Unbearable Lightness Part 5

"Mickey Rourke lived here. He just moved out, oh . . . what . . . it'd be a couple of months now. He had three little dogs, Chihuahuas I believe." It annoyed me that people find celebrity so impressive that they have to talk about it. What annoyed me more was that I was impressed. Somehow the building was instantly more valuable to me just because a celebrity had lived in it.

"I'll show you his apartment if you like, but don't tell the agent-I'll get in trouble." Jeff spoke from the corner of his mouth in an exaggerated whisper even though there was no one else in the lobby to overhear. It was dramatic and I would usually have found it annoying, but I liked the fact that he'd invited me to share a secret with him. It felt warm, welcoming.

"It's on the ground floor, but I like it more than the penthouse you're going to see because it has the beautiful coffered ceilings, you know."

On our way see Mickey Rourke's apartment, Jeff told me of other celebrities who had lived at the Granville: Brendan Fraser, David Bowie, and Amy Locane. Michael Michele, an actress on ER ER, was a current resident.

"You know, the place was built in 1929 and it was called the Voltaire. It was a hotel back then, but sometime after that it was made into apartments and apparently, though there's no real proof of this, Marilyn Monroe lived here with Joe DiMaggio."

Jeff wore a jacket and tie. In fact, everything about him was old-fashioned. He seemed to be part of the history he so loved to talk about, as if he lived in a black-and-white movie. If he weren't so enamored with movie stars, I could also picture him living in the South before the Civil War. I could see him as a gentleman on a plantation in Georgia in his hunter green library dwarfed by ceiling-high shelves filled with leather-bound books. But Jeff clearly loved Hollywood, and he loved his job. He was the doorman, the gatekeeper of the Granville Towers, and his excitement over me made me feel as though I could be one of his movie star stories, just as Mickey Rourke and his dogs and his ceilings will forever be one of his stories.

The penthouse apartment wasn't spectacular. It didn't have the molding on the baseboards or the high coffered ceiling that Mickey's had. It wasn't particularly s.p.a.cious, and the views, although beautiful from the east window, were blocked on the north side by the Virgin Megastore building at Sunset 5, the shopping complex next door to the Granville. In fact, from the first floor of the apartment, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows on the north side created the optical illusion of a scorching desert. The yellow paint on the Sunset 5 building looked like sand and the heat that spewed out from the air conditioning vents on the roof created that warped-air look of a heat wave. After seeing the small galley kitchen and the modest bedroom and living room, we took the staircase next to the public elevator that led to the attic above the penthouse apartment, while the real estate agent explained to me the resale potential if I connected the penthouse apartment to the attic with an interior staircase. I hadn't planned on renovating, but when I saw the view from the s.p.a.cious high-ceilinged attic I no longer had a choice. I had never been so excited in my life. On the north wall were thirty or so large windows in rows of three, pitched in an A-frame, and beyond the windows, instead of the desert that I saw from the floor below, was the vast industrial roof of the Sunset 5. Clouds of smoke billowed from the metal chimneys and swirled in the wind, occasionally clearing to show the enormous steel tubes in a cross-section of right angles looking like the indecipherable circuit boards my brother as a kid used to spend hours soldering wires onto to make LEDs light up. The s.p.a.ce was currently being used as a studio for the portrait photographer who owned the unit, and the tungsten lights and paper backdrops clamped onto C-stands made the apartment even more loftlike. I felt as though I had been transported to an artist's loft in a city like Philadelphia, which was much more exciting to me than where I actually was. Where I was, was predictable. But the apartment made me think there was more to life than being an actress on a David Kelley show. It made me remember who I used to be and where I had wanted to live if I had stayed in law school in Melbourne: in a nongentrified artist neighborhood off Brunswick Street, the place that made me happier than any other place on earth. For on Brunswick Street I was gay. I wore motorcycle boots, had slightly dreadlocked hair, and wrapped leather around my wrists. I drank beer at the Provincial and ate penne Amatriciana at Mario's and saw indie bands with my best friend, Bill.

"I'll take it."

