Isn’t it ironic, Alanis, that a writer with a lifetime of eating issues plunges fork first into a blog dedicated to food?
And eating it?
Shouldn’t come as a revolutionary confession or surprise, given the number of women (and men and girls and boys) who suffer body issues, food disorders or dysfunctional eating. I was a cute little girl, looked like all the other little girls. The first after two boys and my Mom styled me proper. I wore a pastel dress, black patent Mary Jane’s and white anklet socks trimmed in lace for Easter, paired with matching cape. A cape. There’s home video of toddler me, Beatnik cool with a bowl cut, Navy pea coat, striped tee, slim black pants and flats with a buckle. I would wear that outfit now.
But I got chubby fast and stayed there, “beefy” my Dad called it. Even with the Weight Watchers diet plans and chalk-chocolaty AIDs weight loss candies (an unfortunate marketing concept it would turn out) introduced before I was 10.
Because, you see, fat is shame.
For summer vacation, Mom bought me a bikini. “Oh Maaaaaa,” I groaned in my head, already aware at eight of the dread of exposed, wobbly flesh. I tried it on in the little bathroom, pulling myself on top of the vanity for a full view. Although hunched over, my head just grazing the popcorn ceiling, I liked myself in my bikini. I grabbed a faded floral towel from the rack – just in case – and headed down the split level stairs. Two of my three brothers saw me first. There were no words, just loads of rolling laughter. I never wore that bikini.
“Epiphanous” best describes the summer between freshman and sophomore year in high school. Not only did I get my first period earlier that year, I realized, “Oh god. Gym is a requirement. I have to wear shorts at school.” With little guidance and no one really watching, during a hot and muggy summer spent in Nebraska with my Dad, I decided to stop eating. It was easy actually. My Dad was gone all day to work, my brothers glued to the widely entertaining and brand new cable station, MTV. I would lie in a twin bed in the second bedroom, a tiny, B/W Sony on the bed side table at eye level and watch soaps all day. I would create fantasies about the handsome soap actors (although never an object of attention, I had thoughts about boys – and my body – very early). I would drink Diet Cokes and eat nothing. When Dad came home I would pick at dinner, consuming 500 calories or less per day. The period I’d acquired just months before stopped, supine to standing brought a head rush and my hair started to fall out. Oddly enough, that summer with nutrients absurdly and dangerously restricted, I still managed to sprout from 5’6 to 5’8.
I returned home two months later and 30 pounds lighter; I ended up losing 60 by year’s end. The boys looked, the girls asked. Grown men whistled when they drove by. I was an object of desire. I recall just two instances where my still-unnamed-not-yet-movie-of-the-week-fodder eating disorder (that came in 1983 in the guise of Karen Carpenter) garnered parental attention. The first occurred that summer in Nebraska. My Dad took me to White Castle, just me and not the boys. He bought a plate of sliders and watched. It was torturous to chew then swallow the meaty/cheesy/oniony squares. I had two down and Dad appeared to relax. When he went to the bathroom and for cigarettes, I threw the rest of the meal on the floor, hiding it underneath the table. He was proud of what he’d accomplished. Problem solved.
The second came when I refused to eat cake on my birthday. I don’t know if my Mom was more concerned and angry because of the trouble she’d gone to or at how I merely swirled a glob of white frosting streaked with pink around the plate before abandoning it. “If you don’t eat like a normal person, I will take you to the hospital and force a needle into your arm,” she said. I bet she wouldn’t. She didn’t.
I did eat again, of course. I’ve come to like my round, womanly, strong body. I have the muscle mass and flexibility to stand tall and straight and regal. I have a beautiful neck and shoulders from endless deltoid work. My thighs are amazing. I can take a picture of myself naked. I’m working towards Kate Winslet in Titanic, Bettie Page in her heyday, a body with tone and shape but curvy and sexy. I polish the product I have, shoot it in the best light like a food stylist capturing the essence of a roast turkey.
And eating it?
