If I didn’t like her so much, I would hate her (although part of me secretly does. She and her skinny jeans can suck it). Over the last year, she has continued to drop weight from her tiny frame, while I continue to gain it on my ever expanding frame.
If we were cars, she would be built on the frame of an adorable Mini Cooper that would be purchased by a wealthy father for his adorably tiny 16 year old cheerleader daughter.
I, on the other hand, would be built on the frame of an F-150 and would be purchased by the 300 pound farmer for use hauling manure on the farm. (But hey, at least I’d be more useful than a short skirted teen yelling out how to spell “defense.” I got it. I passed the fifth grade.)
What’s even more infuriating than her rapid and constant weight loss, is her allegation that she has no idea how she is loosing the weight. She says it just keeps dropping and she doesn’t really know how she’s doing it. Bitch.
Although I like my friend, I dislike her incessant weight loss. I’ve been trying to deal with this issue internally like a good friend does. I’ve accomplished this feat by talking about her behind her back and constantly rolling my eyes whenever she looks away.
I do all of this without her knowing because I’m a really considerate friend that way and I don’t want to hurt her feelings.
But now it’s just getting ridiculous. Saturday she arrived at my house to go to lunch with me and my friend Pajama Jeans (not her real name). The three of us planned a long girls’ lunch at one of our favorite local restaurants. (And no, it wasn’t the Quick Trip, although that’s a completely reasonable guess.)
Pajama Jeans arrived at my house first, and we discussed Skinnypants’s weight loss, and realized our burning dislike of her was directly proportional to the amount of weight she lost. We agreed that if we wanted to save the friendship, we would have to stage an intervention with her.
After all, we didn’t want to lose our friend, but we also couldn’t be seen with someone who could actually fit into t-shirts from the children’s section at The Gap. (Wearing a child’s Elmo t-shirt, whether done ironically or not, is just not something we could support.)
Skinnypants solidified our decision to proceed with an intervention when she walked into my house for lunch. She was wearing a tank top and adorable skinny white jeans. Was she trying to slap us in the face? White jeans? And skinny white jeans?
Typically, white makes the wearer look heavier, or in my case, makes me look even larger than my stated poundage. But somehow, Skinnypants managed to look adorable in the white jeans. For a brief moment, I considered throwing ketchup all over her to ruin her perfect outfit, but I’m lazy and didn’t want to clean up the mess.
I also didn’t want to waste such a precious condiment on someone who wouldn’t appreciate its sugary goodness.
We drove to the restaurant together, chit chatting and pretending like everything was normal. An unsuspecting Skinnypants sat in the backseat completely unaware of what was about to go down. Part of me felt sorry for her, but one look at her toned abs and flat stomach melted away any pity I had for her.
I was also starving, as the protein bar I ate that morning curbed my appetite for approximately 3 minutes. I was crabby.
We arrived at the restaurant, sat down, and ordered drinks immediately. We also started out with an appetizer. (What are we, animals?) We allowed Skinnypants to make it through the appetizers and the main course unscathed, but after we ordered dessert, we knew it was time to put the smack down.
She got up to go to the restroom (hopefully not to purge), and Pajama Jeans and I decided the time had come to start the intervention (and to get a refill. What did we have to do to get some good service from our waiter?)
Skinnypants returned and sat down, not knowing her life was about to change. We confronted her immediately. I started the intervention, mostly because I’m a bossy pants, but also because I was the heavier of the two of us, so I had more of an axe to grind (and a stomach to fill).
I channeled the counselor from “Intervention” and began my pep talk. “Skinnypants,” I said, in my best authoritative voice, “We need to talk. Pajama and I have noticed your consistent weight loss and we’re at a crossroads. (And not the delightful movie with the same name starring the ever so talented Brittney Spears.)
It’s time to terminate our friendship, as we can’t continue down this path with someone who thinks a belly roll is a type of Pilates exercise.”
She looked shocked and dumbfounded, and I swear the sunlight hit her face just right at that moment and she was actually glistening. It wasn’t helping her case. “I can’t help it. I don’t know how I’m losing weight. I don’t even exercise. And I don’t keep track of my weight. I don’t even own a scale.”
This was not the right thing to say. I could see the anger burning in Pajama Jeans’ eyes, and I physically put my hand on her shoulder to hold her back. I knew a punch to Skinnypants’s face wasn’t the right way to start this intervention.
But seriously, the last thing a skinny person should tell two women struggling with weight loss is that she doesn’t know how she’s losing weight because she’s not exercising.
“Um, what can I do to keep this friendship alive?” she asked, looking at us with an adorable face that lacked a second chin.
“I’m glad you asked,” I stated, looking around anxiously wondering where the waiter was with the desserts (and my iced tea. Seriously, homeboy needed to just leave the pitcher on the table). You can commit to making this relationship work, but it’s going to take some effort and commitment on your part. This is an intervention and we are demanding you stop losing weight. Our friendship is on the line, and is there anything more important than the right to call Pajama and I your friends?”
“We mean business. This intervention is serious and we require several things to make this work. First, no exercise. We’re serious. Not even a jaunt around the block. If you’re serious about our friendship, you will avoid anything that could even remotely increase your metabolism.” We said, in our most menacing tone.
“Second, you need to increase your caloric intake. No skipping dinner or just having a salad. If you want to have a salad, it must be drenched in high calorie dressing and topped with fried chicken, the way salad is intended to be eaten.”
She stared as us both, trying to gauge how serious we were and whether we were committed to sticking to these guidelines. One look in Pajama Jeans’ eyes told Skinnypants that we were dead serious. Serious as a heart attack induced by a diabetic coma.
I’m not sure if it was the threat of losing our friendship, or the fact that the desserts arrived, but Skinnypants agreed to our terms and said she would eat more. Happy with our intervention, Pajama Jeans and I turned our attention to the desserts we ordered and proceeded to stuff our faces.
We also made sure Skinnypants ate more than her fair share of the desserts, although we advised her we wouldn’t accept hoarding the desserts either. She needed to share.
All three of us left the intervention lunch feeling good about our friendship and even better about our blood sugar levels. I suppose only time will tell if Skinnypants sticks to her end of the bargain.
I’ve ordered a scale to be delivered to her home and have asked that it be set to read less than what she actually weighs. I’ve also asked the delivery man to deliver the scale along with a chocolate pound cake and a gallon of ice cream.