I left my new apartment with its own industrial city and flew past Jeff, the doorman, in a hurry. I had to get back to my sublet in Hanc.o.c.k Park in time to make dinner. Since lowering my calorie intake to exactly 1,000 calories a day, I discovered that the best time to eat dinner was at exactly six o'clock to give my body a head start in burning the calories. If I ate at six, I still had five or six hours to move around before I lay still for six hours. If I ate any later than that, I worried that overnight the unused calories would turn to fat. I discovered that although I didn't want to lower my calorie intake to under 1,000, as anything lower would be the equivalent of crash dieting, I could speed up the weight loss by increasing the amount of exercise and eating at the right times. Occasionally, if I felt particularly energetic, I could squeeze in a quick workout before bed and if I didn't actually get on the treadmill, I would do sit-ups and leg lifts on the floor next to my bed.

When I got home, I prepared four ounces of lean ground turkey and a spattering of ketchup, cooked with Pam and lightly sprayed with I Can't Believe It's Not b.u.t.ter spray. As annoying as the name of the product was, every time I doused my food with the stuff I would silently congratulate the marketing team behind the brand. For yes, I too, couldn't believe it wasn't b.u.t.ter. More than that, I couldn't believe something that delicious didn't have any calories. I sprayed it on everything. It tasted great with my morning oatmeal, mixed into my tuna at lunch, and was a perfect partner for my ground turkey with ketchup at dinner. It even tasted delicious as an ingredient of a dessert I concocted: Jell-O, Splenda, and I Can't Believe It's Not b.u.t.ter spray all mixed together. At 10 calories per serving, it satisfied my sweet tooth and was my favorite new recipe that I had created. I had never thought of myself as a chef before, but I was quite impressed with my cooking. I was impressed that I had the ability to take foods that weren't usually paired and put them together for a delicious, low-calorie meal.

I picked up the phone before deciding which number to dial. Kali? Erik? Would either of them care about my new apartment? I had originally wanted to live with Erik. I wanted to buy an apartment that was big enough so I could have Erik as my roommate. But the thought of what the pantry in the kitchen would look like stopped me from pursuing it. Erik would buy food. All kinds of food would a.s.sault me as I opened the cupboard to reach in for a can of tuna. And I would have to prepare myself mentally every time I opened the refrigerator, as maybe one of those foods would tempt me enough to trigger a binge. On Sundays he might invite friends over to watch a game, eat pizza, and I would be left alone cleaning up the kitchen with the tortuous decision of whether to eat the remaining slice or throw it in the trash. Even if I threw it in the trash I couldn't be certain that the thought of eating it wouldn't keep me up all night, worried that I would retrieve it and eat the cold discarded piece despite the fact that it smelled of cigarette ash and beer. I would certainly get up out of bed and eat it. Then, knowing that I'd blown it, I'd have to keep going. I'd eat every bit of his food, his potato chips, and his leftover Chinese food, his breakfast cereal, and those chocolate cookies he eats when he needs to be comforted. My kitchen would be a dangerous temptress-and she would constantly flirt with the fat slob inside.

In my new apartment my fridge will be spa.r.s.e. My cupboard will be bare. My house will be safe.

I picked up the phone to dial Ann in New York. I couldn't help but feel like a conversation with her would feel more like the second round of a boxing match than a celebration of my new apartment. Since the underwear episode on the show, Ann and I had barely spoken. Upon further evaluation of her comment about my looking like a normal woman in my underwear, I was quite sure she wasn't aware that she was insulting me. However, I was sure she was careful not to compliment me, either. She had expressed her opinions about not emphasizing looks and weight and had tried to get me to read feminist literature like Naomi Wolf's The Beauty Myth The Beauty Myth. No, Ann didn't mean anything by it. Nevertheless, I couldn't let a comment like that slip by again without retaliation. My gloves were on, ready to strike if Ann was being insensitive.

"AC. PdR"

"PdR!"

For some reason, when Ann and I first became friends, I had to call her by her full name, Ann Catrina, when I was referring to her. Then I had to say her full name to her face. Eventually it got so tedious to call her Ann Catrina, I shortened it to AC. She reciprocated by calling me PdR. So now we have that.

I excitedly told her about my new place while pouring my fourth Diet c.o.ke; a low-calorie subst.i.tute for the wine I used to drink with dinner. Not drinking was yet another healthy change I had made since taking nutrition and fitness seriously. I told her about what had happened in St. Barths with Sacha. She said she was glad because she seemed to think there was a great gay girl out there who could really love me. That if I kept chasing Sacha as she was busy chasing men, I would miss this wonderful, proud-to-be-gay girl as I ran right by. What she couldn't quite tell me was how this self-confident, happy gay woman was going to meet a closeted Portia and be perfectly okay with going back into the closet to be her secret girlfriend. Where would I meet her? Would it occur at a supermarket when our shopping carts accidentally collided and we telepathically exchanged the information that we were gay, available, and interested? Ann Catrina needed to understand that there wasn't a solution to this problem. To shut her up, I told her the most disturbing information: "There's a morality clause in the L'Oreal contract."

