I don’t make my goal.
I’m at my usual Saturday NutriNation meeting, staring at the three numbers written on my tracking form. Two. Two. Five. I weigh 225 pounds.
My goal was to be in the one hundreds by the time I left for Australia.
Our leader, Amanda, smiles and shakes her head. “That was never a very realistic goal, Cookie. You’ve done it exactly right, around two pounds a week. People who drop weight faster don’t usually keep it off. Don’t let this get you down. We have something special planned today.”
Dave, Kimberly and Rickelle come in carrying flowers and balloons, and there’s an unfamiliar face in the meeting room. Turns out, she’s from NutriNation corporate and we’re celebrating.
I’m down one hundred pounds.
One hundred and five to be exact.
Rickelle gets up and stands next to Amanda. “Everyone knows I love to run.”
There’s laughter from the group.
“And I love running metaphors. So here it goes. Losing weight isn’t a sprint or even a 5K, it’s a marathon and for most of us it’ll never end. It’s a journey that requires us to change, sometimes to change our most ingrained behavior. That’s why I’m so proud of Cookie. I’ve seen her go from barely being able to walk a mile to running five miles a day. Sure, we’re celebrating her hundred-pound loss. But really, we’re celebrating what she’s gained. Healthiness. Perspective. Confidence. We love you, Cookie.”
I hug Rickelle as my eyes tear up and everyone claps.
I get a big, blue ribbon pinned to my chest and my group makes me feel like going to Sydney at 225 isn’t such a big deal.
Amanda gives a lecture called “The Vacation Equation.” “A lot of people gain weight during vacations. But it’s basically an equation. Determine what kind of results you want and create the plan that will equal the results.”
I take notes and it all sounds good.
And this is how I end up in the international terminal of Sky Harbor Airport with a suitcase that weighs eighty-five pounds.
The thing is stuffed full of all the food I usually eat but am terrified I won’t find in Sydney. I’ve got three boxes of Clif Bars and my diet must-have—NutriMin Water Zero. I should have realized there would be a problem when I arrived at the check-in kiosk out of breath from having tugged the thing from the airport curb to the counter.
“You’re overweight,” the lady behind the counter says. At least that’s what I think she says, anyway.
“What?” I must say this in a manner that’s a bit too aggressive because the woman takes a step back and her eyes bug out.
“Your bag,” she explains. “Seventy-five pounds is the limit.”
“Oh...what...what do...do I do?” I’m still trying fill my lungs with air.
“Pay the $50 excessive baggage fee or take some stuff out. Lose ten pounds.”
Easier said than done.
Well, I’m broke. And even if I weren’t, I’m not sure I’d pay the fee anyway. Fifty bucks could keep me in sewing fabric for a month.
I unzip the suitcase as it sits on the stainless-steel scale.
And this is how I end up standing at the airline counter with my mouth open, watching bottles and bottles of NutriMin bounce and roll all over the terminal floor.
“Well, that does it,” says airline lady. “Seventy pounds. I can check this now.”
I rezip the bag as she wraps a tag around the handle. She waves at the floor littered with the gemstone-colored water bottles. “You’ll have to pick those up.”
“Yeah.”
And this is how I end up crawling on my hands and knees, rounding up jugs of Berry Berry Blast, The Grape Escape and Orange You Glad We’re Sugar-Free, and stuffing them into my tote bag.
The whole thing has the crazed tenor of a feral cat rooting through the trash of a five-star restaurant. And I’m thinking about this. And asking myself why. Over and over. Why do these things always happen to me?
I fail to notice that I’m creeping too close to a pair of legs clad in tight-fitting olive chinos. A deep male voice says, “I guess you really like your NutriMin Water?”
I tilt my head up.
Fat girl meet health nut.
Everything about this guy screams that he spends half his time running in a loop around his posh NYC condo building and the other half in the organic supermarket picking through stalks of non-GMO rhubarb.
“Oh...sorry... I’m sorry,” I stutter. He kneels down, picks up the last water bottle and then extends a hand to help me to my feet.
“You know, we sell this stuff everywhere,” he says, inspecting the Perfect Peach. “You don’t have to carry this much around with you.” He’s smiling, giving me an endearing smirk.
I’m close to his face now. I think he might be wearing makeup. His dark hair is graying at the temples. He’s probably in his fifties but could pass for thirty. At a distance.
