Free Fat Chance by Deborah Blumenthal Page A

couch and stare up at the ceiling. Why am I doing this? Is it worth it? Maybe I will never get anywhere with the damn makeover anyway. Why am I putting myself through this punitive fitness crap? Am I a masochist? I want candy. I want to be happy. I don’t like fucking cut-up vegetables. I don’t want hot broth without noodles, and I happen to like the crispy chicken skin. It kills me to peel it off and throw it away, especially if it’s sprinkled with salt and garlic.
    But then the other voice in my head stops me. Do you like tight clothes? Do you like looking at yourself in the mirror? So stay the way you are. Eat candy and greasy chicken. Don’t change. Don’t pay your dues.
    I vow to stop the negativity, the old excuses. No caving in to the self-saboteur. Hard work pays off. I’m going to succeed. The power is in my hands.
    If you fall off a horse… I step back on and glide forward and back, steadier now. How dare they smile in the infomercials. Like sports, it looks a lot easier than it is. Bette Midler had it right. “I never do anything I can’t do in high heels.”
    Of course there are some women—heels or no—who don’t even need a piece of exercise equipment. They can open up a magazine and follow an exercise plan. They can simply look at a photograph of an exercise and know what to do by reading the instructions. Now, I know I’m not stupid, but when it comes to coordinating body movements and understanding which foot, knee, arm, etc. gets lifted while the other sits on the floor and waits its turn, I’m out of my element. Maybe it’s like map reading. Some people are good at it and others have to ask directions. Left-brain/right-brain kind of thing.
    So instead I shell out hundreds on this new roommate. I brace my midsection against the padded center once again and try to coordinate the back-and-forth arm movements, but after only a few tries, I’m gasping for air. My body becomes sheathed in a cocoon of oily sweat and my T-shirt clings like my epidermis. I slow my pace and breathe deeply.
    A nun in a Catholic school once chided a girl who complained that she was hot and sweating: “Horses sweat, men perspire and women glow.” So I am the horse. I sling a towel around my neck like a prizefighter in training. If water loss counts, by the end of the night my tightest jeans will billow.
    The phone rings, and I hesitate. Should I ignore it and just continue exercising? Of course not, I’m a firm believer in breaks.
    â€œWant to go out for some paella?” Tex says. “There’s a new Spanish joint that we’re reviewing tomorrow. Tonight will probably be the last time that we can get a table before the four-star review comes out.”
    Spanish food. Paella. I love the way the sausage is mixed with chicken and the saffron rice. And who doesn’t love a pitcher of icy sangria, the hearty red wine—and white is wonderful, too—lovingly sweetened with oranges and apples?
    â€œActually, I had an early dinner,” I lie. Can he tell?
    â€œSo have another one,” Tex said.
    Tex is a man after my own heart, but somehow I summon the energy to keep my resolve. “Can I take a rain check? I’m kind of bushed anyway.”
    â€œBig mistake. Listen to this review—‘The bunyol de bacalla, a mashed salt-cod-and-potato cake is ambrosial, teamed with a cilantro-mint salsa. Another favorite is the tortilla bandera, a frittata of tomatoes, Gruyere cheese and spinach—a party for your mouth.’ Damn,” Tex says, “let me at it.”
    I’m tempted to put the phone down and walk away as he continues to read the review. Are the gods testing me?
    â€œRain check,” I say again feebly, then hang up and put on my favorite golden oldie CD, Donna Summer’s “Endless Summer.” Who said I can’t take the heat?
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    Tamara and I had agreed to meet at the track around the Central