Fat Chance by Deborah Blumenthal Page B

dieting.”
    Connors isn’t buying it. “You had your stomach stapled, didn’t you? Who did it? Was it that guy from Baden Baden who’s at Mount Sinai?”
    â€œWHAT?”
    â€œDid you take Leptin? Or was it Fen-phen? I know it kills your valves, but it works, for God’s sake. We’ve got more thanwe need anyway, haven’t we? I mean, planes run on one engine, why can’t a heart get by— So what did you use? You didn’t go to Switzerland for the sleep cure, did you?”
    My hand goes up around my throat. “Justine, you are truly making me nauseous. Other than my new DK contouring body stocking…there’s nothing terribly different that I’m doing.”
    She shoots me a dirty look. “Fine, Maggie,” she says, pivoting. She starts to walk off and then pivots once again. Is this a routine she learned from Martha Graham? “Just don’t come running to me when you want the inside track on sample sales. I’ll give you a map pointing you to Bergdorf’s.” I scrunch up my nose and rock back on my heels.
    â€œThe last sample sale she told me about was for Kalso Earth Shoes. I was literally off my rocker.” I grab a handful of M&M’s and throw them at her as she leaves.
    Wharton is the next drop-in. News travels fast in the newsroom. He stares in disbelief.
    â€œHow was your vacation?”
    â€œGreat, fine.”
    â€œGo anyplace special?”
    â€œNah, just hung out at home. Did some sprucing up…”
    Wharton sits silently for a moment like a husband knowing full well he has been cuckolded, but fearful of the consequences of acknowledging it. “Maggie…is there anything you want to tell me?”
    â€œYeah, I caught Monster in a Box on HBO last night. Did you see it? That Spalding Gray is a scream, I swear.” Silence.
    â€œMaggie,” he says, resigned. “I guess I’ll just come right out and say it. You don’t look like our fat columnist anymore. I mean, you’re just not fat anymore. I…I don’t know what to say. I’m concerned. I’m worried—”
    â€œBill, I—”
    â€œYour column is the most popular one in the history of this newspaper. We want to continue with it, build on your success. But what’s going on with you? I mean, can you keep writing a column like that if you look like this? ”
    â€œSo I lost a few pounds. I’m into exercise these days that’s all. I still have the same beliefs, the same goodwill message to everyone else who’s overweight. I—”
    â€œOkay, if you say so. I hope you’re not changing. You’ll keep doing what you’ve been doing all along, right?”
    â€œOf course, of course, Bill.”
    â€œOkay, okay,” he says, getting up and leaving. “Okay.” He keeps parroting it like a mantra. The next thing I know, a messenger is delivering two dozen Italian pastries to me from Ferraras in Little Italy. I take the box and put it out on the Metro desk for the staff. Half an hour later, the piranhas have devoured every crumb.
    I lean back in my chair. For the first time there is more wiggle room in it now. Six weeks have gone by since I started dieting and working out. I’ve dropped thirty pounds and am down almost three sizes. Two more weeks to count-down. Still ahead: Body wraps to smooth the skin, capillary zapping to banish the pesky red threadlike streaks that cropped up on my cheeks, sclerotherapy to get rid of leg veins, a manicure, leg waxing, eyebrow shaping, bleaching to whiten my teeth, a hair trim, highlights to add mock sunshine to hair that barely sees the sun, and about one hundred more miles to run. Natural beauty? An oxymoron. This makeover was draining me physically and financially. I even considered taking out a second mortgage on my apartment. Well, priorities. In Brazil, where women make a career of looking gorgeous, there are more Avon ladies