Fat Chance

This is apparently the funniest thing that Tamara has ever heard. “You’ve been had, girl. Barsky’s at it again. That guy slaughters me, I swear—” She smacks her thigh and laughs harder.

“No, my child, no no no no—”

“That man should sell a CD. ‘Get ’em going with Alan Barsky.’ God, he EXCELS! Barsky RULES!”

“Fine then, ask for a transfer and work for him if you’re so tickled with his bullshit. Of course, you won’t get Godiva truffles, chanterelles, tins of Beluga caviar. On Metro you’ll get Tic Tacs. You like Tic Tacs, Tamara? What color? Or more likely you’ll get gift baskets of poison apples and hemlock.” Vicious pencil tapping now.

Tamara waves her arms over her head as if to clear the air.

“Girl, you are a pushover. Barsky is head and shoulders above you in the pranks department. You are just not up there in his league. Boy, do we have to bring that boy to his knees, make him pay. Oh, I love this…it’s gonna take some thinking, but we can do it, we—”

I stare at her unflinchingly. “Barsky was out on assignment.”

One perfect eyebrow arches up, then her whole body slumps. “You mean…?”

“Yes…it really was—”

“Mike Taylor?”

“Mike Taylor.” I take an Internet picture of him out of my desk drawer. We both stare at it for a moment. “How could anyone not want to help that?”

“Lord have mercy. What are you going to do, Maggie?”

“After I have my heart massaged? What do you think? I’m going to give him the name of a diet doctor I know out on the coast, and then go back to my column and forget the whole thing. Do you think I’d just take off because I get a call from a smart-ass in Hollywood? Yes he’s gorgeous, but out there they’re all gorgeous—”

“Well, they’re not all THAT—”

“They’re plaster casts created in operating rooms. The plastic surgeons out there can carve George Clooney’s face out of Danny DeVito’s behind. Tight skin, nipped eyes, shaved noses, chins, cheekbones, six-pack abs. The only thing they don’t do yet is head transplants. That is one sick universe. So that’s your answer. That’s what I’m going to do.”

“Good for you, Maggie.” She high-fives me. “You are your own person.” She walks toward the door, and then does a 180-degree pivot.

“Want me to arrange transpo?”

“Done.”

“Huh?”

“DreamWorks booked it. How’s that for a perfect name?”

Tamara turns again, but I’m not done. “One more thing. Of course you have to swear on your life—”

“What life?”

“—not to tell another living soul.”

She shuts the door, then stands there, the other eyebrow raised.

“When I got home last night, I stripped off all my clothes and took a long look in the mirror, and let me tell you there’s a reason my bathroom mirror is the size of a postage stamp.”

“Amen.”

“I stared at a body that I wanted to divorce, uncontested. I saw someone who didn’t look like the real me that was trapped inside. So I declared war. The Maggie O’Leary who’s going to L.A. in eight weeks will be nothing like the one that this world knows and loves.”

“You lost me.”

“I’m going to do something utterly heretical, and I need you to be my partner in crime.”

“Maybe you better just tell me.”

“You have to swear, swear, not to tell a soul, otherwise I’m going to be burned at the stake, excommunicated from the National Association to Advance Fat Acceptance. They’ll haul me before them, like Martin Luther at the Diet of Worms—”

“Never tried that diet, any good?”

I drop my head in prayer. “The Maggie who’s going to L.A. is going to attempt something more far-reaching than ever before.”

“Like?”

“With my motivation at an all-time high, I’m embarking on a stealth-bomber food plan and will emerge my thin twin.” I hold up my fist triumphantly. “Chiseled, whittled down, tight, taut, tantalizing, terrific and T-H-I-N!”

“Say it,” Tamara says. “Say it.”

“THIN.”

She smiles, then suddenly her eyes cloud over. “But how? You can’t diet, you don’t, you won’t. Diets are a sham, a lie, a trap to undermine the empowerment of liberated twenty-first-century women, enslave them mentally and hold them politically hostage. Your whole theory of who you are, self-love and acceptance and all that bologna that you’ve made your name by, not to say a career out of, is going out the window because some movie maharaja calls you up and asks for a little advice? Keep it together, Maggie—we’re talking just another M A N—so maybe you want to think this one through a little more. Maybe you’re bein’ just a trifle rash, you know what I’m sayin’?”

“I’m doing it, Tamara—total body and fender work. This is just a short leave of absence from my public persona. And it will surely be my last attempt to shake my booty and get it together. I’m doing it because if there was ever a motivation for me to recreate myself, this is it. If the thought of coaching Mike Taylor can’t fire me into a body makeover and be successful where legions of others have failed, then there’s no hope for anyone—EVER! This is the acid test, Tamara. BIOLOGICAL WARFARE! I can’t ever really and truly accept the concept of self-acceptance unless I know what my capabilities are. I need to do this. You with me?”

“Spreadsheets are starting to call my name again,” she says, going out the door.

“Now, that’s aberrant. C’mon, Tamara,” I yell as she leaves. “This is going to be fun!”

four

Don’t Worry. Be Happy. Weigh Less.

Stress. I’m an expert, aren’t you? Isn’t everyone? Does it make you eat more? Duh.

Who doesn’t walk, zombielike, into the kitchen for comfort as soon as the world gets too much to handle? Well, now the scientific community weighs in (ha) with this news and I hope it helps rid you of some of your guilt because, dear hearts, it’s not just a matter of willpower: Your body chemistry is partly to blame.

Stress does make you eat more—especially sweets—because it causes the body to produce more of a hormone called cortisol. And not only do you eat more, but the fat that you put on as a result, is the “deep-belly” stuff that’s associated with a higher risk of health problems such as heart disease, high blood pressure, diabetes, stroke and cancer.

And while some women experience elevated levels of stress and cortisol periodically, depending on what is happening in their lives, others suffer from “toxic stress,” in the words of Elissa Epel, Ph.D., a health psychology researcher at the University of California at San Francisco. “Toxic” or long-term stress is associated with feeling helpless and defeated. It leads to perpetually high cortisol levels that invite deep abdominal fat to be deposited—and that can happen whether you’re fat or thin. So bottom line: It’s a lot more complicated than just blaming your paunchy gut on the fact that you can’t resist that second or third Krispy Kreme.

What to do?

* If stress is long-term, ditch the lousy job, or the lousy husband, or at least think about therapy to change the dynamic.

* When you’re tempted to pig out, try to steer clear of the refined, sugary stuff that causes insulin levels to soar and then drop, making your urge to eat even greater.