The summer holidays… The blessed time when skinny people stroll around in last year’s underwear and sport semi-promiscuous footwear while I get to be the one dressed like a fountain. Even though I’m usually quite upbeat on the subject of historic landmarks, the sad truth is that sharing certain physical traits with them doesn’t encourage social interaction and only earns you the bad sort of attention. I have already hinted at my ability to put on pounds quicker than a pod of whales during plankton season, which wouldn’t be that BIG of an issue were I some sort of a funding institution. What I’m trying to say is that I seriously hate people with black holes for stomachs. They should end up in the 9th circle of hell together with those who deny the existence of global warming and the person that invented polenta. Why oh why can’t I be one of them?!
During the last 15 years I’ve been on so many diets I forgot that eating isn’t supposed to seem like a daily torture routine. I sometimes wonder what it must feel like to be unhindered by the debilitating awareness of the collective calorie intake of your every meal. Or to eat something because you want to and not spend an entire week in a silent mental panic for having indulged in a meal that had you mixing carbohydrates and proteins. The horror.
Photo Source: http://lolweightloss.tumblr.com/
My eating nightmares date back to when my grandmother was still alive, some 18-20 years ago. Now, she was a woman with very outdated views in general, particularly in regards to nutrition. She was a firm believer in big meals and had somewhat baroque notions about eating – the more, the better. Therefore, for 5 years, every single meal I ate had the feel of the “last supper” about it. I felt like the male lead in Hansel and Gretel. After all these years, I’m still perplexed as to the motive behind this food torture. Did she want to eat me or was she simply conducting a top secret experiment for the Soviet government that sought to determine how to turn children into potatoes? I honestly can’t tell.
During meals, whenever I took a breath between mouthfuls to voice an objection, she stuffed another footlong sandwich (that would have sustained a family in Africa for a week) into my mouth and thus silenced all the feeble opposition I had the strength to muster at the time. She then proceeded to explain in an authoritative voice not unlike that of Miss Trunchbull’s the reason why six year-old girls should devour the same amount of food as soldiers during army training. Apparently, because boys like big healthy girls. No, no they don’t.
Even though the six-year-old in me still begs me to call social services, I suppose it would be unfair to say that reasons that motivated my grandmother’s actions were purely evil. After all, I’ve decided to look on the positive side of a food regime that made me guzzle my way to every form of eating disorder and made me a target for all types of emotional abuse in elementary school. I mean, confidence and a positive self-image are overrated anyway.
Over the years I have tried to shed pounds and in the beginning it was a blooming venture. After all, who wouldn’t thrive on a diet of bird seeds and green tea that tasted like toilet water? The important thing is that it paid off and for about a year and a half I actually had the body of a teenage supermodel (well, not far from it anyway). Oh, how I basked in the sickly post-anorexic glow of a successful diet. I still remember with fondness those days of starvation, uncontrolled shaking and fainting fits. Things were way simpler back then. Sometimes at night I still cry over all the clothes that I won’t be able to fit into anymore. You know, the ones that got away.
I’ve tried to go back and recapture this magical time of undernourishment and morning sickness, but sadly to no avail. I’ve contracted the curse of Yo-Yo dieting. It is the overweight woman’s version of a Sisyphean task. You work so hard to drop those ten pounds around your waist and just as you see yourself reaching the top the earth moves in the wrong way and you find yourself plummeting to a carbohydrate hell.
You cannot ever leave this vicious cycle of suffering, because each time you lose a pound, you gain three – exactly like in the Hydra myth. Isn’t it wonderful how ancient myths lend themselves to moronic misreadings? Yo Hercules, what was your secret? Help a schizophrenic sister in need. I’m really tired of going into department stores and asking sales people whether they have anything in elephant size. It’s discouraging especially since I know the kind of fate that awaits me. We all seem to realize what happens to big animals. Remember dinosaurs? My point exactly.
Photo source: http://kootation.com/funny-diet-pictures.html
Also, why is it that one’s friends and family always choose to throw food orgies whenever one is on a diet? It is almost as though they got adrenaline kicks from seeing you slobbering over mountains of home-made pastry and avoiding the mini-appetizers section like the plague. Of course, the unsupportive bastards then proceed to shove every piece of fried bread-crumb in your face to observe the nervous twitching in your right eye. The entire mispocha seems to be mocking you and your “silly” diet. Here’s a sample of a polite exchange.
Aunt Louisa: So Mojca darling, are you enjoying not-eating at your birthday party?
Me: Yes Aunt Louisa, I am thrilled to be forcing down a low-fat drink that tastes like cow’s urinary infection while others are giving mouth-to-mouth breathing to rainbow ice cream. Thank you for asking.
Aunt Louisa: I’m glad to hear it, dear. As long as you are enjoying yourself.
Me: Of course, Aunt Louisa. You know how I delight in saying no to delicious food and pretending I don’t want to drown you and your offspring in my mom’s salad dressing.
Aunt Louisa: Indeed? What a droll idea.
Me: Not as droll as throwing the bowl of the expired cat vomit you bought yesterday at the supermarket (and had the nerve to bring it as a gift) in your face.
Aunt Louisa: How charming. Lovely to have had this chat.
Me: I agree, it was only an iota better than undergoing an ovary removal surgery without an anesthetic in an underground Ukrainian facility run by a former poultry farmer who doesn’t wash his hands on principle.
That’s me on my best behaviour by the way. As long as the edacious greed doesn’t get the better of me, I am able to conduct fairly civilised discussions with people, provided that they do not act like flibbertigibbet morons and mention I have fine birthing hips (honestly, what an insensitive dimwit you have to be to say that to a person one week before prom night?). Before I misrepresent another well-beloved myth (tantalising as it may sound), I really should go and have half of a banana for dinner. Don’t you just envy me?