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Weight For Me

"What in god's name are you making!?"
"Cabbage soup!" I chirp while slicing and dicing mounds of sad looking cabbage and green pepper.
"Oh-kaaay.. What's in it?"
"Uh, obviously. What else?"
"Green peppers and tomato sauce."
"That all?"
"That's all."
"You eating it for lunch then?"
"And dinner. For every meal."
"Every meal today?"
"Every meal this week."
"What would you do that for?"
"Um.. it's good for me?" I respond hopefully.
"Not likely." The Surge studies my face as I scrape my veggies into the simmering pot of tomato paste.
"Well, there's that - and you're supposed to lose up to ten pounds if you stick with it."

***6 Months Later***

"What're you eating?"
"Granola and yogurt."
"Looks like rabbit food."
"Well, it's good for me."
"Dunno, just seems healthy doesn't it? Hikers eat it and they're a healthy bunch. Oh! It's lowfat too!" I bark triumphantly.

***6 Months After That***

"What're you eating?"
"Sausage dipped in mayonnaise."
"It's good for me!"
"How can sausage and mayonnaise possibly be good for you?"
"Has zero carbs."
"But you'll clog your arteries by tomorrow! Ever hear of fat? Why don't you have some fruit instead?"
"Fruit's bad for you."
"Has bad carbs. The kind that turn to sugar." I pop the last bite of sausage between my greasy lips.

***4 Months Pass***

"What're you eating?"
"Oranges, strawberries, raspberries and papaya."
"For dinner?"
"I thought fruit is bad. You know, the sugar and all?"
"Nope, turns out it's okay, it's the good kind of sugar."

I had the distinct misfortune of entering womanhood when heroine chic became an oxymoron. And like a moron I bought into the whole skinny fest lock, stock and barrel.

At the tender age of 13 I was twisting this way and that in front of the full length mirror I'd purchased from the nearest K-Mart for $6.99. I used the business end of my inaugural pair of platform shoes and, to my mom's chagrin, proceeded to hammer the mirror to the back of my bedroom door. Seventeen magazine and the stick figures contained within its glossy pages began a residency on my nightstand years before the walking hungry began gracing the pages of trash magazines like Us and In Touch.

And the brainwashing began. Slow and insidious. Photograph by photograph, article by article I began to believe the hype. Heroine chic. The two mismatched words suddenly a happy couple cavorting through Cosmo and Vogue like annoying newlyweds. Thin was in baby and it was here to stay.

It happened overnight. One day I was happily playing softball with my pals at recess, the next I was inquiring "Do these jeans make my butt look big?" In junior high it was THE bonding ritual between preteens desperate to fit in.
"Omigod! I am like, soo fat!"
"Totally! Me too. I ate soo much at lunch!"
"What did you have?"
"A salad."
That is like, so bad for you! Do you know how many fat grams are in the dressing? And the calories!"
"I just won't eat dinner then."
"Just drink tons of Diet Coke. You'll feel full."
"Good idea."
Sounds silly, right? But at 28 years old I am still that little girl forever trying to pinch an inch. Constantly counting calories, walking the tightrope of to eat or not to eat. Don't eat breakfast then I can have a bigger lunch. Skipped lunch? Now I can have a snack when I get home? Better yet, avoid eating for as long as possible then binge eat my stress away after work. Can I gamble? No. But I can run numbers faster than most pros if they represent calories or fat grams. It's an automatic thought process, as inherent as blinking. There isn't an item that passes my lips that isn't calculated in some way, weighed somehow against what went before.

"Quit being so obsessed about food. You're such a drag." So says the boyfriend who can slam down two cheeseburgers, fries and a milkshake without gaining a pound and if he does it's a good thing. I'd like to quit. I want it to stop. I want to have Marilyn Monroe proportions and feel sexy, not chubby because I'm bombarded with images of Kylie and her barely there body. Truth is, if Marilyn and her world famous 36-24-36 physique was a starlet in today's Hollywood, US magazine would be sure to direct our attention to her fat ass encased in Armani AND point out that Teri Hatcher "Wore It Better" in the fashion section.

Ever wonder why Grandma's always cooking? Always trying to feed you? Because she grew up in the days of classic Hollywood. Where buxom beauties like Monroe, Ava Gardner and Lana Turner represented the ideal.
"Eat! Eat! You're skin and bones!" Grandma shrieks every time I stop by for a visit. "Get something in you." She heaves herself from her rocker, so inspired to feed me she abandons watching 'her stories' and immediately sets to work, opening and closing cupboards, pulling tupperwared leftovers from the refrigerator. In mere seconds a hearty stew is simmering on the stove. After I'm force fed she sends me on my way with various packages including but not limited to loaves of freshly made bread, jam, cookies, and of course at least three jars of canned peaches.

I got food on the brain in some capacity all the time. What should I eat for dinner? I shouldn't be eating this. Ice cream sounds good right now but I shouldn't. What will I order? Had a bad day? Cookie dough is the antidote. Stressed from work? I'm going to zone out in front of the T.V., cookies and a greasy bag of microwave popcorn perched atop my lap while reading an US magazine with Nicole Richie and Mary-Kate battling for skeletal supremacy. The fat free microwave popcorn, I might add, that I purchased with the best of intentions only to add my own butter and shred cheese on top.

And then the inevitible shame spiral that prompts me to embark on what is perhaps my thousandth weight loss program. The I'M-REALLY-SERIOUS-THIS-TIME kind. So serious I break out a pen and paper with which to script The Rules. This can happen alone or with a like-minded buddy. A penning of The Rules often proceeds a big event such as an impending wedding, reuntion or party.

Every time I speak on the telephone to Natalie, my co-conspirator in many of the aforementioned diet scams, the same conversation since junior high will, at some point, rear it's ugly head.
"I have gained so much weight."
"Me too!"
"No seriously. You have no idea. Remember when we could eat a full meal and our tummies would pooch out, little pot bellies?"
"Well mine's stuck! It used to go back down the next morning. Now it just stays pooched!"
"I hear ya sister. You're preaching to the choir. I'm like, four months along over here!"
Not much has changed. We despise ourselves for our shallowness. For not following the much touted womanly mantra of loving ourselves for who we are. For engaging in these tired conversations. Yet I find them oddly comforting. Not only is Natalie my co-conspirator in the battle of the bulge, she is a fellow victim of heroine chic. A normal day for Natalie, like me, contains a whopping portion of fighting the fat. We know our husbands don't wanna hear it. Most of the time they think we're digging for compliments anyway. So we're left to our own devices, taking comfort in the togetherness of our sad plight.

If Natalie successfully hopped aboard the workout wagon I'd feel betrayed. I'd shriek "Oh my god you look so good!" the next time I laid envious eyes on her. And I'd be happy for her. Kind of. Inside I'd feel abandoned to my food frivolities and failures.

And so the unwanted battle of the bulge continues..

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Reader Comments (2)

LMAO! Dude, sooooo true! My last one was South Beach! Another great chapter!
October 23, 2005 | Unregistered CommenterJulia
I love that this seems to be written just for me... I love ya sister - thanks for keeping me going. Oh and when should we start the work out plan we've been discussing?
November 4, 2005 | Unregistered CommenterNatty

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