Fat Chance

“Isn’t it about accepting yourself no matter what it is in life that you’re at war with? Isn’t it about giving yourself a break and loving yourself no matter what kind of pressures you perceive that society is putting on you to change, even when those changes may be biologically impossible for you?”

“That’s exactly it, Susie. Fat is something of a metaphor for pain and unhappiness in a world that appears to be filled with people who have it all. The truth is that women everywhere, no matter where they come from, no matter what they do for a living, no matter whether they’re married, or single, rich or poor, famous or utterly anonymous, have issues to deal with and things about themselves that they’d like to change. Ultimately, though, they must come to terms with those issues, because if they can’t or they won’t, they’re destined to be at war with their—”

“And, Maggie—”

But I’m fired up now, and I don’t let her break in.

“And despite liposuction, dieting, exercise, plastic surgery, or what have you, we are a product of our genes and our environments, and the whole business of living the best life that we possibly can means making peace with who we are and overcoming our private saboteurs.”

The audience bursts into applause, and I feel the color in my face rising.

“Thank you, Maggie,” Susie says. “Thank you for being with us today. You’ve brought a very sober perspective to the issues that plague all of us.”

I walk out, surprised with all that I said. A biology teacher of mine once told me that he never really understood his subject until he had to teach it. Now I know what he meant.

Out of the Running

The widespread ill will toward the obese leads to discrimination in schools and the workplace, and reduces chances of women going the old-fashioned route and climbing the social ladder through marriage.

When was the last time a society column pictured a fat woman at a social event? Or sitting on the board of a major corporation?

Undoubtedly, being overweight sabotages success. Ninety-seven million of us are overweight, but when it comes to fame, celebrity, recognition and status, we are invisible.

Over and over again, I hear about discrimination at the office—how women are passed over for promotions. Some are too embarrassed to sue, unable to handle the attention that would put them in the spotlight. Instead, they endure lower-level jobs, less pay and the anger that comes from being victimized and unable or unwilling to fight back.

But should you have the courage to stand up and fight back, the sad truth is that juries often show the same lack of sympathy toward the overweight that is mirrored in the real world. Out of the entire United States, only Michigan, Washington, D.C., San Francisco and Santa Cruz, California, make it illegal to discriminate against the overweight. Every place else, society is largely off the hook. The rationale: If you’re fat, it’s your own fault.

And here’s the saddest evidence yet of how much society despises overweight. In a national survey done by Dorothy C. Wertz, an ethicist and sociologist at the University of Massachusetts Medical School, 16 percent of the general adult population said they would abort a child if they found out that it would be untreatably obese. By comparison, the survey found that 17 percent would abort if the child would be mildly retarded.

three

I hear my phone ringing before I even turn the corner to my office.

“It’s Our Lady of Prospect Park,” Tamara calls out when she sees me.

How could my mother not have seen the show? The TV was background music in the bakery. Always the drone, the predictable barks of laughter, applause. It would be a miracle if I could just get some work done.

“It’s my fault that you’re fat?”

“I wasn’t blaming you, Mother.” Oh, here goes. “It was the lifestyle—”

“You never learned self-control, it’s—”

“Mother, it’s a little more complicated!”

“What did you ever want that we didn’t give you?”

“That’s just it,” I say, pounding my fist silently on the desk. “I have to go, Ma, I’m on deadline. I’ll call you.”

Several hours later, I look up to see a messenger at my door, bearing a large golden shopping bag imprinted with one of the most welcome names on earth: Godiva. The bag is filled with the signature gilded boxes with samples as opulent as Fabergé eggs. But these ovoid wonders are edible: Godiva’s new truffle collection. I lift the first. Outside is a domed shell of black-brown bittersweet chocolate, a confectionary canvas covered with Jackson Pollock–style café-au-lait drippings. I bite. My tongue is having a party for my mouth as it is washed with cappuccino cream. I take another, milk chocolate with a hint of hazelnut. The third is bittersweet mocha chocolate filled with cherry cream.

“I’ve found religion. Tamara, you have to try these.” No answer. “Tamara?” The phone rings again. Is Godiva publicly held? I lick my fingers and lift the receiver. Does that count as exercise?

“Maggie O’Leary? I have Robert Redford on the line from Sundance…”

I bite into another—“Mmm mmm mmm”—then swallow. “I know Bob, and I’m on deadline, mon cher, bad timing.” I slam down the phone. It rings again, but this time I lift it up and then drop it into the garbage pail.

“Do you know how low you are Barsky? You’re in the bottom of the garbage pail, you swine.” I hear his signature nasal laugh as I fish the receiver out of the garbage.

The morning a pail of bulls’ balls was delivered from a Ninth Avenue bodega, just after I got the column, I filled Tamara in. “He’s been at the paper forever, and pulling this stuff keeps him awake between stories.”

“You could ignore him.”

“But then he’d stop.”

I consider returning fire using a foreign identity. German? Dietrich? No, I can do better. Later. Now I have to apply ass to seat and get to work.

“SHIT.” The phone’s ringing again. “Tamara! Tamara! Tell Barsky to cool it.” I wait, but my phantom assistant is gone. I snatch up the phone.

“Enough, asshole. I have work to do. This is a newspaper, remember?”

There is silence on the line.

“Alan! Don’t ignore me and don’t start that sick breathing thing again. You don’t sound sexy, you sound like you’re having an asthma attack.”

There’s a silence, and just as I’m about to hang up I hear the voice.

“Maggie? I’m sorry, I hope this isn’t a bad time…. I’m, this is Mike Taylor, I’m an actor in Los Angeles. I don’t know if someone from the studio ever reached you or not, but I’m about to start working on a new movie here, and that’s why I’m calling. I need your help.”

My eyes open wide, then wider. An alarm goes off deep inside my head. Not Alan Barsky. Not Alan Barsky. He wasn’t that good. It was… My skin starts to prickle. It did sound like him. Oh God, I am such a complete moron.

“Sorry…SO-ORRY…just fooling around here….” I clear my throat. “I…I know who you are…” I say, trying to conceal a certain shakiness that’s starting to spread over me like a violent onset of the flu. Who could ever forget his rippled abs on that Calvin Klein underwear billboard in Times Square!

“Oh, okay, well, I thought I’d try you myself because…anyway…I’m going to be starring in a new movie about a diet doctor, and I’m so out of my element with this. I wondered if there was any way that you could help me out.”

The Mother Teresa of journalism to the rescue…. Oh…whatEVER you need. But I say nothing, half out of fear of saying the wrong thing, the other half because I’m afraid that if I hear my own voice, I’ll wake up and the dream will be over.

“Maggie? You there?”

“Yes…I… Sorry, I’m in…I got distracted for a minute—”

“Oh, well, anyway, I wondered if there was any way you might be able to come out to L.A. for a couple of weeks?”

“Weeks? A couple of weeks?” What the hell is happening to me, echolalia?

“I know you’re working, but we could get you a suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel. There are amazing restaurants here—you could take lots of time for yourself and—”

“I don’t think I could just—”