much more she has to lose. It’s still a triumph, or even a victory. She believes that.
“Okay, well, good,” Meredith says, pausing (could it be reflectively? Or is it far more likely just a pause?) and then she continues, “I’m happy for you, it’s just, I’ve lost none.” Stephanie doesn’t say anything, she waits to see if Meredith is going to offer up any self-analytical insight, if she has some story to tell or if, rather, “The Zone sucks,” is her only story.
Meredith doesn’t say anything.
“I mean, Mere, are you actually doing it?” she asks, as gently as she thinks she can. “Are you counting everything up and adding it properly? Are you measuring things? I have this system, maybe it’ll help you, see I use baggies—”
“No, see that’s just it,” Meredith cuts her off, before even waiting to see what the baggies could be for. “I can’t bring baggies out to dinner with me,” she continues, sounding, Stephanie thinks, just a bit closer to incensed with each word. “But I could avoid things. Maybe if we did Atkins? Then I could just avoid all carbs? The Zone isn’t just avoiding all carbs, it’s so much more complicated than that.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t look at it as more complicated, but rather as more flexible?” Stephanie offers, trying not to think about other things, trying really just to think about helping Meredith, about getting Meredith to stick with this, with her, because that will help. It will help both of them. “Really, Meres, when you think about it, The Zone truly is more flexible because it does in fact allow carbs. Just not bad ones and you just have to have them in the right proportion to your fats and your proteins.” And as Stephanie says this, she feels like she gets it, like she understands, like she’s in control. And that’s one more thing than the previous zero things of which she’d felt in control.
“It’s too much math,” Meredith says back quickly. “You know I hate math. And it’s the Zone ,” she continues in a singsong voice, but not such a nice singsong voice. “And then, once you’ve figured that out, it’s not as if that’s enough, it’s all, okay now let’s move on up to the next level, let’s try Mastering the Zone , let’s buy another book, in addition to the recipe book that I never get to use because I never get to eat at home.”
“I thought you were eating at home?”
“Stephanie,” Meredith continues, a quick and halting emphasis on each syllable, Steph-a-nie , “you know how hard it is for me. It’s not like I can just sit down each night at home to my Zone-prepared dinner. It is really hard for me to justify eating at home. Do you know how much work I have to do? Do you how much harder I make it on myself if I stay home?”
“I’m not saying you don’t have work to do,” Stephanie replies. “I’m just saying it because you were the one who said you weren’t going to go out as much.”
“I said lunch. I was talking about lunch.”
“Okay, right.”
“But I don’t even know if I should do that, I mean lunch is important, it’s as important in some places as dinner,” she explains, and then as an important addendum, adds on quickly, “it’s just dinner without the cocktails.”
Stephanie thinks this might be an opportunity for positive reinforcement. Surely they’re everywhere if you just know where to look, and maybe that’s what it is lately, maybe lately she’s simply forgotten where to look. “Well that’s good then. Because I think I read somewhere that drinking can play a big part in making weight loss difficult.”
“What’s that?” Meredith asks, and Stephanie feels a small, tiny internal triumph, Meredith is actually listening rather than talking. It’s a rarity, and like the loss of four pounds, a victory.
“Drinking. All the drinking can make losing weight harder.”
“Really, Stephanie?” Meredith says a bit caustically, “I could have sworn it was the
“Okay, well, good,” Meredith says, pausing (could it be reflectively? Or is it far more likely just a pause?) and then she continues, “I’m happy for you, it’s just, I’ve lost none.” Stephanie doesn’t say anything, she waits to see if Meredith is going to offer up any self-analytical insight, if she has some story to tell or if, rather, “The Zone sucks,” is her only story.
Meredith doesn’t say anything.
“I mean, Mere, are you actually doing it?” she asks, as gently as she thinks she can. “Are you counting everything up and adding it properly? Are you measuring things? I have this system, maybe it’ll help you, see I use baggies—”
“No, see that’s just it,” Meredith cuts her off, before even waiting to see what the baggies could be for. “I can’t bring baggies out to dinner with me,” she continues, sounding, Stephanie thinks, just a bit closer to incensed with each word. “But I could avoid things. Maybe if we did Atkins? Then I could just avoid all carbs? The Zone isn’t just avoiding all carbs, it’s so much more complicated than that.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t look at it as more complicated, but rather as more flexible?” Stephanie offers, trying not to think about other things, trying really just to think about helping Meredith, about getting Meredith to stick with this, with her, because that will help. It will help both of them. “Really, Meres, when you think about it, The Zone truly is more flexible because it does in fact allow carbs. Just not bad ones and you just have to have them in the right proportion to your fats and your proteins.” And as Stephanie says this, she feels like she gets it, like she understands, like she’s in control. And that’s one more thing than the previous zero things of which she’d felt in control.
“It’s too much math,” Meredith says back quickly. “You know I hate math. And it’s the Zone ,” she continues in a singsong voice, but not such a nice singsong voice. “And then, once you’ve figured that out, it’s not as if that’s enough, it’s all, okay now let’s move on up to the next level, let’s try Mastering the Zone , let’s buy another book, in addition to the recipe book that I never get to use because I never get to eat at home.”
“I thought you were eating at home?”
“Stephanie,” Meredith continues, a quick and halting emphasis on each syllable, Steph-a-nie , “you know how hard it is for me. It’s not like I can just sit down each night at home to my Zone-prepared dinner. It is really hard for me to justify eating at home. Do you know how much work I have to do? Do you how much harder I make it on myself if I stay home?”
“I’m not saying you don’t have work to do,” Stephanie replies. “I’m just saying it because you were the one who said you weren’t going to go out as much.”
“I said lunch. I was talking about lunch.”
“Okay, right.”
“But I don’t even know if I should do that, I mean lunch is important, it’s as important in some places as dinner,” she explains, and then as an important addendum, adds on quickly, “it’s just dinner without the cocktails.”
Stephanie thinks this might be an opportunity for positive reinforcement. Surely they’re everywhere if you just know where to look, and maybe that’s what it is lately, maybe lately she’s simply forgotten where to look. “Well that’s good then. Because I think I read somewhere that drinking can play a big part in making weight loss difficult.”
“What’s that?” Meredith asks, and Stephanie feels a small, tiny internal triumph, Meredith is actually listening rather than talking. It’s a rarity, and like the loss of four pounds, a victory.
“Drinking. All the drinking can make losing weight harder.”
“Really, Stephanie?” Meredith says a bit caustically, “I could have sworn it was the
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