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 by Jen Lancaster Page A

flight. I’m particularly nervous this time since I haven’t flown anywhere for about four years. Intellectually I understand I’m much safer “up there” than on the road and can quote the stats inside and out. The issue is that I’ve yet to convince my central nervous system that I’m not going to die in that aluminum tube; hence, terror sweat.
    I used to handle flying just fine, but that was before a plane I was on ran out of gas and we had to make an emergency landing at Midway because we couldn’t make it to O’Hare. 64 Touching down to refuel at a different airport didn’t scare me—what did was seeing the line of ambulances and fire trucks lined up waiting to extinguish/resuscitate us. I was also on a flight where we made an unscheduled stop because the passenger right behind me had a heart attack, and I’ve experienced turbulence so rough the flight attendants cried, so at this point I’m a bit surprised when any flight goes as planned. 65
    Naturally, I’ve driven Fletch crazy with my constant obsessing.
    “Hey, honey?”
    Fletch glances up from the eggs he’s poaching on the stove. Ugh, eggs. I can barely stand them anymore. I’ve eaten so goddamned many eggs, it’s only a matter of time until I grow feathers and a beak. “What’s up?” he asks.
    “I’m worried about the flight.”
    He struggles to remain patient. “Really,” he states. “Why this time? Is it because you’re not sure you can take out a terrorist by swinging your heavy purse at him, or are you back on the I’m-worried-we’re-going-to-crash-in-the-Andes-and -the-other-passengers-will-want-to-eat-me thing from yesterday?”
    Admittedly, I may have been more than a tad fixated on this for the past few days.
    “Well, yes, of course I’m still worried about those things. But what occurred to me this morning really terrifies me. What if I’ve gained so much weight since I last flew that my seat belt doesn’t buckle and the stewardess has to give me one of those extenders? Or, oh, God, worse yet, what if the employee at the check-in desk takes one look at me and says, I’m sorry, ma’am; you’re going to have to buy a second seat to get on this flight. Then I really will die. From shame.”
    Fletch switches off the burner, covers the sauté pan, and sits down across the table from me. He takes my hand and gazes lovingly into my eyes. “I’m just curious,” he says. “At what point did you lose your fucking mind?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Up until recently, you were the most confident person I knew. You’re the one who says everyone else is too thin and you’re just right. Now that you’re actually losing weight, you’re completely fixated on body image, and you never were before. Doesn’t make any sense.”
    I consider this for a few moments before responding. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s because before I started dieting, I never thought about my weight or what I ate.”
    “If you keep obsessing, you’re ultimately going to fail because no matter how much weight you lose, you will never think you’re thin enough. That’s a recipe for unhappiness right there. Anorexia, too.”
    I snort. “From your lips to God’s ears.”
    All right, all right; I’m aware that eating disorders are diseases and people die from them and they’re no laughing matter. They’re scary, and so many young women legitimately suffer. In my own circle of friends, I’ve seen lives ruined in the relentless pursuit of perfection, and it’s so sad. But, still . . . could I please have one for a week or so? Just to get a nice start? Back in the day when I briefly considered bulimia, I could never bring myself to stick my fingers down my throat. I tried to do it mentally by picturing greasy liver and onions served in a dirty ashtray, but my imagination’s not that good. I was all about the binge, but I could never master the purge.
    Fletch sighs and returns to cooking. Taking a slotted spoon from the ceramic crock next to the