Shouldn’t come as a revolutionary confession or surprise, given the number of women (and men and girls and boys) who suffer body issues, food disorders or dysfunctional eating. I was a cute little girl, looked like all the other little girls. The first after two boys and my Mom styled me proper. I wore a pastel dress, black patent Mary Jane’s and white anklet socks trimmed in lace for Easter, paired with matching cape. A cape. There’s home video of toddler me, Beatnik cool with a bowl cut, Navy pea coat, striped tee, slim black pants and flats with a buckle. I would wear that outfit now.
But I got chubby fast and stayed there, “beefy” my Dad called it. Even with the Weight Watchers diet plans and chalk-chocolaty AIDs weight loss candies (an unfortunate marketing concept it would turn out) introduced before I was 10.
Because, you see, fat is shame.
For summer vacation, Mom bought me a bikini. “Oh Maaaaaa,” I groaned in my head, already aware at eight of the dread of exposed, wobbly flesh. I tried it on in the little bathroom, pulling myself on top of the vanity for a full view. Although hunched over, my head just grazing the popcorn ceiling, I liked myself in my bikini. I grabbed a faded floral towel from the rack – just in case – and headed down the split level stairs. Two of my three brothers saw me first. There were no words, just loads of rolling laughter. I never wore that bikini.
“Epiphanous” best describes the summer between freshman and sophomore year in high school. Not only did I get my first period earlier that year, I realized, “Oh god. Gym is a requirement. I have to wear shorts at school.” With little guidance and no one really watching, during a hot and muggy summer spent in Nebraska with my Dad, I decided to stop eating. It was easy actually. My Dad was gone all day to work, my brothers glued to the widely entertaining and brand new cable station, MTV. I would lie in a twin bed in the second bedroom, a tiny, B/W Sony on the bed side table at eye level and watch soaps all day. I would create fantasies about the handsome soap actors (although never an object of attention, I had thoughts about boys – and my body – very early). I would drink Diet Cokes and eat nothing. When Dad came home I would pick at dinner, consuming 500 calories or less per day. The period I’d acquired just months before stopped, supine to standing brought a head rush and my hair started to fall out. Oddly enough, that summer with nutrients absurdly and dangerously restricted, I still managed to sprout from 5’6 to 5’8.
I returned home two months later and 30 pounds lighter; I ended up losing 60 by year’s end. The boys looked, the girls asked. Grown men whistled when they drove by. I was an object of desire. I recall just two instances where my still-unnamed-not-yet-movie-of-the-week-fodder eating disorder (that came in 1983 in the guise of Karen Carpenter) garnered parental attention. The first occurred that summer in Nebraska. My Dad took me to White Castle, just me and not the boys. He bought a plate of sliders and watched. It was torturous to chew then swallow the meaty/cheesy/oniony squares. I had two down and Dad appeared to relax. When he went to the bathroom and for cigarettes, I threw the rest of the meal on the floor, hiding it underneath the table. He was proud of what he’d accomplished. Problem solved.
The second came when I refused to eat cake on my birthday. I don’t know if my Mom was more concerned and angry because of the trouble she’d gone to or at how I merely swirled a glob of white frosting streaked with pink around the plate before abandoning it. “If you don’t eat like a normal person, I will take you to the hospital and force a needle into your arm,” she said. I bet she wouldn’t. She didn’t.
I did eat again, of course. I’ve come to like my round, womanly, strong body. I have the muscle mass and flexibility to stand tall and straight and regal. I have a beautiful neck and shoulders from endless deltoid work. My thighs are amazing. I can take a picture of myself naked. I’m working towards Kate Winslet in Titanic, Bettie Page in her heyday, a body with tone and shape but curvy and sexy. I polish the product I have, shoot it in the best light like a food stylist capturing the essence of a roast turkey.
And I’ve learned to love, really love food. I love red wine. I love martinis. I butter my corn. There shouldn’t be fear about a loaf of beautiful baguette. Brie is not the enemy. But I eat well and consciously address the emotional eating that still plagues me (emotional covers a gambit - sad, happy, Tuesday). I tend to obsess over exercise, chide myself when I miss a day and consider five-days-on-two days off normal. I get angry when I don’t go harder. Part of the sickness, the chatter and howling of the old monkey brain.
Still, I’ve never been happier. Or more beautiful.
It feeds my soul.
1 comment:
I <3 this post.
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