In the fitness center, they ski on elliptical machines, run on treadmills and submit to what the literature describes as “dynamic body-changing sculpting classes.” Julie Larimore’s motivational tapes are piped into their ears via the ever-present CD and headphones. In short, they are immersed in a program of self-absorption that works, or works for a while. “You’ve got to want the body” is the slogan, and they do.
Hamilton and I didn’t learn anything when we went to the local Killer Body center last week. I decide to try it again, alone.
Unlike the lavish Killer Body headquarters in Santa Barbara, the local place could have easily been a dentist’s office or a photography studio in its past life. It’s jazzed up now, though, with nonstop videotaped success stories and counselors who could be described, with a straight face, as “svelte,” another term that keeps popping up in Killer Body jargon, usually in a reference to Julie Larimore.
As I enter, I hear the music coming from the back. That must be where the workout center is. Once they get you in here, they don’t let you go. I recognize the song, “Personality,” which is “Bobby Warren’s trademark tune.” Because that’s all that matters, right? And that’s why the big ladies ahead of me in line are spending the big bucks. Personality.
The one ahead of me, about the age my mother would be if she were still around, says, “You’re too small to be here. You must have hit goal.”
“I had a weight problem once,” I tell her, which is true.
She nods and moves closer to the glass-topped counter. “Once a problem, always a problem, right?”
Another Killer Bodyism. I wonder how I’d feel if I were her size—or even myself when I was overweight. Would Killer Body intimidate me, or would it offer me the hope I couldn’t findwithin myself? I shut off the questioning reporter in my brain and the questions that are hitting too close to home. Two more women, and it will be my turn.
The tiny reception room, with its mirrored back panel full of Killer Body bars, shakes and jars of supplements, has room for only one chair. On the wall behind the chair is a floor-to-ceiling poster of Julie Larimore against a glossy red background. She’s wearing the red-enamel pendant, the black dress, with the slit and the perfect legs. Above her is the slogan, printed in black against all that red:You have to want the body.
I turn my back to it, wait for my turn.
The receptionist must have wanted the body, because she has it.
“Welcome,” she says, then frowns, as if trying to remember my face. “I’m filling in for Joyce today, going to be your counselor.” She reaches for a large file. “What’s your number?”
That’s a new one. How could Lisa have paid for membership in an organization where she was a number? What could have made her that desperate, that self-demeaning?
The girl does everything but drum her fingers, waiting for my reply. They’re nice fingers, too, with shell-pink polish that matches the stripe on her navy tank top and pants. Her face, in dimmer light, might be attractive. Here, with sun streaming through the window, she’s no Julie Larimore, but she does have a killer body.
“Your number?” She strains for a smile, just about makes it.
“I can’t remember.”
“That’s okay. What’s your name?”
“Lisa Tilton.” I say it before I can reconsider this biggest of lies. In my wildest dreams, I could never be Lisa Tilton.
She surveys me for a moment, taking me in, and I’m scared. I’ve just pretended to be my cousin, and I’m scared.
“Oh, Lisa. Here you are.” She pulls out a plastic-clad green card. “You’re eighteen forty-five, just so you know. Let’s go back to a private office where we can chat. Want me to weigh you in first?”
I’m not sure how to answer that. Finally, clutching the card, I say, “Sure.”
We go into a private room off the reception area. She motions to the scale, a flat, black bed on the floor, a digital device on the table beside it. I experience immediate recall of everything I’ve eaten in the past week, maybe longer. That salmon at Bobby Warren’s party collides with the cheeseburger I ate yesterday, the Heineken I had with it.
Immediately, I step out of my clogs. Not enough. I remove my watch, too clunky, really. I ought to get rid of it. Damn, I need to get rid of everything except the fillings in my teeth.
She witnesses my frantic removal in silence, as if she sees it every day, which she probably does. Then it’s just the two of us, the piped-in music and the scale.
I drank a beer last night,I want to say.Ate a burger.Instead, I suck it up and climb on that big, black teller of truth. Digital numbers flash all over the place. I look to her for guidance. How the hell long should I keep standing here?
She touches my arm in answer to that unspoken question. I all but leap off the scale.
“You’re up a little bit.” She whispers it, although there is no one to hear.
“How much?”
“Just a couple of pounds. Fine for your height, really.” She grins. “Your goals are even more ambitious than mine. Makes it tough sometimes. But you’ve done great, amazing, really, especially considering where you started.”
“Which was?”
