Lose for the Win

I finished blending the brownie batter, scraped the last of it into the waiting pan and slid the pan into the waiting and heated industrial stove behind me. I set the timer on my phone for 45 minutes. I turned to my fellow chubby rule-breaker Cade, a twenty-four-year-old gamer whose parents offered him a new car to come and said, “do you get the feeling someone is watching us?” I took the opportunity to lick the remaining luscious brown batter sweetness from the spatula when the room suddenly filled with light.

My head snapped up looking toward the door where Frederick the Fitness trainer stood silhouetted near the light switch with his hands on his hips and a look of disgust on his face. With spatula in hand, the batter smeared from chin to lip, I could only utter one word. “Oops.”

We were escorted back to our rooms while the smell of baking brownies permeated the residence and my stomach growled audibly. The other FW’s (Fitness Warriors), as the camp directors called us, were gathering at the doors of their rooms to see what was happening. Not one of them were surprised that the person who was about to be put in Fat Jail was me. The brochure was clear about the three strikes policy, and I was pretty sure that this constituted my fourth infringement.

Frederick threw open the door to my room and just pointed an aggressive finger into my room. I looked at him, pointed at myself and then into my room with raised eyebrows. He pointed to the inside of my room again with vigor. I had not yet wiped the batter from my face. He did not say a word but closed the door behind me. He stood guard outside my door while he walky-talkied the others. “We have an Off the Wagon situation in Room 13. Please report to Room 13.”

I suppose I should rewind this narrative and start from the beginning. Fat Camp was not exactly my idea. I blame my ruthless Aunt Sofia. Aunt Sofia was my mother’s angry but stunningly beautiful older sister who would slap my hand when I reached for an extra tortilla at dinner.  I am convinced that Aunt Sofia was in a permanent state of hunger and that would make anyone jealous of those who befriend carbs.   Maybe a cookie would have helped her see the world in another way. She was the reason for my nickname. From the moment that I stumbled my chubby frame into her view, she called me Gordita and a name like that sticks with a kid, especially the youngest kid in the family.

Sofia was Mom’s only sister and although she had married three times, she never had any children. My mom only had sons and so I was the only girl left in the family and apparently, I was not upholding the standard of beauty that the Diaz daughters were known for.  

And in death, she finally exacted her revenge on her chubby niece. Aunt Sofia had left me everything. With the caveat that I attend and graduate from the Fitness Advantage Training Spa. She would pay for my admittance into the spa but if I left without a completion certificate, my brothers would win the prize. And Sofia, while not flush with cash, was not living in a van down by the river.  

I was determined to survive two weeks at FATS with one condition. I would come out with my interest in dessert intact. And hopefully secure the inheritance which would allow me to move out of my studio apartment and into the stunning little rambler I found in the valley. But my brothers really could use the money. It would really help Julio with his kids.

Check-in found me handing over my luggage for inspection before entering the twelve-room residence that would house me and the other prisoners, or Fitness Warriors rather, for the next two weeks. I slapped a My Name Is sticker on my ample bosom. The brochure was specific about what could and could not come into the residence. No “outside” food was allowed on the premises because we wouldn’t want to offend Chef Julienne. Our Registered Dietician, Khloe, was surprisingly thorough when she went through my bag and while she did find the Nutter Butters in the toes of my socks, she did not find the Oreos shoved into the toes of my hiking boots. She underestimated the determined nature of a woman with a sugar addiction. She did not discover that the book in my backpack had been hollowed out and filled with Snickers bars. And she neglected to pat me down. I managed to get contraband over the threshold.

I found room 13 with my name on it. It was a simple room with a bed, a bathroom, a side table, and a treadmill. The walls were filled with inspiring quotes like: Pain is Weakness leaving your Body, Sweat is your Fat Crying, On the Good Days, Work Out – On the Bad Days, Work Harder. The door would not open until you had stepped on the scale to the right of the door. Clever zookeepers, I thought. The scale said the number out loud for everyone in their rooms and walking past me in the hallway to hear and my number included my weight and the combined weight of all of my luggage. I blushed.  I stepped off quickly and pushed open the door. I could hear the weight of some of the others going off as they tried to get into their rooms. I didn’t look around me to see whose weight belonged to who. Inside the room, I attempted to turn on the TV. It would not turn on. I would need to talk to someone about that. I hung up my clothes and tucked some precious items between the mattresses. I put my Snickers book on the bedside table like I was eagerly reading my way through it.

