Such a Pretty Fat: One Narcissist's Quest to Discover if Her Life Makes Her Ass Look Big, or Why Pie Is Not the Answer Read Online Free PDF Page B

I’ve gained since I saw you last. Thank you for taking my delicate little feelings into account.

CHAPTER THREE
    Talking (Terrible) Turkey
    "I stand up, and my ass knocks over someone’s wine-glass, like, four tables away. No lie. And now I’m too mortified to ever go to that restaurant again,” I tell Angie. I’m lying on the guest bed in the office with my legs angled up and feet against the wall, my default phone position since high school. Normally I’m loath to talk on the phone, but recently we switched cable providers and now our service is a flat rate. My hate for the telephone is neatly eclipsed by my love of free long distance.
    “I’m sure it wasn’t that bad,” Angie replies. “Besides, I saw you a month ago, and your butt was fine. I’d have noticed if it was seventeen feet wide.” Of course, Angie is a mom and routinely lies all day—for example, That fluffy bunny on the side of the road is covered in delicious raspberry jam! And he’s napping; shhh, don’t wake him! —so I’m not so quick to believe her.
    “Don’t be so sure. I was wearing black pants and a girdle. They’re very deceptive.”
    In the background, I hear Angie’s youngest son saying, “Mommy’s on the phone and Daddy’s at work—so who will make me a sandwich, I wonder?”
    “Do you have to go?” I ask. “The last thing I want is my rampant obesity causing your children to starve. And by the way, when the hell did I begin to criticize myself ? A month ago I was fat and happy. But ever since I made the decision to drop a few pounds—way less easy than it sounds, by the way—I’ve become obsessed with my size, and in so doing I’ve inadvertently allowed my inner critic to have a voice. And you know what? She’s a bitch . Like now when I see my underpants in the laundry, I no longer think Soft! Cotton! Sensible! Instead I hear her say Damn, girl, these panties be huge.”
    “Your inner critic has terrible grammar.”
    “I know, it’s the only way I can take away some of her power over me. Anyway, should I call you back?”
    “Nope, not to worry; lunch is handled. Hang on a sec.” After a quick discussion of the merits of peanut butter versus turkey, and crusts on or off, I can hear Angie working on the sandwich as we talk. Over the summer we chatted one night while Angie stripped a bed, changed wet sheets, comforted and repajamaed a toddler, and chased down a car of speeding teenagers while shaking a brick at them, never once interrupting the conversation or setting down her margarita. The only reason this woman isn’t president of General Motors is because she’s chosen not to be.
    “The other mothers on the PTA are terrified of you, aren’t they?”
    “Naturally.” She laughs. “Back to the restaurant—what’d you do about the glass?”
    “I was so embarrassed, I wanted to crawl in a hole and die, but the guy was cool. The waitress got him more wine, and he wouldn’t let me pay for it, so it was best-case scenario. But I’m bothered that certain body parts are trailing behind me creating mayhem and wasting perfectly lovely Bordeaux. And lately? I’ve noticed I’m developing a bit of a shelf back there. My inner critic calls it an ass plateau. Seriously, it’s a fleshy blob that sits right above my crack, like a fanny pack or perhaps my tailbone’s version of a helmet. When I see you I’ll let you rest your drink on it.”
    “What’s stopping you from dieting?”
    “Sloth? Lack of proper motivation? The new Democratic Congress? Honestly, I don’t know why I’m not doing more, because I’m certainly thinking about it 24/7. Then my mind goes back to a life spent not eating cookies and I wonder why I’d even bother, since life wouldn’t be worth living. The good news is I bought another tanning package, and that’s almost the same as dieting. You know, tanning is the new black.”
    I hear an audible gasp from the woman who thought she created an SPF 130 sunscreen by layering SPF 50 over