According to her laws, I guess I had no perspective. But what’s perspective when you started out fat? Why would I ever want those jeans to be a little loose when they were a 28 waist? I couldn’t tell her this, of course, because then we’d have to talk about how now I was on TV and that the “normal” life I lived at my “normal” weight no longer applied. I couldn’t sit there and brag about how I was different now because I was on TV. I just wished she understood that without me having to explain it.
I was losing weight, though. I ordered a pair of 26 waist pants that took four weeks to arrive, and they were too big, too big by at least a size, maybe even two. I was really disturbed by this because I thought I’d looked good four weeks ago. God, I did a photo shoot for Flair four weeks ago and the magazine hadn’t even come out yet. How disgusting that that was what people would think I looked like.
I guess some time had slid by without a response and Ann didn’t like silence in a conversation, so she continued:
“I have to tell you something.”
Here it comes, I thought. Here comes the part where she tells me I drink too much and right now I’m too drunk to take it well.
“You’re too thin.”
It was all I could do not to laugh. Really. The laughter was in my torso somewhere waiting to escape, but I stuffed it down because her face was so serious, plus I was enjoying it so much—the thought of being too thin. That’s funny: too thin. Just this morning on the set I had to clench my buttocks as I walked through the law office on a full-length lens because if I walked normally the part where my hips meet my thighs bulged out rhythmically with each step: left fat bulge, right fat bulge, left fat bulge, and cue dialogue, “You wanted to see me?” Too thin. She continued talking about my arms being sinewy and veiny and how I looked like an eleven-year-old and that it wasn’t attractive, but I just wanted to laugh. Oh, why not just enjoy this surreal moment and laugh? My face was contorting to control it from escaping anyway. I knew my face well enough to know that it’s a traitor to my mind. It gives away all my secrets. And so I laughed. I laughed really hard.
“I’m sorry. It’s not funny. I don’t know why I’m finding it funny. It’s not funny. It’s just . . . you’re so serious!”
“This is serious! You didn’t have dinner tonight. And you don’t look good, P. I think you’ve lost perspective.”
My laughter died away. Not because what she was saying made sense to me but because I knew it was just an illusion created by my clothes or the way I was sitting.
It’s not real. I’m not really thin. Should I show her my stomach and the rolls of fat? Or do I sit here on the floor and keep the pose that’s making her think that I am thin so I can enjoy this moment longer?
I never wanted it to go away. I knew the minute I stood, it would be over. Or when I changed out of these magical jeans and into my pajamas. I was jutting out my collarbone subtly and separating my arm from my body to make her not feel stupid or wrong. She was going to realize it tomorrow, but for right now I knew she needed to be right and I needed to hear that I was thin. So I kept posing as a poor, starved waif until she stopped talking.
“Does any of what I’m saying make sense to you?”
What could I do? Answer her honestly? Say, no, AC, none of this makes sense because none of it is true. Even if you think you are telling me the truth, that I’m too thin, it’s just your truth, your perspective. It’s not society’s perspective, the clothing designers’ perspective. If it was, then models would have curves and actresses would have round faces and designers would make sample dresses bigger. What did she know? She was at NYU getting her master’s in . . . something. Business? Besides, I’d never gotten so much attention for having a good body. I had just been featured in In Style for having the “Look of the Week.” US Weekly gave me the “Best Dressed” accolade for the Rick Owens dress I wore to the Fox party. And last week Vera told me that I was her favorite actress to dress. I’d never gotten so many compliments. Everyone told me I looked fantastic.
“P, I’m just concerned, that’s all.”
“And I appreciate it, but there’s nothing to worry about. I ate dinner.”
“You didn’t have dinner.”
I had dinner. I ate grilled vegetables. I did stop eating them, though, because I could tell that they had used a lot of olive oil to cook them. I didn’t wear any lip balm because I wanted to make sure I could detect if anything I ate was cooked with oil. I couldn’t tell how much oil was used unless I had nothing waxy or oily on my lips. Besides, who knew whether the shea butter in lip balm contained calories that you could accidentally ingest? I had to worry about all the incidental calories, the hidden calories. Oil has a lot of calories and is a hidden ingredient in so many foods.
Oil is really my main problem right now.
“Look.” I thrust my wineglass in her face. “I’m drinking alcohol! Plenty of calories in that.”
God. I’ve drunk my weight in wine and she thinks I have a problem?
Ann shifted Bean slightly on her lap and looked around the room. She looked intently into each of the living room’s corners as if searching for a way to change the subject. Her eyes settled on the open kitchen door. They remained there and I realized that my kitchen scale and a calorie counter were probably what she was looking at. While it occurred to me that there was a slim chance she actually thought I was too thin, I had decided moments ago that she was just jealous. Who wouldn’t be? While I knew I wasn’t skinny, it was obvious that I had gained control over my weight, which is a huge feat worthy of jealousy. Everyone wants to be in control of their weight.
“So. How was the L’Oréal shoot?”
“Great . . . really fun, actually. I think it’ll be a pretty good commercial. I had to do that classic ‘hair shot.’ You know, where they fan out your hair? I felt pretty stupid doing that, but it should turn out okay.” I took a sip of my wine. I wanted to tell her that I fit into my clothes and that most of them were even too big, but I couldn’t. Usually, that would be the kind of thing we’d talk about, but after her rant about my being too thin, I had to keep quiet about the one thing that made me really happy. I wanted to tell her that they kept testing me by telling a PA to ask me if I wanted to eat or drink anything, like lunch or coffee, and I passed the test. I didn’t eat all day and everyone was really impressed because they kept talking about it and asking me over and over again if I wanted food. I wanted to tell her that I got back at that bitch of a stylist for announcing to the L’Oréal executives that I was a size 8, by being too thin for her precious clothes. I wanted to describe the tailor’s facial expression when she had to rush to take in the skirts that she once said didn’t have “enough in the seam” to take out. But I couldn’t. So I told her that I had fun and everyone was really nice. It was the kind of answer I’d give in an interview.
Just as I began to feel sorry for myself for having to lie to everyone, including my best friend, I remembered something that I thought she’d find funny.
“Well, there was one thing that was pretty funny. At one point the makeup guy and his assistant started talking about whether I could do makeup as well as the hair products—if I had good enough facial features . . .”
“That’s great,” she interrupted. “L’Oréal wants you to sell makeup as well?”
“No. No. They don’t. My God, Ann—it was hilarious. They went through every part of my face—in front of me—tearing each feature apart like, ‘What about lips?’ And then the assistant would say, ‘Well, she has lovely lips, but her teeth are a little crooked and not that white.’ And then they got to my eyes. They almost agreed on mascara because I have really thick eyelashes until one of them mentioned that my eyes were too small.”