The idea of male makeup gets all my attention and I don’t catch the “we” in his first sentence. I’m brushing the airport grime off and turning every shade of red and continuing with my stammering. “Oh...um...I read on the internet...that they don’t have NutriMin Water in Australia...and that’s where I’m going...and I can’t stay on my diet without this stuff... I mean maybe I could... I haven’t tried...and they said at the meeting...” I trail into an incoherent mumble and reach out for my water.
“Can’t stay on your diet? Without NutriMin Water?” he repeats. I look around and notice that we’re right in front of the airline’s first-class counter and that a smiley version of the lady who helped me is tagging a stack of Louis Vuitton luggage. The guy’s a rich and important health nut.
This unnerves me even more. “Yeah. I’m doing this weight loss thing and I have a NutriMin Water with every meal. At least it’s something that tastes good, you know?”
“How much weight have you lost?” He’s still got my Perfect Peach.
“What? Oh. Um. A hundred pounds—105 actually.”
“Wow!”
My flush deepens. “I still have a long way to go, but...”
He grins at me. “But a hundred pounds is incredible.”
“Yeah. I guess, yeah.” I’m wondering if I should yank the bottle from his hands.
“I’d like to hear more about your story,” he says.
“Uh, well...” I mumble. Announcements are being read over the loudspeaker. I need to get to my gate. The NutriMin’s pink liquid catches the sunlight streaming in through the airport windows. “It’s on my blog. Roundish. I talk about NutriMin all the time. I’ve even made outfits to match my water.”
“Roundish?”
“You know, I’m taking the term back,” I say. “Roundish women rule the world.”
“Ah, sure. That’s great.” He extends his hand for me to shake. “I’m John Potanin.”
He says his name like he’s used to introducing himself to people who already know who he is. If I had any brains at all, I would be trying to figure out how to surreptitiously Google this guy. Instead, I’m whipping my head around like a dog distracted by a squirrel.
John Potanin shakes the container of rose liquid. “They won’t let you through security with this stuff. But don’t worry. We just signed a distribution deal in Oz. By the time you get there, it should be hitting store shelves in Woolies and Coles.”
“Oh. Uh. Cool. Thanks.”
He hands me the bottle. “I hope we see each other again.”
It’s a sort of weird, semiflirtatious remark. But he’s Mr. Physical Fitness and I’m Miss Fat Girl on a Plane. I blink a few times, take my water and go.
While I sit in the waiting area, I look him up. I find out that John Michael Potanin is a businessman who started NutriMin Water from the spare room of his apartment in Queens and is now on the verge of selling it to a soft drink company for $3 billion.
Of course, he winds up being right. I have to leave all my NutriMin Water at the security counter, and they do have an endcap full of the stuff at the Woolworths around the corner from Piper’s house.
On the plane, I have a couple of non-scale victories. The guy sitting next to me doesn’t roll his eyes when he sees me or make that “I always get stuck next to a fat person” face. I’m able to use the regular seat belt without the extender.
On another note, I had no idea that it’s winter in July in Sydney. This is what happens when you pay almost no attention in Geography and aren’t really familiar with the whole southern hemisphere thing. The day I arrive, it’s rainy, and a gray fog rolls in from the beach, making the big city buildings look blurry and mysterious. Note to self: always check the destination weather before packing.
I imagined my two weeks in Australia would be one big Outback Steakhouse commercial where we would spend the whole time swimming in the ocean and holding skewers of shrimp over an open fire.
Instead, I have to borrow a series of light sweaters from Piper.
Her family has a cute creamish-white house in Maroubra, a suburb of Sydney. Piper’s room is upstairs and overlooks a smallish tiled patio. She stands in front of her closet and tosses out a couple of cardigans on hangers.
“I’m not sure if these will fit you,” she says, passing me a lime-green sweater.
I’m sitting on her bed. “It’s fine.” Anything is better than freezing my butt off.
“You’ve lost a lot more weight than me,” she says with a frown.
I shrug and repeat something Amanda Harvey told me. “It happens differently for everyone. You have to go at your own pace.”
Piper sits down next to me. “The plan doesn’t seem to be working for me anymore. The doctor thinks it might be my thyroid. I’m having tests next week.”
“Yeah,” I agree. I’ve heard this in my NutriNation meetings too. Health issues can have a massive effect on weight loss and weight gain.