"A . . . what now?"

"It states that if I'm caught doing something that damages the image of the company, I'll have to pay all the money back. I'll have to pay back the advance, everything."

My agent and manager had called me to go over the contract just before the fitting. Remembering how I sat in the car with the cell phone to my ear, having to pull over in order to calm myself, I felt as sick telling Ann about it as I had when it was told to me. The clause cited examples like public drunkenness, arrests, et cetera, but I knew that it would include h.o.m.os.e.xuality. The wording of the contract was vague, and I was unsure exactly what would const.i.tute a breach of the contract and how "morality" was defined. The whole thing made me sick. I was so scared about the morality clause I didn't want to even talk about it. I just wanted her to stop talking about how easy it would be for me to live my life openly. I just wanted her to shut up about it.

Before she could ask any questions or try to reason with me, I told her about my nutritionist.

"She has you on one thousand calories a day?"

"Yes. Well, no. I modified the diet a little. She told me to eat fourteen hundred for weight loss, but I wasn't really losing weight so I got rid of some extra calories here and there."

"She thinks you need to lose weight?"

"Yes. Oh. I don't know. We haven't really talked about that."

"What do you talk about, then?"

"Eating healthily. You know. Not gaining and losing all the time like I've been doing."

The more I talked, the more concern I could hear in her voice. Which annoyed me. She didn't understand the pressures of being an actress, of showing up to a photo shoot where the wardrobe was nothing but handcuffs and a strip of chainmail. She didn't know what it was like to try to find a dress for the Golden Globes and having only one good option because it was the only sample size dress that fit your portly body. She didn't know what it was like to hear that you have a normal-looking body after starving for weeks to get a thin-looking one, hoping that your friends would admire it. "Normal" isn't an adjective you wish to hear after putting that much effort into making sure it was spectacular.

"Ann. I gotta go."

"Go pour yourself a gla.s.s of wine and relax about it all. You've always looked great, PdR. There's nothing to worry about."

Right. Like I was going to drink wine two days before the L'Oreal shoot.

"Okay, AC. See you later."

"Oh! Before you go, can I stay with you in a couple of weeks? I'll be in town for a few days. A friend from UCLA just got engaged, so I thought I'd come to LA for the party."

No. No, you can't stay. Even if you come after I shoot L'Oreal, I need to keep going now this diet has started working for me. I need to eat at exactly six o'clock every night, and I can't drink alcohol with you like we used to. I can't go out to dinner anymore. I don't get to take a night or two off where I can eat whatever I want. I'm about to look good for the first time in my life, and for the first time I know I'm never going to gain it back again. So I can't take a few days off. If I eat and drink, I'll gain again. Besides, I don't even have the room anymore. I need to work out on my treadmill at 10:00 at night and 6:00 in the morning in the spare bedroom where you're expecting to stay.

"Yes. Of course you can. When?"

"Around the fifteenth. I'll email you."

I hung up the phone. The fifteenth was twelve days away. So I gave myself a new goal. Over the next twelve days, I would eat 800 calories a day. I needed to give myself a cushion so I could enjoy my time with Ann and not worry about gaining weight. If I lost a little more than I'd originally planned to lose, I would regulate my weight loss again after she left because I knew that weight lost too quickly was sure to return. Suzanne told me that. So I opened my journal and in the top right-hand corner of every dated page for the next twelve days I wrote 800. I would be ready for Ann's visit. I even looked forward to it.

I weighed myself first thing. I was 120 pounds. Actually I was probably a pound more, but my mother once showed me a trick to play on the scale where you set the dial a couple of pounds below the zero, but in a way that isn't very obvious to the logical part of your brain-especially from standing height looking down. If the needle sidles up to the zero, sitting next to it but not quite touching it, your brain is tricked into thinking that the needle needs to start in that position or the reading will be inaccurate. In fact, if you tap your toe on the scale the needle often resets itself to zero anyway, so to me lining up the dial perfectly with the zero was like sitting on a fence. Like I should've picked a side. Shall I choose denial of truth on the side that reads heavier but with the comfort of knowing that in reality I'm lighter, or shall I choose the immediate thrill of weighing in under the real number, to help with incentive?

