Obstinate and Pliable

….In which the tables are turned.

The Library is jumping tonight.  As I carefully ease open the door, not wanting to interrupt anything, I realize that was a pointless precaution: a bomb could go off in here and no one would even notice.  Zoe is pretending to ignore the general hubbub around her but looks up when I come in, gives an exasperated, now-what shake of the head, and resumes her careful indifference.  Constance is contentedly hand-quilting on the couch by the brightest light.  Narcissus and Cindee are playing something – poker? – at the desk, where, judging by Cindee’s triumphant grin and Narcissus’ petulance, Cindee’s years of drunken bar poker are serving her well tonight.  

Jane and the Machine have just returned from DMK, home of the giant burgers of delicious grass-fed beef and absurdly large piles of blue cheese and bacon fries.  A friend offered dinner in exchange for some of Jane’s insights into a business proposal that needed some refining.  There is a visible, burger-shaped expansion of the Machine’s belly, so I surmise that Jane brought it along so that she could concentrate on the compensation structure while the Machine was busy chomping its way through more than a pound of meat.  The thought sickens me slightly, a sensation that is echoed by the faintly greenish hue that the Machine seems to have turned.  Jane notices my discomfort and tsks crisply.  “Wasn’t paying attention there at the end – we clearly could have done without those last few pickles, eh, Machine?”

::THE MACHINE’S ACTUAL REMAINING DAILY DIETARY REQUIREMENTS WERE FULFILLED APPROXIMATELY 1/5 OF THE WAY THROUGH DINNER.  THE MACHINE CAN CONTINUE OPERATION FOR 6 DAYS TOTAL ON THE CALORIES CONSUMED THIS EVENING::

“My god, that’s revolting,” Narcissus gasps, appalled.  “It’s so…so….excessively American to stuff yourself until your food is visible from the outside of you.” 

“Oh, come off it, Hypocrite McJudgeyPants, I’ve TOTALLY seen you do that with, like Crème Brulee and flourless chocolate cake and whatever,” Cindee shoots back, apparently going for the win in all categories this evening.  “Machine stuffs savory, you stuff sweet: what’s the big diff?  You’re BOTH gross.”

::I EAT WHICHEVER OF THE FIVE BASIC FLAVORS IS IN FRONT OF ME, ACTUALLY:: the Machine intones didactically.

Narcissus’ face twists into a delicate moue of distaste.  “That’s the difference right there, actually – there’s no enjoyment, no satisfaction, no sensation going on when The Machine eats like that.  If I… overindulge - and I’m NOT saying I do – at least I do it out of a true gustatory delight in the experience of my food. * I * am an epicure.  I do not mindlessly shovel in empty calories as if attached to a bottomless feedbag.” She shudders at the very idea.

 Cindee is not convinced.  “Uh….forgive me if I’m wrong, but gustatorily delightful calories are still CALORIES, n’est-ce pas, Porky?  So once again: what’s the difference between you and the Machine?” Narcissus takes this as a cue to throw down her (losing) hand with a flourish and stand abruptly.  “YOU, child, are a PHILISTINE who could not distinguish between AESTHETICS and a HORSE’S ASS.  I am LEAVING.”  As she sweeps toward the exit, Cindee howls after her. “Come back here, you dirty cheater! You can’t leave when you OWE ME MONEY!”  She hops up irately and chases after the diva, who is now scampering more than sweeping; they make a shrieky, argumentative exit from the Library.

During this calamity, Xena and the Professor have had their heads together over a pile of printouts, though admittedly Xena appears to have glazed over somewhat, and only the Professor is scrutinizing them with real interest.  Finally catching sight of Jane, Xena leans back in relief.  “Oh, thank god you’re back; we have work to do with the Machine tonight.” 

Jane is thoughtfully winding the clock on the mantle, which has curiously stopped dead.  “Does this “work” include the QL stretches we got from the chiro today?  Because there’s a good ½ hour of stretching we need to incorporate into the schedule from now on, every day, until this back tightness clears up.  As you know, Xena,” Jane sums imperiously, “lack of proper stretching can lead to INJURY.  Like, say, CALF STRAINS.”

