Chapter 31
Dee frowned into the long mirror in her gym, set up in a sunny corner of her apartment and outfitted with a FitFams machine, a Peloton treadmill, a SoulCycle bike, a Lagree Megaformer, a Pilates Cadillac, Tracy Anderson’s Cube Apparatus from 2008, and a full complement of dumbbells, kettlebells, sandbags, and medicine balls.
She had on a light-pink crop top and was inspecting her lower abs, grabbing a millimeter of skin between her thumb and forefinger.
“Can we do anything about this?” she asked José Valez, Trainer to the Stars.
“C’mon, Dee,” he said, smiling and giving her a gentle elbowing. “You can’t spot-reduce. You know it’s impossible to lose weight or fat in a specific area of the body. At least, from working out.”
“So you’re saying I’m fat,” Dee said, the skin on her stomach turning red from her pinching.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said, the jovial tone gone from his voice. “No, I’m not saying that. You’re stronger than Gwyneth. Fitter than Madonna. You’ve seen Halle Berry lately, right? How cut she is? You look better than that. I mean, shit, sometimes I wonder why you even have me train you, you’re in such great shape.”
Dee stopped pinching herself and looked him straight in the eye. “I wonder that sometimes too.”
José gulped.
It was Sunday at 6 a.m. and Dee had no appetite for foolishness. There was a dull migraine camped out over her left eye, a pulsating reminder of the good time she had last night in a karaoke room with Tara, Shelly, and two women they’d picked up at a speakeasy beforehand. One of the women recognized Dee from her sales pitches on QVC.
“You’re Dee Bradley, right?! Oh my God, I’ve been wanting to try one of your classes. I hear they’re amazing,” said the woman, a 20-something with a brunette bob, combat boots, mom jeans, and a low-cut, v-neck T-shirt.
Dee had given her the once-over and could easily tell that this woman had not been inside a FitFams, or any other high-end studio, ever. Her breasts were barely contained by the shirt and her belly protruded below the waistband of her jeans. FUPA, I think someone once called it. Disgusting, Dee thought as she leaned and breathed in the woman’s ear: “You heard right. My classes are amazing. And so am I.”
The woman blushed. “Prove it,” she said, testing the waters.
Dee leaned in and kissed the woman, hard.
Later, with six shots of vodka in her system, Dee didn’t care that there wasn’t much privacy in the karaoke room. It was dark, but that was fine, because Dee could feel the woman’s softness while they made out on the couch.
Dee never gave much thought to why she was always attracted to women whose bodies stood in such stark contrast to her own. One therapist had suggested it was because plus-sized women represented who Dee wished she could be — someone at ease in her soft skin, free of the pressures that come with militaristic control over the body. “Though of course it’s never quite that simple for overweight people,” the therapist had said, stealing a glance at her own stomach.
Dee never went back.
And she didn’t bring the karaoke woman home. Dee had grown bored of her by the time they got through the first half of the Britney Spears Songbook. She fell into bed, alone, at 3 a.m.
Her alarm, and the raging hangover, woke her promptly at 5 a.m. But Dee did not go back to sleep. There was no room for improvisation in her routine. She made herself a smoothie with kale, banana, raw egg, and a powdered supplement — intended to cure headaches, strengthen nails, wake you up, and remove self-doubt — that Peruvian Shaman Jeff had given her after they’d attended an ayahuasca retreat in the basement of a gallery in Hoboken. Then she read texts and emails until José arrived.
“This week we should probably talk about the plan for the managers’ retreat,” Tara had texted, up unusually early after a night out. Maybe her hook-up was a morning person. “The chalet at Stowe is booked. We just need to work out what we’re going to do.”
“Sounds good,” Dee had typed back. “We’ll put that on the agenda for first thing Monday morning. I have some ideas for some exercises we can do, to make our managers more convincing when they evangelize for the brand. And they need to move more merchandise.”
Tara texted a thumbs-up.
When José arrived, Dee slugged back the last of her green sludge and got straight to it, following his cues for a warm-up of jumping jacks, high knees, banded side steps, inchworm push-ups, plank holds, and air squats. Then the real work, a grueling 90 minutes of high-intensity interval training (cost: $350 per hour), began.
As he packed his gym bag, José looked nervous. He’s probably wondering if this will be the last time he comes here, Dee thought. Well, let him wonder.
After José left, Dee stood in front of the mirror a moment longer, looking at the red spot she’d been pinching, turning and twisting to investigate whether she’d developed any armpit fat or back bulge. When she could find none, she let herself walk away and into the bathroom.
Her $10,000 shower head had six different settings, including “rain,” “waterfall,” and “mist,” and turned the space into a steam room with eucalyptus aromatherapy at the touch of a button. Another button cued quiet classical music — she liked flutes — and she breathed deeply as the warm water washed away her sweat and relaxed her muscles. Her headache began to ease. She closed her eyes and tried meditating again. Breathe in for seven, hold for four, out for eight. Let God, let go. Let God, let go.
She was again looking at a pale pink room, noiseless and peaceful. Soft and lovely. No one there to challenge her, to hurt her. No fights. Just ease.
And then the little girl appeared again. This time, she was crying, tears pouring over her freckled cheeks.
Help me.
No, Dee said to her. You’re weak. What’s the matter with you?
I’m just a kid.
Doesn’t matter. You need to stand up for yourself. Take responsibility. Toughen up. Clearly you’ve done something wrong, or this wouldn’t be happening.
How can you say that?
Look at you! You’re soft! This is your fault. You’ve brought this on yourself.
Help me. Please.
Dee snapped her eyes open, then shut off the water. She watched it spin down the drain and imagined the scene, and all of its anguish, swirling away. Then she stepped out, dried off, and went on with her day.