We Are Never Meeting in Real Life

As we were doing K-treads to the lively medley of Patti LaBelle’s greatest up-tempo hits, a lady waddled in, and I caught some weird looks being exchanged among the other women. She had a house towel, too, so I just assumed these elitist snobs were giving her a hard time for it; I made a mental note to later ask someone in better shape than I am where to procure appropriate beach accessories. The new lady didn’t say anything, just slid on her floaties and asked one of the too-hot-to-be-working-this-shift lifeguards to help lower her into the pool next to where I was sweating with the other oldies. One of the Bitter Bettys in front of me (I think they were all named Martha or Lucille or Janice) turned to sneer before rejoining the group in their uniform leg kicking. I couldn’t stop looking back and forth between them; it was the real-life sequel to Mean Girls.

During the otter roll (please kill me) there was more vicious whispering aimed in our general direction, which I almost didn’t notice because I was having a bitch of a time struggling to keep my breasts secured inside my top. All of that “gentle, low-impact movement” was doing a really efficient job of gently removing my tits from where I’d strapped them down, and shoving one back in once it has escaped is the worst. That class was hard as hell. Next time you’re at the pool, no more snickering behind your hands when you see lumps of curdled cottage cheese bicep-curling water weights and bunny-kicking in the shallow end. I have a newfound respect for active seniors. After that brutality all I wanted was to go to the day care room and find my sleeping cot and take a nap.

In the locker room after class, a bottle of amlodipine I’d dropped rolled over to where the outcast was changing back into her pleated pants. She picked it up, and when she returned it to me, I couldn’t help but ask why the other women hated her so much. Turns out they all live in the same assisted-living facility, and Outcast had recently taken up with one of the few eligible bachelors who could still eat solid foods and drive a car at dusk. The other women didn’t like her, and they liked her even less when they found out that old Levitra was sticking his mothballs in her. I sat on the bench wrapped in my house towel, mouth agape, through the entire story. When she finished I was like, “You are the coolest,” and started pulling my hoodie on over my bathing suit. Outcast smiled at the compliment and told me she looked forward to getting splashed in the face by my uncoordinated arm movements next time. “And you’re going to get a yeast infection if you wear that bathing suit home. You young girls think you know everything.” I never went back.





Whole Wheat Ricotta Crepes


So I tried Nutrisystem. I’m not even sure where I got the idea, but I went online, gave them all my money, checked off a bunch of delicious-sounding food items, and waited for them to be delivered to my job. Because that’s where I am between the hours of 7:30 a.m. and 6:00 p.m. Every day. As soon as the first boxes arrived, I knew I’d made a huge mistake. I try not to be a conspicuous person, because I don’t like talking to people about anything I’m doing, But especially not about something as ridiculous as needing to pay hundreds of dollars for portion-controlled meals. I know there are people who can spend hours talking about diets, and maybe if I were one of them I could actually find one that sticks, but I am too easily embarrassed to get into the minutiae of what I eat, and when and how often, to ever have a conversation about it. That’s why I won’t go into debt trying to see a therapist—I’m so humiliated all the time that it forces me to be dishonest, and what is the point of therapy if you can’t come clean about what your problems are without wanting to pull a hat down over your eyes or jab yourself with a pair of scissors?

I burned with shame as I filled the communal freezer with a month’s worth of tiny meat loaf sandwiches and single-serving desserts, hoping no one would catch me and demand a detailed explanation of my path toward health and wellness. Online, the white cheddar mac and cheese had looked plump and inviting, the tortilla soup spicy and delicious. In real life, the tiny cans and dehydrated cups look like something you’d make for a baby. They were kind of delicious, though? But in a hot-lunch-program kind of way. Like, if you are the kind of person who would never lower yourself to eat a McNugget, you are most certainly not going to be able to handle Nutrisystem. That vacuum-sealed goodness is not for people who insist on doing shit like soaking their own beans and making bread from scratch. Thank God I grew up living that peel-and-eat life.

The drawback was that everything I ate made me have the kind of farts that make you check your underpants for burn holes afterward, the kind of farts that sear your asshole as they exit, the kind of farts that have teeth. Even with the IBD, I’ve managed to jury-rig a pretty predictable poop schedule, but those coconut almond bars and arroz con pollo and bean Bolognese had me cutting people off midsentence to run to the bathroom. I would have to meticulously plan what trains to take to avoid being stuck on one with a meal-replacement bar racing through my lower intestine at max speed. I would fart without even realizing it was happening; I couldn’t walk down the street to get a coffee without people crossing to the other side to avoid the gassy cloud following me around. And when I wasn’t burning calories from breaking a continuous stream of putrid wind, I was sweating on the toilet as three ounces of food karate-chopped its way through my intestinal tract.

After two months I went to see Dr. Jackson for a skin problem and she was like, “Your face looks so slim! Wanna hop on the scale just for fun?”

First of all, no. The words “scale” and “fun” do not go together in my mind, especially since she insists on using the old-timey triple-beam scale where you have to stand, trembling, for the 229 interminable seconds it takes for her to slide the rider back and forth (a little to the left, no back to the right, wait a little bit more left, oh no waaaaaay over to the right) while you pretend you can actually hold your thighs together for as long as it takes for her to come up with “STILL TOO FAT.” But that day I’d lost some weight, and she clapped her hands excitedly while I wondered if maybe my right foot hadn’t been all the way on. She asked what I’d been doing, and I told her I was trying Nutrisystem, but truth be told I didn’t know whether I’d actually lost weight, or if the colonic effect of those protein shakes had just flushed out the seven pounds of undigested food hanging out in my colon. My stomach churned and gurgled, then she listened to it with a stethoscope, her eyebrows raised in alarm. “You might not be the best candidate for a program like this.” She sighed, pointing at my midsection. “It sounds like a soccer match is going on in there.”

“But I still have three weeks’ worth of meals!” I protested, delicately fingering my newly svelte jawline.

“Fine, eat them.” Dr. Jackson tucked her notes in her armpit and shook my hand, as she does after every session, and started for the door. “I’ll e-mail the pharmacy your prescriptions. And maybe you should buy some diapers.”





Cow Pose.

Samantha Irby's books