“Oh, SHUT IT, Jane, I KNOW,” Xena growls, as the Professor titters and Zoe smirks briefly before reapplying herself to her inattention.  Even Jane quickly smothers a grin as Xena grumbles on. “We’ll get around to that.  We’ve been looking at weight charts from class…that POINTLESS weight class….”

The Professor breaks in, remonstrating, “Really, Xena, the Machine has made some progress this month, so the class is not pointless.” The Professor indicates the relevant area on her log.  “We’re having some trouble increasing the weight factor on the arm sets because of the speed of the cardio-conditioning portion of the class, and we have slowed considerably in increases to other muscle groups.  And more generally, Xena is of the opinion we should be doing straight up weightlifting, going for a maximum on set reps, rather than taking the cardio-power class at the gym.”

“The class was fine for starting,” Xena advises me dismissively, “but we’re going to make greater strides by tailoring this lifting regime to The Machine’s specific needs, which I think we can start on right now with some REAL iron…”

From across the room, Zoe speaks up. “XENA.  The word is REGIMEN.”

We turn to stare at the source of this unexpected outburst. Eventually, Xena scrunches her face in thought. “Say what?”

“It’s REGIMEN.  You have an exercise REGIMEN.  A regime is a period of time during which a dictator rules, you know, like Hitler’s regime.  Aregiment is something a colonel leads in the army.  A REGIMEN is the medical term for a course of exercise or manner of living intended to better health or achieve some other result.  IS THAT SO HARD TO REMEMBER??”

Silence.

Xena turns back to the Professor.  “So, yeah, as I was saying, The Machine’s lifting regime is going to have to break away from that class if we’re ever going to get anywhere…have you looked at Stumptuous.com?.....”

Funny, I’ve never actually been able to hear anyone grinding their teeth, but that is now what I hear from Zoe, who is seething in syntactical fury into her Martin Miller novel.  Jane is once again preaching caution and curative stretches to the Professor and Xena, and apparently has decided to tag along to the fitness center to see how or whether the proscribed stretches will be incorporated into The Machine’s new, uh, regimen.  The three of them gather up The Machine, who waddles along with them gamely, burger-gut thrusting ahead.  Note to self, I think, as they leave: eating 6 days’ worth of calories makes you look and walk like a duck.  A duck in her third trimester.

So now we are three in the Library: me, Constance, and Zoe, who has loudly slammed her book shut and is now stalking up and down the Persian rug by the windows.  Constance follows her with bright, sympathetic eyes.  “As if it’s not bad enough our every move and mouthful has to be remembered and recorded and made into meaningless charts and graphs, now we have to sacrifice the actual English language in service to meathead exer-speak? What did “regimen” ever do to Xena?  Is it the extra N that is making us so damn fat, ya think?”  She stops, crosses her arms, and looks me up and down.  “This is your fault, you know.  Xena is on a tear because she’s decided exercise is going to correct this “crime” of yours. But you know what? She’s WRONG, because NOTHING WILL WORK.  This is a colossal failure on all fronts, and I don’t know why it has to tie up the entire day, every day.  Don’t you have anything better to do with your life but concern yourself with excess Astrid?”

I am taken a bit off guard, as I always am by Zoe, and look to Constance for support.  She nods her head sagely, but to my surprise, she agrees with Zoe.  “Oh yes, honey, there is absolutely no point to all this carrying on.  But that’s just because – why, because there was no crime at all!  I think we’re seeing about a perfect amount of Astrid these days – such a nice hourglass! And most menfolk I’ve ever known prefer a little padding, though of course,” she chuckles indulgently, “you’d have to ask Cindee about that to know for sure.”

If Zoe was astonished to have someone agree with her, she is outraged at Constance’s justification. “You…you’re kidding, right?  “A little padding?”  This is 30 extra pounds we’re talking about, easy, maybe more!  This is three bowling balls of pure, glistening yellow fat being carried around in some seriously unattractive places!  This is like, a DOG’S WEIGHT in cellulite!  If someone wandered around carrying a schnauzer everywhere, you wouldn’t wonder why she didn’t put the damn thing down once in awhile?”

“Oh honey, you do paint a picture!  But yes, I keep quiet and let Xena and the Professor go on building charts and studying their graphs, because if we’re getting older there’s just more that’s going to go wrong! Weight loss for weight loss’ sake – pure vanity.  And so time-consuming! I totally agree with you that we shouldn’t bother concentrating on it.”