I hated that zero. The zero is the worst part of the scale because the zero holds all the hope and excitement for what could be. It tells you that you can be anything you want if you work hard; that you make your own destiny. It tells you that every day is a new beginning. But that hadn't been true for me until recently. Because no matter what I did, no matter how much weight I lost, I always seemed to end up in the same place; standing on a scale looking down past my naked protruding belly and round thighs at 130 pounds.

But I was 120. It was the day of the L'Oreal commercial shoot. I should've been happy and yet I felt disturbed. My stomach was protruding very badly. It looked distended, almost. Or as my mother would put it, it looked like a poisoned pup. I hated it when stupid phrases like that popped into my mind. I hated that I had no control over my thoughts. But I especially hated that my stomach looked bloated and yet the rest of my body felt thinner. What was the point of dieting like I'd been doing, if on the most important day, my stomach was sticking out like a sore thumb?

I walked to the shower and punched my stupid stomach as I went. What could have caused this? The night before I ate only 200 calories of tuna with b.u.t.ter spray and mustard. How could I still see so much fat on my stomach? I stood under the shower and watched the water run between my b.r.e.a.s.t.s and over my stomach, cascading onto the shower floor from just past my navel because of the shelf that the protrusion of bulging fat had made. I picked up inches of fat with my fingers. It wasn't just bloat, it was fat. It was real fat; not something that I could take away by drinking water and sitting in a sauna. I'd ignorantly thought I wouldn't have any fat at 120 pounds.

I felt sick. I felt like I couldn't face the L'Oreal executives and the stylist again after what had happened last time. My suits were at least bigger, but with my stomach puffed out like this, I didn't know if that would even matter. What if I didn't fit into anything again? I started to cry. Stupid weakling that I am, I had to cry and make my eyes puffy to match my puffy body. I had finished shampooing my head when I realized that I used the wrong shampoo. With all the crying and obsessing about my stomach, I accidentally used cheap shampoo instead of the L'Oreal shampoo I was supposed to use the morning of the commercial. Now I would have red puffy eyes, a fat stomach, and hair that felt like straw to bring to the set. A derisive laugh escaped my throat as I realized that I was the spokesperson for the new shampoo but didn't use the shampoo that I'm selling because subconsciously I didn't believe the famous L'Oreal slogan, "Because I'm worth it."

"Because I'm not worth it." I said it out loud looking at a zit on my chin in the mirror using the same inflection the other L'Oreal girls use to tell the world that they are worth it: the same inflection that I'd use that day. It sounded funny so I kept saying it as I walked around the house.

"Because I'm not worth it," as I looked for pretty underwear that I didn't have among the ugly, stretched-out panties in my drawer. That I didn't think to buy some pretty, new underwear for the shoot was unbelievable to me.

"Because I'm not worth it," I said as I sipped my black coffee, wishing I were thin enough to have creamer in it because the strong black coffee tasted putrid and a.s.saulted my taste buds. I skipped breakfast altogether because I wasn't worth it.

As I picked up my cell phone and walked to the door, I was aware of the time for the first time that morning. I was late. I should've been at the set already, and I didn't even know where I was going. With a surge of adrenaline, I rushed out the door and down the stairs, trying to decipher directions from the map. I was the star of the commercial and I was going to be late. All those people would be waiting for me. The L'Oreal executives, the director, the hairstylist and makeup artist who were both so renowned they had published books and signature product lines-all of them were waiting for me. Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe that's what stars were supposed to do. They're supposed to display their power by making other people wait for them. As I caught one red light after another, I had a choice to be in a frenzy of anxiety or relax into a character that keeps people waiting-like an R&B diva or a rock star. The lyrics of "Pennyroyal Tea" came to my mind. "I'm on my time with everyone." It was easier to play that character than to care.

17.

