ten

As the weeks passed and I could sense that the symptoms of my acute routinitis were slowly but surely fading, I began to really believe in Claude’s method. What convinced me above all was his two-pronged approach: the idea of working on the basic problem (Who am I? What do I really want?) at the same time as the symptoms (my self-image, my relation to the world and other people).

Have you noticed how the image you have of the world becomes more beautiful if you have a good self-image? Unfortunately, on this last point I still had a long way to go, because I could not get over my issues with self-esteem. Every day the sight of myself in the mirror cast a shadow over my mood. I was a stern judge of myself, examining my reflection from all angles, and was scornful of the extra weight I seemed doomed to carry around forever.

It wasn’t too bad when I was standing. The buttons did up. It was sitting down when I felt guilty. Whenever the spare tire risked protruding over the size 8 I’d been too optimistic about . . .

Sometimes I tried to kid myself that the trousers had shrunk or that the skirt was meant to be tight. But the evidence was plain for me to see: the vise was tightening around me. Besides, I had launched that little paper plane from a hot-air balloon. I had sworn in black and white that I didn’t want to be carrying round those extra pounds with me anymore. It was a promise I had to keep.

So I made another appointment with Claude to discuss it.

I had been waiting for fifteen minutes when the door opened. For once, Claude looked in a hurry.

“Ah, Camille, come in. How are you? I’m sorry, I don’t have much time for you today: I’m fitting you in between two meetings.”

“It’s very kind of you, Claude. I just need your advice about my goal to lose weight.”

He listened to me absentmindedly, more concerned with tidying up the files strewn all over his desk. When he turned to put them in a cabinet, a sheet of paper fell from one of them. I got to my feet to pick it up. It was odd: a design for a building with lots of calculations and notes. I handed it to him. He took it from me, muttering his thanks. He seemed out of sorts.

“Are you all right, Claude? You seem preoccupied. I can come back another day, if you prefer.”

“No, no, everything’s fine, Camille. I’ve got a lot on my plate and I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed, that’s all,” he reassured me with a smile.

He put away the files as best he could—I was amazed how many of them there were. Could he really have so many clients? Did routinology have so many followers?

He came and sat down again, automatically stroking his beard in the way a woman might run her hand through her hair: to regain his composure.

“Fine . . . well then, are you ready to go on a diet? Good. The key to achieving your objective is to frame it properly before you begin. Do you know the ‘SMART method’?”

“No, I—”

“You need to make sure that your objective is S for Specific (you have to avoid it being vague) and M for Measurable—in this case, for example, success would be losing ten pounds. Then there’s A for Attainable, defined as being achievable, thanks to a series of short steps; it mustn’t be an ‘unreachable star.’ R for Realistic: to keep you motivated, your objective has to make sense in relation to your personality and your possibilities. And, finally, T for Timely: you need to set yourself a deadline.”

As he described the method to me, I saw myself as a sculptor like Barbara Hepworth, imaginary chisel in hand, sculpting, shaping, creating my perfect objective. I drove the image from my mind to concentrate on reality.

“Does all that seem clear, Camille?”

“Yes, yes, completely.”

“I’ll give you a few minutes, then, to draw up your SMART objective. I’ll be back.”

He smiled and left the room. I got up and went to search for a piece of paper and a pencil in the same writing desk I had used at our first meeting. The sheet of paper was easy enough, but the pencils had been put away. Mechanically, I opened the drawer, and to my surprise found a framed photo. I recognized the background as Central Park in New York. Two men were posing for the photograph as if they were brothers. The contrast between them was striking: one exuded an air of self-assurance, strength, and success. The other, in spite of his height, seemed almost fragile. A giant with feet of clay. His eyes seemed clouded by a raft of shadows. He had a family likeness to Claude but must have weighed forty-five pounds more! Perhaps he was his brother?

Hearing steps in the corridor, I quickly shut the drawer.

“How’s it going, Camille?”

“Oh, fine, I just need a pencil.”

“You should have taken one. Here, use this.”

“Thanks,” I stammered, embarrassed at my tactless curiosity.

The entire time I was considering my SMART objective, I was wondering who the man in the photo could have been. I resolved to ask Claude at some point.

Half an hour later, I left with my objective under my arm and with ten pounds to lose under my belt. By this stage I was as motivated as Mother Teresa. I thought it was going to be—pardon the expression—a piece of cake. However, I was not taking into account the cold war that kitchens can declare.