“Truthfully,” she whispers, “I think the plan sort of sucks.”
I think of the mountain of diet spring rolls I’ve eaten. “Yeah,” I say. I want to agree with her but my dream is still to rule the world of fashion. And fashion hates fat.
I stand up and move around Piper’s room, over to her bulletin board that’s on a wall opposite the bed. I find a couple of pics of me. There’s also a letter of acceptance to Columbia University in New York. Piper’s always gotten top grades, so there’s also a scholarship notice.
I turn around and frown at her. “You didn’t even tell me you got your letter.”
“Yeah. Yeah,” she mumbles. “I’m not sure I’m going.”
“What?” I ask. Like me, Piper’s always wanted to study in New York.
“I...I thought...I would have lost more weight...and...”
“Piper! Seriously? You can’t be—”
She stands up too. “Let’s talk about it later, okay? My dad said he’ll give us a ride to the beach.” She leaves the room, giving me no choice but to follow her downstairs.
The trip is fabulous and we do everything. Sort of like that montage at the beginning of Grease.
We hike and camp and run around Coogee Beach. Piper surfs like every day. She loans me one of her extra wetsuits, and I make a few attempts at standing up on the board. Epic, epic wipeouts ensue.
We tour the Royal Botanic Garden. Unlike the Desert Botanical Garden in Phoenix, the Sydney garden has plants that don’t look like they’re from the Coyote and Roadrunner cartoons. There are bromeliads with pineapples and fire-colored flowers shooting from low, leafy plants. Evergold sedges spill over rocks and into the pathways.
So the legal drinking age in Australia is eighteen.
Yep. Piper can sip her Foster’s anytime she wants, but back stateside, I’ll be waiting three more years to legally have a waiter hand me a Corona Light.
My last night in Sydney she takes me to a pub called The Anchor on the south side of Bondi Beach and rolls her eyes at me as I say, “We’re going to a bar,” over and over. Her friend from school, Mia, shows up to drive us. To me, the girl’s a dead ringer for Dance Academy mean girl, Abigail Armstrong.
“You’ll like her, I promise,” Piper says. “I swear. She’s really been there for me, you know?”
I don’t know. Mia looks like the kind of girl who’d steal your kidney for a pair of Louboutins, but I go along with it anyway.
Mia’s short, bronze sequined skirt sways as we walk past a sign that reads, Tacocat Spelled Backward Is Still Tacocat.
It’s taco Tuesday.
It’s tacos versus beer in a battle for my calorie budget.
This is actually a lucky break. I hail from the land of the taco, where anytime, day or night, there’s somebody in a food truck rolling a Monterrey street taco, or griddling up Sonoran-style tortillas. And Australians make sucky tacos.
Beer it is.
Piper hooks it up because I have no idea how to order a beer. There are about a hundred million different kinds served in a billion kind of glasses. The waiter brings me a bottle and then I’m looking all around waiting for the cops to bust in and rip it from my underage palm.
Mean Mia pats her glossy, black hair and says, “Hey, Piper, what’s up with your mate? She’s got a few roos loose in the top paddock.”
I laugh right then. Piper later explains that Mia’s calling me an idiot.
After two beers, I’m buzzed and have a full bladder. Because girls can’t go to the bathroom by themselves, Piper takes me to the ladies, leaving Mean Mia alone at the table. She’s making doe eyes at every guy who passes by.
We walk back to the table to find Mia in huddled conversation with a really hot guy. The convo is a game changer.
“Your friend. Will you just give her my number?” This is what Hot Guy is saying as we approach the table.
“She’s American, dumbass. By this time tomorrow, she’ll be on her way back to the land of Cokes in cups the size of buckets and no gun control.”
Oh, screw you, Mean Mia. But if Hot Guy’s interested, I’m willing to overlook Mia’s snark. An Aussie summer romance would be the perfect way to bounce back from that shit storm with Tommy.
“No. I’m taking about the redhead.”
Piper. He means Piper.
I laugh and cry and cheer all in that one moment. The guy’s line, well, I picture the animatronic figures from the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyland who used to shout, “We want the redhead.” He’s not talking about me, so there’s one more guy I won’t be getting. But Piper’s face. All of a sudden soft and rounded with a rose flush glowing under her rows of freckles.
It’s the best thing ever.