WHEN ANN arrived I was still not at my goal weight. Although I had worked hard and I was ready to eat and drink with her, I still had weight to lose. I was 115 pounds and my goal was 110. I still had big thighs. I still saw round bulging thighs when I looked in the mirror. I didn't know if getting to 110 would take the bulges and the roundness away, but it was worth losing the extra pounds to try to make them straight. I just wanted them to look straight. Still, I needed to at least allow myself to have a drink with Ann Catrina, as it had been a while since I had seen any of my friends and I needed to have a little fun. Besides, I knew that depression caused weight gain because of some kind of chemical in your body that is released if you're unhappy and that can slow down your metabolism. Cortisol? Something like that. arrived I was still not at my goal weight. Although I had worked hard and I was ready to eat and drink with her, I still had weight to lose. I was 115 pounds and my goal was 110. I still had big thighs. I still saw round bulging thighs when I looked in the mirror. I didn't know if getting to 110 would take the bulges and the roundness away, but it was worth losing the extra pounds to try to make them straight. I just wanted them to look straight. Still, I needed to at least allow myself to have a drink with Ann Catrina, as it had been a while since I had seen any of my friends and I needed to have a little fun. Besides, I knew that depression caused weight gain because of some kind of chemical in your body that is released if you're unhappy and that can slow down your metabolism. Cortisol? Something like that.

Eating 800 calories a day was difficult. Not because it was too little food but because it was too much. One thousand calories divided perfectly into my daily meals, but no matter how I tried, I couldn't quite get 800 to fit. I removed the egg whites from the breakfast menu, opting to eat a serving midmorning, which left me with just the oatmeal. I had gotten used to eating the reduced portion of the prepackaged single serving of oatmeal and now it weighed in at 60 calories a serving. I added some blueberries, Splenda, and the b.u.t.ter spray so with the teaspoon of Mocha Mix I got my 100-calorie breakfast. I ate 60 calories of egg whites at around ten o'clock. One hundred and fifty calories of tuna with 50 additional calories for tomatoes, pickles, and lettuce was ample for lunch. Three ounces of turkey with b.u.t.ternut squash was around 300 calories and then an additional 40 calories for miscellaneous things-like gum or Crystal Light and coffee throughout the day-brought my total in at around 700. Quite often, if I was working and didn't have time to prepare the egg whites, then the daily total would be somewhere in the low six hundreds.

I fine-tuned my workout regimen. On days when I didn't have to go to the studio, I would begin my workout at exactly 6:00. On days I worked, I got out of bed at 4:15. I ran for forty-five minutes on the treadmill at 6.0 on a 1 incline. I didn't like running uphill. It did something weird to my lower back, but I felt I had to run harder and with my stomach tight to make up for it as most people run on an incline. I did sit-ups after my run. I did exactly 105 sit-ups. I wanted to do 100, but the 5 extra sit-ups allowed for some sloppy ones during my ten sets of ten reps. If I had time, I would do leg lifts: 105 with each leg. In addition to my workouts at home, I went to Mari Windsor Pilates and got a Pilates trainer. A costar had gone there and I'd read about Pilates in magazines so I thought I'd try it. It seemed that most celebrities were doing it, and I felt it was a particularly appropriate body-sculpting workout for me because it was originally designed for dancers and I used to be a dancer. It was slightly intimidating, however, because the other clients there were so thin and toned. It was a new goal to be thinner and more muscular than the other women at the Pilates studio, which ultimately was a good thing, because I have always thrived on healthy compet.i.tion. After I was confident that I had the best body of all the paying customers, I would set my sights on the trainers.

Round Three: I was in my corner and Ann was in hers. Ann, a featherweight from New York City takes on Portia, the middleweight from sunny Southern California. Ann rang the bell by saying: "Okay, I understand that you want to lose weight, but you should have some perspective on how much you're losing-like some way of measuring that isn't necessarily a scale. I know for me, there are clothes that are tight when I've gained weight and a little loose when I've lost weight. Certainly you have that, too. Like if you can fit comfortably into your skinny jeans, or if they're just a little loose, you're done losing weight, right?" She took a sip of wine, stroked my dog sitting in her lap, and waited for my response. I could tell that this conversation wasn't easy for her. And while I was quite chuffed that she'd care enough to have it with me, I wished she'd just shut up.

According to her laws, I guess I had no perspective. But what's perspective when you started out fat? Why would I ever want those jeans to be a little loose when they were a 28 waist? I couldn't tell her this, of course, because then we'd have to talk about how now I was on TV and that the "normal" life I lived at my "normal" weight no longer applied. I couldn't sit there and brag about how I was different now because I was on TV. I just wished she understood that without me having to explain it.

