Under the Influence of Friendship

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Commentary

Under the influence of friendship

By Catherine Getches

August 5, 2007

'Obesity can spread among a group of friends like a

contagious disease, moving from one person to another

in an epidemic of fat. That's the finding of a novel study

released Wednesday [last week] that reported that having

close friends who are fat can nearly triple your risk of

becoming obese. The effect is so powerful that distance

doesn't matter -- the influence is the same whether

friends live next door or 500 miles apart, according to the

report in the New England Journal of Medicine.'

-- Los Angeles Times

Frank is fat, really fat, but that's never bothered me. He's

funny -- and ever since we became such good friends his

jokes have become my jokes, not to mention great

icebreakers at cocktail parties. I use his "I'm not gonna lie" intro all the time, as in, "I'm not gonna lie,

I've got gas," which just kills people (the one liner, of course).

Frank is also generous: Once we got close, he started to share his Costco membership with me. Now, I

finally "get" the benefit in a gallon-carton of Goldfish crackers, the party-pack of prime rib (160 ounces

of meaty love), and the economy in a 22-pound wheel of cheddar. Like a yawn that makes you yawn, all

of a sudden it seemed level-headed to buy food by the flat. Now when I see a Meat Lover's pizza, I

know a little extra cheese, a tub of ranch dressing and some cinnamon sticks will help the 12 slices slide

right down. Supersizing at McDonald's seems like second nature, and what else better to wash down that

second Hungry-Man dinner than two liters of Coke? It's sort of like Frank's favorite song, "The Rhythm

is Gonna Get Ya," and boy, does it when your hands are dancing between a bag of Doritos, Reese's

Pieces and the TiVo remote.

Maybe I'd eat less while I watch TV if I hung out with Leslie's 10-year-old daughter more. But the ads

for sugar cereal are still on all the stations her mom and I watch, so I'm kind of the victim there. Besides,

Leslie and I usually wind up pouring a glass of wine and chatting, and maybe even singing George

Thorogood songs for old time's sake. The wine goes pretty fast; I used to think Leslie was chugging it

but now it seems like the normal pace to drink. Leslie pours us another, and then next thing you know,

she's got the bourbon open, to which scotch seems like the perfect segue. And, we can't stop there, we

need beer, like the song goes, she'll say. Leslie is great about offering a cigarette whenever she has one

too. I can get a great deal on cartons of Camels at Costco. If only they carried flats of those mini-bottles

that I like to keep in my purse for emergency moments, such as my venti at Starbucks.

Some friends I've lost over the years, but they are still with me, even if they weren't so great for my

well-being. Skippy, my so-called "man's best friend," gave me fleas and later poison oak. Even though I

shipped him to a pound two states away (OK, state protective services took him away because he had

become obese), I still have phantom itches. And then there's Jenny, my roommate during college who

compulsively untied and retied her shoelaces seven times. I miss the way she always made me feel seven times better, and then said sorry seven consecutive times, patting my back seven times between each consoling remark. But, she's

been at some sort of "retreat" for a couple of years now. We still phone each other and I guess I'll be

fine; I feel better once I have to touch all the switches on the stove and turn around seven times before I leave

the house.

I can't seem to get enough of Rachel, though. The way she seems so deep, so goth, the poems she writes

about death, and how she exudes that "What's the point of life?" aura. Black does look better on the

muffin-top popping over the top of my pants, and there's something defiant in the way shades of ebony

stretch over my stomach rolls. Ever since Rachel started to bring up killing herself a few years ago, I

started wondering aloud about death in the mirror. What if Rachel jumped off a cliff? I would.

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Catherine Getches is a freelance writer living in San Mateo, Calif.

Copyright © 2007, Chicago Tribune

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Under the influence of friendship -- chicagotribune.com

8/5/2007

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