I stepped surreptitiously onto the treadmill and began to walk. And the TV came on. The eye roll was significant. I stepped back off the treadmill and the TV turned back off. I laid on the bed. Thirteen more days after this one. So much but so little time. Eye on the prize, I encouraged myself.

An alarm started to sound in the hallway, so I went out to investigate. There were others also standing in their open doors looking for the fire. A man in very snug workout shorts stood at the end of the hallway. “Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the Fitness Advantage! We would like to show you the facilities. My name is Frederick and I am your Fitness Trainer. Please get in your workout clothes and meet me here in ten minutes!”

I don’t know if the others were thinking the same thing, I was but a tour that requires workout clothes is a workout not a tour. Everyone who had let their door close had to step back on their scale to open the door to their room. A few people sniggered at the numbers being spouted up and down the corridor.

I was correct. The tour included and required an introduction to each of the weight and cardio machines in the gym with each of us taking turns to try each machine and weight. What I thought was an after-workout snack, a quarter cup of chicken curry over brown rice was dinner. “Dessert” was one ounce of dark chocolate and a scoop of non-fat Greek yogurt. I was reminded of the time that I went searching for a treat in the kitchen and happened upon my mom’s baking chocolate bars. The brown chalky feeling in my mouth was exactly the same. I wasn’t prepared to break into my stash that first night, but I had to get that taste out of my mouth. I started small and poured myself a few mini M&M’s from my pill dispenser.

They had somehow blocked the internet on my phone, and I was forced to take a short walk on the treadmill so I could watch a little TV before I dropped restlessly into bed for a fitful night’s sleep.

Sheer exhaustion kept me half asleep for the first day. It began with Frederick and a pre-breakfast workout, a half a cup of oatmeal and a class on preparing healthy food options that replace your favorites. I almost raised my hand to let them know that part of the joy of fast food is the lack of preparation required but I kept that idea to myself. The class included a tour of Chef Julienne’s kitchen, and it was there I met the beautiful stainless-steel kitchen for the first time and from that day it called my name. The kitchen itself was begging me to make brownies in it. I heard it!

My first strike was a minor offense. I found that I could rest one leg on the scale in front of my door and get it to open without putting my entire bulk on it. Apparently, this went against the “helpful nature” of the scale to show you that starvation and sweat when combined daily can reduce your weight in addition to your will to live. Khloe gave me a warning that each offense was serious and after three, I would not be able to graduate from the FATS camp. I nodded solemnly.

My second offense was one of neglect. Although they searched my room after finding the Snickers wrapper, they still did not look in the bedside book. My stash could not combat the reduction in calories and the constant workouts. I was inadvertently losing weight.

After my third offense, they gathered the entire FATS team to discuss my situation. It was the rebellious nature of my actions that had them concerned and they met me in my room for the intervention. They wanted to see me succeed. But I was starting to crack. I was going through grease withdrawal. I was craving fries and the saturated fat of baked goods. And contrary to popular opinion, brownies do taste better than thin feels especially the way I made them. And there was the matter of the money. My brother Carlos could buy a truck for work.

By the brownie incident, the Fitness Warriors support team knew I couldn’t stay. I was starting to influence the others. They asked me to pack my bags.

They lined up all of the succeeding Warriors at the front of the residence to tell me goodbye or maybe as a warning to others who were feeling the intensity of their sweet tooths. The staff were lined up as well.

The cab driver had thrown my luggage in the trunk and was sitting in the driver’s seat waiting for me to get in the back seat. I lifted my shirt to reveal the last of my stash - an ammunition belt at my waist. But instead of cartridges, each loop held a full-size Tootsie Roll minus the six I had downed on the second day following my green detox smoothie and one hardboiled egg for breakfast. I began pulling them from the belt and throwing them over the heads of the line of staff in front of me (Khloe the Dietitian, Frederick the Fitness Trainer, Suzanne the Nutrition Nut and Kady the Fat Fighting Counselor) to my fellow Fat Camp residents - three of whom opened the package right away and began chewing and two who slipped the treasure into their running socks.

I slipped into the backseat of the cab. A little lighter. Armed with a few tools to take home and work on a few things. Secure in the knowledge that Sofia’s cash would take care of my brother’s and that I would be Gordita no more.