I was losing weight, though. I ordered a pair of 26 waist pants that took four weeks to arrive, and they were too big, too big by at least a size, maybe even two. I was really disturbed by this because I thought I'd looked good four weeks ago. G.o.d, I did a photo shoot for Flair Flair four weeks ago and the magazine hadn't even come out yet. How disgusting that that was what people would think I looked like. four weeks ago and the magazine hadn't even come out yet. How disgusting that that was what people would think I looked like.

I guess some time had slid by without a response and Ann didn't like silence in a conversation, so she continued: "I have to tell you something."

Here it comes, I thought. Here comes the part where she tells me I drink too much and right now I'm too drunk to take it well.

"You're too thin."

It was all I could do not to laugh. Really. The laughter was in my torso somewhere waiting to escape, but I stuffed it down because her face was so serious, plus I was enjoying it so much-the thought of being too thin. That's funny: too thin. Just this morning on the set I had to clench my b.u.t.tocks as I walked through the law office on a full-length lens because if I walked normally the part where my hips meet my thighs bulged out rhythmically with each step: left fat bulge, right fat bulge, left fat bulge, and cue dialogue, "You wanted to see me?" Too thin. She continued talking about my arms being sinewy and veiny and how I looked like an eleven-year-old and that it wasn't attractive, but I just wanted to laugh. Oh, why not just enjoy this surreal moment and laugh? My face was contorting to control it from escaping anyway. I knew my face well enough to know that it's a traitor to my mind. It gives away all my secrets. And so I laughed. I laughed really hard.

"I'm sorry. It's not funny. I don't know why I'm finding it funny. It's not funny. It's just . . . you're so serious!"

"This is serious! You didn't have dinner tonight. And you don't look good, P. I think you've lost perspective."

My laughter died away. Not because what she was saying made sense to me but because I knew it was just an illusion created by my clothes or the way I was sitting.

It's not real. I'm not really thin. Should I show her my stomach and the rolls of fat? Or do I sit here on the floor and keep the pose that's making her think that I am thin so I can enjoy this moment longer?

I never wanted it to go away. I knew the minute I stood, it would be over. Or when I changed out of these magical jeans and into my pajamas. I was jutting out my collarbone subtly and separating my arm from my body to make her not feel stupid or wrong. She was going to realize it tomorrow, but for right now I knew she needed to be right and I needed to hear that I was thin. So I kept posing as a poor, starved waif until she stopped talking.

"Does any of what I'm saying make sense to you?"

What could I do? Answer her honestly? Say, no, AC, none of this makes sense because none of it is true. Even if you think you are telling me the truth, that I'm too thin, it's just your truth, your perspective. It's not society's perspective, the clothing designers' perspective. If it was, then models would have curves and actresses would have round faces and designers would make sample dresses bigger. What did she know? She was at NYU getting her master's in . . . something. Business? Besides, I'd never gotten so much attention for having a good body. I had just been featured in In Style In Style for having the "Look of the Week." for having the "Look of the Week." US Weekly US Weekly gave me the "Best Dressed" accolade for the Rick Owens dress I wore to the Fox party. And last week Vera told me that I was her favorite actress to dress. I'd never gotten so many compliments. Everyone told me I looked fantastic. gave me the "Best Dressed" accolade for the Rick Owens dress I wore to the Fox party. And last week Vera told me that I was her favorite actress to dress. I'd never gotten so many compliments. Everyone told me I looked fantastic.

"P, I'm just concerned, that's all."

"And I appreciate it, but there's nothing to worry about. I ate dinner."

"You didn't have dinner."

I had dinner. I ate grilled vegetables. I did stop eating them, though, because I could tell that they had used a lot of olive oil to cook them. I didn't wear any lip balm because I wanted to make sure I could detect if anything I ate was cooked with oil. I couldn't tell how much oil was used unless I had nothing waxy or oily on my lips. Besides, who knew whether the shea b.u.t.ter in lip balm contained calories that you could accidentally ingest? I had to worry about all the incidental calories, the hidden calories. Oil has a lot of calories and is a hidden ingredient in so many foods.

Oil is really my main problem right now.

"Look." I thrust my winegla.s.s in her face. "I'm drinking alcohol! Plenty of calories in that."

G.o.d. I've drunk my weight in wine and she thinks I have a problem?

Ann shifted Bean slightly on her lap and looked around the room. She looked intently into each of the living room's corners as if searching for a way to change the subject. Her eyes settled on the open kitchen door. They remained there and I realized that my kitchen scale and a calorie counter were probably what she was looking at. While it occurred to me that there was a slim chance she actually thought I was too thin, I had decided moments ago that she was just jealous. Who wouldn't be? While I knew I wasn't skinny, it was obvious that I had gained control over my weight, which is a huge feat worthy of jealousy. Everyone wants to be in control of their weight.