“THAT’S NOT WHAT I SAID,” Zoe enunciates through gritted teeth. 

“Isn’t it?” Constance puzzles.  “But you do think logging and exercising ties up the day?”

“If they RESULTED in anything worthwhile, maybe the time would be well spent, but it’s just so futile – with this crowd.  You can’t get the pack of us in the same room, much less on the same page….how on earth could you believe we could coordinate efforts to achieve anything? And even if you could rein us all in, how could you believe that whatever we could manage would be worth the effort?  This is, like, the same beach-body delusions we’ve been having since we were 12, and it’s never happened, not once!”

“Well, too right, sweetheart, it’s time we let go of those childish notions!  I’m too old to be thinking about what’s attractive anymore – it’s time to own up to age and time and realize we’re never going to get that Athleta model body we’ve wanted!  Better to just slip off gradually into sedentary, relaxing retirement without a lot of sport injuries and bruises….QL strain!  My goodness, if you ask me, exercise is more dangerous than not!”  Constance shakes her head sadly.

“Uh, Constance, have you lost your ever-loving mind?  Do you remember what it was like when Dad’s diabetes finally hit his body so hard?  Bad circulation, foot sores, crappy diet options, 10 kinds of  medicine every day, swollen eyes so he couldn’t even read the time away….in short, he was miserable – always said if he’d known he was going to live that long, he’d have taken better care of himself.  And you KNOW we have genetic markers that make us more like him than any of the siblings…and you just want to just fade off into that kind of pain, that kind of subjection to the body’s betrayal?  SCREW THAT, Constance.”

“Oh, our fate is written in the stars, honey:  we just beat on, boats against the tide.  But just like it was for our poor dear pa – now there was a man who could show some iron when the chips were down, and would have mastered his destiny if it were possible! – what we can do is show some grace and dignity when those days finally happen to us, whenever they are.  Life is just a temporary condition that preceeds a much longer term one!  Isn’t it sort of comforting to know that all our shouting and kicking doesn’t do a lick of good, in the long run?  Because it all goes to the same place – oblivion!”  Constance sighs complacently, seemingly pleased with this idea.  Zoe is staring at her in abject horror. 

“Holy crap – when did you become such a bloody Calvinist?  I suppose you’re going to tell me I’m dying with the taint of Eve’s sin, too?”

I hold up a hand.  “Whoa, Zoe, I agree Constance is sounding a little existential at the moment, but how is her pooh-poohing of our efforts any different than your pooh-poohing of those efforts?  Just like The Machine’s calories being equal to Narcissus’ calories, right?  They both lead to the same thing – neither your or Constance have had a hand in any of the exercising or, come to think of it, in the staying on track with calories, have you?”

Zoe points at Constance accusingly.  “I am not the comfort food junkie. SHE is the one making cashew brittle, buying up all the brisket at Mariano's, whipping up a batch of chocolate chip cookies….why, last week, I saw her giving cookie dough to Eppy.”

Constance nods solemnly at me.  “That’s true, Detective, Eppy and I share a terrible sweet tooth.  And she was just so unhappy about how no one wants to play with her anymore, I couldn’t bear to see her so mopey and discouraged.”  

“Listen, ladies,” I try to bring us back on point, “we’re on this journey to a new lifestyle, right? And we’re on it together, so it behooves us to make a united front and all be playing for the same team as we, uh, travel this path up the rocky mountainside, where obstacles wait to block our best intentions until we, uh, learn to fly! Over them.  The obstacles, I mean.  That is to say….”

Zoe is still flustered by Constance turning her own crabby stubbornness against her, but that doesn’t mean she’s going to let me mix my metaphors willy-nilly.  “I don’t give a good god damn about your intention’s journey to a new lifestyle, however THAT is accomplished by a “flying team”, or your diet and exericise REGIME.  I can tell you that NO ONE is determining my fate, sister, and no one is going to trick me into working out and making graphs 5 hours a day just to be a good sport!”

Constance smiles benignly, standing and collecting her Shandy glass.  “Well, honey, it certainly sounds to me like you’ve determined your fate right there!”  She hums to herself – sounds like maybe “Suspicious Minds” - as she bustles herself out of the Library, leaving Zoe, pretty sure she should be furious about SOMETHING, behind her.