Until.
“Her? You realize she’s my designated ugly fat friend, right? At least if we were talking about the Yank, I might be able to understand. Her mom’s a supermodel. If the girl drops another fifty pounds, she’ll be Leslie Vonn Tate’s doppelganger. But Piper? Sweetie, that’s ordering a hamburger when you can grill up a steak for the same price.” Mia points to her body like a model on a game show showing off the suitcase of money.
Piper and Hot Guy are wearing identical expressions, mixtures of confusion and horror. They’ve both been forced into a place where the rules of civilization no longer exist and they don’t know what to do about it.
“Hey!” I shout out. I’m developing a very ranty rant and my hands are balling up into fists. Hot Guy vanishes, retreating to his own table, as I start my incoherent rambling. “You...who are you...what the hell...”
I can’t decide what would work better. Using Mia’s face as a punch pillow or organizing my words into real thoughts designed to show her what a horrible bitch she is.
“Cookie. Cookie. Don’t.” Piper turns and retreats into the bathroom.
I follow her. By the time I get in there, she’s already in one of the stalls.
I assume we’re doing that thing.
That thing where there’s one girl crying in a smelly bathroom stall and another one pacing the pee-stained floor, trying to coax her friend out.
“Piper, come on. She’s just an insecure bitch.” A bitch that, luckily, has the sense not to follow us into the bathroom.
“I thought she was my friend,” Piper says in a tight voice.
There’s a pause. “She always stuck up for me. Anytime people would call me fatass. I just don’t... I don’t get...”
I lean against the bathroom wall.
And I think about Tommy.
About what people expect from each other. About the roles we cast each other in. I’d cast Tommy as teen heartthrob in my makeover Cinderella story, and he’d rejected the part. What if Mia was doing the same thing? Piper was supposed to be her DUFF. But Mia’s obviously figured out that cool, confident Piper will give her a run for her money.
“Okay. Well. Maybe she is your friend, Piper. Maybe she really cares about you. She just cares about herself more.” I approach the stall door and peer in through the slit. I see a sliver of Piper, fully dressed, sitting on the toilet. “Come on. Please. Stop crying and come out of there.”
“I’m not crying,” she says.
The stench in the bathroom is really getting to me. I remember reading once that women’s restrooms have way more germs than men’s. The Anchor’s ladies’ room is definitely validating that idea.
The grimy blue stall door creaks open. Piper pokes her head out.
She’s right. She hasn’t been crying. Rage fills her every feature. “I’m only staying in here until I’m absolutely sure I won’t go out there and murder Mia,” she says, through clenched teeth.
This is going different than I thought. “Oh. Oh-kay,” I say.
She paces in front of the bathroom mirror, a blur of red hair. Finally, she stops and turns to face me. “That’s it. That. Is. Absolutely. Fucking. It. From now on, I’m doing what I want to do. I’m going to find that guy and get his number. I’m going to Columbia and then law school. And I don’t give a single, solitary fuck what anyone has to say about it.”
Piper whirls around and leaves the bathroom. I have to almost run to catch up with her. Back in the restaurant, Mia is gone. She’s left us at the taco joint without a way to get home. But Piper does find Hot Guy and does get his number.
We’re forced to call an Uber, and it costs us every cent we’ve got to get back to Piper’s house but it’s so worth it.
As we walk up her driveway, Piper grins at me. “I have become a Giver of Zero Fucks,” she announces.
I grin back.
I envy Piper.
I can’t figure out why I can’t seem to be more like her.
Later that night, I work on my blog.
Title: Round Oz
Creator: Cookie Vonn [administrator]
I’ve spent the last two weeks in Oz. I’ve put together a list of fabulous fashion from the land down under. But before I get to that, I’ve got a question. Is life one big role-playing game? Lately, I’ve been thinking about social roles, about what people expect of me, what I expect of them and what I expect of myself. It’s like we’re all in a giant RPG, making a series of moves designed to make ourselves look and feel like a friend, a boyfriend, a son, a daughter, etc. But do we always get to decide what roles we tackle? Or if we want to play the game at all?
When I get back to Phoenix, there’s a package in my room. It’s a case of NutriMin Water. There’s a note from John Potanin attached to a bottle of Perfect Peach. “Love your blog and think it could be the sponsorship opportunity we’re looking for. Contact Lucy for details.”