"So. How was the L'Oreal shoot?"

"Great . . . really fun, actually. I think it'll be a pretty good commercial. I had to do that cla.s.sic 'hair shot.' You know, where they fan out your hair? I felt pretty stupid doing that, but it should turn out okay." I took a sip of my wine. I wanted to tell her that I fit into my clothes and that most of them were even too big, but I couldn't. Usually, that would be the kind of thing we'd talk about, but after her rant about my being too thin, I had to keep quiet about the one thing that made me really happy. I wanted to tell her that they kept testing me by telling a PA to ask me if I wanted to eat or drink anything, like lunch or coffee, and I pa.s.sed the test. I didn't eat all day and everyone was really impressed because they kept talking about it and asking me over and over again if I wanted food. I wanted to tell her that I got back at that b.i.t.c.h of a stylist for announcing to the L'Oreal executives that I was a size 8, by being too thin for her precious clothes. I wanted to describe the tailor's facial expression when she had to rush to take in the skirts that she once said didn't have "enough in the seam" to take out. But I couldn't. So I told her that I had fun and everyone was really nice. It was the kind of answer I'd give in an interview.

Just as I began to feel sorry for myself for having to lie to everyone, including my best friend, I remembered something that I thought she'd find funny.

"Well, there was one thing that was pretty funny. At one point the makeup guy and his a.s.sistant started talking about whether I could do makeup as well as the hair products-if I had good enough facial features . . ."

"That's great," she interrupted. "L'Oreal wants you to sell makeup as well?"

"No. No. They don't. My G.o.d, Ann-it was hilarious. They went through every part of my face-in front of me-tearing each feature apart like, 'What about lips?' And then the a.s.sistant would say, 'Well, she has lovely lips, but her teeth are a little crooked and not that white.' And then they got to my eyes. They almost agreed on mascara because I have really thick eyelashes until one of them mentioned that my eyes were too small."

I already knew that I had small eyes. Us Weekly Us Weekly told me. Thank G.o.d for that because before the article I thought my eyes were fairly normal and I treated them as such. Without their proper diagnosis, I couldn't apply the correct antidote to disguise this flaw. It was a piece on beauty and how the reader, if she identified with a particular flaw that could be seen on a celebrity, could deemphasize the problem. I had, "small, close-together eyes." I took their advice and have since applied dark swooping upward lines at the corners to lessen the appearance of the smallness and roundness of my close-together, beady little eyes. told me. Thank G.o.d for that because before the article I thought my eyes were fairly normal and I treated them as such. Without their proper diagnosis, I couldn't apply the correct antidote to disguise this flaw. It was a piece on beauty and how the reader, if she identified with a particular flaw that could be seen on a celebrity, could deemphasize the problem. I had, "small, close-together eyes." I took their advice and have since applied dark swooping upward lines at the corners to lessen the appearance of the smallness and roundness of my close-together, beady little eyes.

"Anyway. It was pretty funny."

"That doesn't sound funny to me."

By the furrow in her brow, I could tell that unless I left the room I would be listening to another lecture-this time about how the L'Oreal executives aren't the experts and how I'm perfect the way I am. I would have had to nod my head and pretend to agree with her even though we both knew that I wasn't perfect and that L'Oreal clearly are the experts.

"I'm so sorry, AC, but I gotta go to bed because I have to get up early. You got everything you need? You good?"

"Yeah. I'll go to bed in a minute. And I won't see you before I leave, I guess, but I'm here if you want to talk. Call me anytime, okay?"

"Okay. Good night." I bent down and hugged her. I adored AC. She had only ever wanted the best for me. Unfortunately, she didn't understand that what was best for me before getting the show and what was best for me now were two different things.

I glanced at the treadmill as I pa.s.sed the guest bedroom door on my way to the bathroom. Get on the treadmill. Get on the treadmill. I couldn't even imagine how many calories were in those three gla.s.ses of wine. The voice in my head told me that I was lazy, that I didn't deserve a day off, but there was nothing I could do about it and so I brushed my teeth and slipped into bed. I couldn't even imagine how many calories were in those three gla.s.ses of wine. The voice in my head told me that I was lazy, that I didn't deserve a day off, but there was nothing I could do about it and so I brushed my teeth and slipped into bed.

