The fattest woman in Greenwich — shhh, it’s me
I saw her last week; it was so sad. She was trying to arrange an autumnal display in front of her house, hefting her anomalous girth amid potted mums and dwarf fothergilla.
And as Lululemon-clad, cheerfully chatting, impossibly thin women passed by, there seemed to be a thick tire-like layer of flesh that prevented her from bending over, such that she had to adjust her lower midriff manually by sort of pushing it aside.
The saddest part was this woman seemed completely unaware of her weight gain. She was blithely clad in yoga pants at least two sizes too small that showed off every bulge, along with one of those kaftans that is supposed to hide upper body weight — only this one was skintight and with buttons popping at the chest. She looked Gwyneth Paltrow in “Shallow Hal,” (a wonderful film until you realize Gwyneth is in a fat suit).
This woman was me. And while I have all the sympathy in the world for us “bigger-boned ladies,” I just found out that I somehow gained eight pounds while on a recent five-day trip to England. Eight pounds. I didn’t know that was possible. And lest anyone think I am being “fatist,” I challenge anyone to do the same.
“You can’t be fatist if you are fat,” my husband, Ian, pointed out helpfully.
I had been in England for a memorial, and so clearly my weight gain was an expression of grief. Plus my love for clotted cream. And English Lager. And bangers and mash.
To make matters worse, the memorial was a joyous occasion, celebrating a life well-lived. So although we will miss our dearly departed, it was actually a whole lot of fun. Which means I was fun eating, something they incarcerate you for in these parts.
“But why the fattest woman in Greenwich?” Ian asked. “That’s kind of obnoxious.”
Allow me to explain. BC (Before COVID, keep up people) a well-known producer contacted me about making this weekly column into a TV series.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” he told me. “It’s Hollywood.”
Following his advice, I immediately rearranged our mantel to best display an Emmy — as well as a spot for an eventual Oscar, both of which need to be placed strategically for the maximum effect. (Emma Thompson once said that she planned to nail her Oscar to the front step on her entryway so she could say “mind the Oscar” anytime someone entered her home. That was far too obvious a solution for me, however.)
Several excruciating weeks later, this producer called to let me know that they couldn’t “take this home,” that there was a “comp” that had been syndicated and was lining up several seasons.
“What?” I said, looking at my mantel.
“Yeah,” he said sadly. “It’s called ‘The Second Fattest Housewife in Westport.’ ”
“But I can be the FIRST FATTEST,” I blurted out. “Plus it’s Greenwich, not Westport.”
The producer asked me if I was kidding, at which point I knew it was over.
“The Second Fattest Woman in Westport” premiered in the fall of 2016, and my column started in spring of 2017. The logline for the show was “A family comedy narrated by Katie, a strong-willed mother, raising her flawed family in a wealthy town.” The logline for my column was “A random woman came into The Greenwich Time offices and said she could write, let’s see if this works.”
“She got there first, Claire,” the producer said, flatly. “It’s just that simple.”
By 2021, the show was in its fifth season and set to syndicate in 85 percent of the country. It was also renamed “The American Housewife,” because “The Second Fattest Woman in Westport” proved problematic.
“Un-HUN,” Ian quipped. Considering my current conundrum, this column’s title should be “Greenwich woman gains eight pounds in less than a week,” according to him.
But the truth is, ever since the pandemic, our entire family has put on a significant amount of weight. Actually, that’s not entirely true; the first few months we were taking family walks, exercising at our leisure and eating healthy homemade meals.
But as the months wore on, we started drinking heavily and eating industrial-size cartons of Fruit RollUps and Go-Gurts with wild abandon. Like everyone else, I started making bread, the kids got in on the action and now my 10-year-old is openly referred to as “the linebacker” and I have a tire permanently attached to my midriff.
The only one in our family who hasn’t gained weight is our 13-year-old Louie, who has grown several feet, eats nonstop and takes pleasure in laughing at us. My daughter attends Greenwich Academy, where there are events such as “The Father Daughter Dinner Dance,” and “Mother Daughter Tea,” so Louie suggested we start “Mother Daughter Sumo,” which didn’t go over well.
(Although I kinda love it, I have to admit.)
“Look,” my doctor told me, “it’s calories in, calories out. Just keep away from carbs and watch what you eat.”
You do not want to know how many calories are in an oat milk caramel macchiato, trust me. Add to that the fact that after 50, your metabolism adjusts to that of a sloth, and you get the full picture. It’s basically you and three heads of lettuce a day.
“Think of it this way,” Ian said, “now Greenwich stands a chance against Westport. Keep pitching!”
And eating.