilla does that, and since I wasn’t put on this earth to save Thelma’s ass (and neglect my work besides), I developed a set of avoidance techniques to divert her ceaseless calls for help. Mostly, that meant pleading ignorance. For example, Thelma has no idea that part of my job is to coordinate the printing of all promotional materials. Nor is she aware that I have input all of Pruscilla’s notes and market-research data for all new product launches for the next 18 months. Best of all, she thinks most of my time is spent returning Pruscilla’s e-mail. If she wants to be a good manager, she’s going to have to learn a little bit about self-reliance.
As I got ready to leave, she yelled out, “Evie, Evie! Wait!” In her hurry to stop me, I could hear a flurry of papers swishing to the floor. But I pretended not to notice, and scooted down the hall to the elevators. If Thelma doesn’t get it by now, then there’s nothing anyone can do to help save her. Besides, if there’s one thing I’ve learned working at Kendra White, professionally speaking, it’s to form alliances with the right sorts of people, not to go down with a sinking ship. That, and never name a lipstick after a disgraced White House intern.
Although there are tons of gyms in Brooklyn near our place, I decided I’d be more likely to go if I joined one near work. Not too close to work, of course, in case somebody should see me, but close enough so that I can walk over during lunch if I want. Part of the Kendra White benefits package includes paying fifty percent of employees’ gym memberships—not that KW is such a saintly place to work; judging by all the fat ladies who work there, paying for gyms was a pretty safe bet—which meant I could afford something pretty nice. I remembered a place I passed by once when the subway station was closed because of a bomb threat and I had to walk to the next line.
It was still there. Mid-Town Fitness. Inside, it was the archetypical New York City health club—iron and granite decor, with a three-storey-high, half-block-long plate-glass window facing the street. Half a dozen Wall-Street types hung off a climbing wall off to one side. A battalion of machines crossed the length of the room, ten rows deep. Scores of pony-tailed socialites wearing diamond earrings bigger than the earphones on their Discmans walked, ran and stepped off the calories from the salads they ate for lunch. Up above, weight machines on a mezzanine. I scanned the room for a fatso, but the only person I could find who didn’t look like she’d been born there was the dumpy old woman spraying down treadmill consoles with a bottle of pink disinfectant. It was perfectly awful, but morbidly fascinating.
I was so enthralled by the moving sea of boobs and biceps that I hadn’t noticed a young red-headed tart descend on me from behind the front desk.
“Hi, I’m Missy. Can I help you?” she asked sweetly.
“Um, no, I don’t think so,” I said, turning to leave.
“Would you like a tour?”
What I’d like is to get the hell out of here. “I don’t think so.”
“You don’t sound so sure,” she laughed. “Have you ever been a member of our facilities before?”
“What do you think?”
She tried not to look, but her eyes inadvertently traveled down to the waist of my bulging trench coat. A single vein throbbed at the center of her forehead. “I’m gonna guess…no?”
“That’s right, Missy, the answer is no. No, I haven’t been a member here before.”
“Come on, it’s not so bad. Let me give you a quick tour. You’d be surprised how friendly everyone is,” she said, oblivious to my extreme discomfort, and started walking. “Let me show you the women-only section. If you’re shy or uncomfortable about