Lying in bed was always the worst time of the day. If I hadn't done all that I could do to help myself, I imagined what the insides of my body were doing. As I lay motionless and waiting for sleep, I stared at the ceiling and imagined molecular energy like the scientific renditions I'd seen in science cla.s.s as a kid, shaped like hectagons and forming blocks of fat in my body-honeycomb parasites attaching to my thighs. Or I'd see fat in a cooling frying pan and imagined the once vital liquid energy slowly coagulating into cold, white fat, coating the red walls in my body like a virus. The unused calories in my body caused me anxiety because I was just lying there, pa.s.sively allowing the fat to happen, just as I had pa.s.sively allowed myself to keep ballooning to 130 pounds. But did I have the energy to get out of bed and do sit-ups? The wine had made me lazy. I had the anxiety, but I was too lethargic to relieve myself of it by working out. I could've thrown up. But if I threw up the wine, Ann might have heard and then she'd never get off my case. If I threw up, then she'd feel validated and I'd feel stupid because that's not what I did anymore. I was healthy now. I had the willpower not to crash diet and then binge and purge. I had solved that problem.

I got out of bed and onto the floor to start my sit-ups. I couldn't think that I had solved the problem of my weight fluctuating if I just lay in bed allowing the sugar in the wine to turn into fat. As I began my crunches, I heard Ann getting ready for bed. I could hear her checking her messages on her cell phone and I could vaguely make out a man's voice on the other end. As she turned out the light and got into the bed that I'd moved against the wall to make way for the treadmill, I couldn't help but wish I were her. I wished I were a student living in New York, dating and going to parties. I wished I could travel to another city and stay over at a friend's house without worrying about what I was going to eat. I wished I could just eat because I was hungry. I wished my life wasn't about how I looked especially because how I looked was my least favorite part of myself. I wished I had a life where I could meet someone I could marry.

18.

What did you eat last night?

I awoke to this question in a room that was still slightly unfamiliar even though I had lived in the new apartment for over a month. As I calmed myself by running through the list of foods I'd eaten the day before, I noticed a crack on the bedroom ceiling where it met the wall and was beginning to run toward the window that faced the yellow desert that was the wall of the Sunset 5. Not only was the bedroom still slightly unfamiliar to me, but the whole downstairs level also, as I only ate and slept on the first floor, spending most of my waking hours upstairs in the attic. My treadmill was upstairs in the attic and it was beckoning me as it always did after I had completed my mental calculations of calories in and out. The treadmill was really the only thing up there and was perfectly centered in the attic, between the wall of windows that showcased the industrial city that was the roof of the Sunset 5 and the east windows through which I could see all the way downtown. The wall opposite the smokestacks acted as a bulletin board where I had taped pieces of paper. Because the walls would soon be replastered and repainted, they were not precious; they had no value other than as a place to put my thoughts. Mostly the pieces of paper were exaggerated to-do lists. I say "exaggerated" because they said things that were more like goals that I wanted to achieve than things that needed to be done. The largest piece of paper with the boldest writing stated, I WILL BE 105 POUNDS BY CHRISTMAS. Another stated, I WILL STAR IN A BIG-BUDGET MOVIE NEXT SUMMER.

Starring in a movie had only recently become important to me, as Lucy Liu had just gotten Charlie's Angels Charlie's Angels. Suddenly being a cast member on Ally McBeal Ally McBeal didn't seem to be enough anymore. Everyone at work was reading movie scripts and going on auditions. I often recited my audition lines while I was on the treadmill. I recited them out loud, loudly, over the noisy whirring and the thud of my footfall as I jogged at a 5.5/1 incline. I also put a TV up there with a VCR so I could run and watch movies, which was so much better than sitting to watch them. I had discovered that I could do a lot on the treadmill. I could read books and scripts and knit on the treadmill. didn't seem to be enough anymore. Everyone at work was reading movie scripts and going on auditions. I often recited my audition lines while I was on the treadmill. I recited them out loud, loudly, over the noisy whirring and the thud of my footfall as I jogged at a 5.5/1 incline. I also put a TV up there with a VCR so I could run and watch movies, which was so much better than sitting to watch them. I had discovered that I could do a lot on the treadmill. I could read books and scripts and knit on the treadmill.

As I began my morning workout, I looked over at the cards on the left of the to-do list which ran down the length of the wall.

111.