We are what we eat, my father used to remind us when Sisley and I asked for ice cream on the boardwalk and French fries from the chip truck that puffed out an appealing and equalling nauseating stench. Junk food is such a gracious devil – so temptingly tasty that its caloric havoc is invisible, painted over by devious flavours. Once inside glucose expands and fat molecules inflate our epidermis beyond recognition. At least this is how I explained it to Sisley, my younger, naturally fit sister when I refused to take part in her wishes for a milkshake or birthday cake with layers of thick pink icing. Look at it and nothing will happen, I said. Eat it, and every
tasty morsel will turn to fat unless you burn it off.
How did I come to such a conclusion at the age of six? That too, was easy. My father is a doctor and would answer any question I asked.
“Is an apple better than a banana?” I peered at the fruit bowl that was always full at the edge of the counter. He put down the paper lifted his head, his blue eyes all serious.
“Better in what way? Banana’s are high in potassium, and easy to digest, apples are good for vitamin C and are a great source of fibre.”
Easy to digest or high in fibre? It was almost difficult, except that easy to digest resonated more. Easy to digest, meant easy to get rid of. So I ate bananas and gave the apples to Sisley.
“Is ice cream worse than cake with icing?” I moved over and joined him at the table, curled my toes under the rim of the pine chair since I hated having my feet just dangle. I appreciated solid ground beneath me.
He closed the paper, rested his hands palm down on top of it.
Now this was a serious question. I watched his beautiful long branch-like fingers with well-trimmed nails. His hands were always soft I thought because of the constant washing he undergoes at the office. With each new patient he washes his hands regardless of whether or not he touches them. All doctors do, of course, but still I though his hands were magnificent. They didn’t move but his forehead wrinkled as he formulated an answer.
“I prefer cake. But nothing beats ice cream in the scorching sun, don’t you think?”
“Dad! That’s not the answer.” I pounded my fists on the table, giggled. It didn’t matter that he wouldn’t tell me. I knew what to do when I had to.
Besides, those gracious devils were barely in our home, our mother made sure of that. Her body was her temple and, God love all of us, ours would be too. If we wanted sweet, we were sent to the fruit bowl. Salty, the nuts. Something gooey and oozing with artificial colours – back to the fruit bowl. We’d get that elsewhere when we could. And really I shouldn’t be indulging in my quest to be less round.
The beauty part I left alone, save for the face cream my mother gave me. It’s a good habit to get into dear. You’ll never forget if you start now, she told me. She’s right, I’ll never forget my quest to prove to those mirrors that told me over and over of my round state of being that I am not round, but wafer thin, nothing but bones. Mirrors and casting agents saw one thing, but I was going to change all that. Death will be a welcome escape, and what’s closer to death than bones?
You are what you eat right? So if I ate a little, just enough, then I could be a slice of someone great in compact form. I wanted to be beautiful and thin. That’s what we all want, isn’t it? It certainly felt like it at the time. Under our mother’s guidance Sisley and I auditioned for fashion shows, commercials, print ads and movies. We were out every weekend, if not auditioning, than we were busy at practices: dance classes, rhythmic gymnastics, swimming.
Sometimes not eating is not enough, and I discovered after a twenty-four hour flu, and eavesdropping that another great way to reduce my overall size was to toss up everything that went down. It was harder to do without the flu bug but I practiced, and eventually looked forward to time alone in the bathroom.
I heard about it at an audition. Some girl’s mother was laughing with another’s, her tanned wrinkled skin looked evil when she grinned. Celine’s teeth are looking rotten, have you noticed? She asked mom number two. No, mom two replied. I hadn’t. What do you think it is? The pressure, mom number one said, moving her head up and down. She sticks her fingers down her throat to keep herself thin.
Alone in the bathroom I wasn’t sure just what the goal was and since so many other things about food revolved around quantity, I jammed as many fingers as I could into my mouth. I got all four in there which produced a great cough but nothing more. After a few more tries, after wiggling my fingers along the edges of my teeth, touching the backs of my molars, running my fingers all along the inside of my cheek, I was frustrated. What the hell? If Celine could do this certainly so could I. I was getting angry. Finally I picked up my toothbrush, and voila! The miracle happened over the sink instead of in the toilet.
I enjoyed watching food splash in its barely digested state into the toilet water. How fascinating to see how recognizable it was. I came to almost love that smell even – it became really familiar and there’s comfort in that alone, even if the scent itself is unpleasant. And the high you get after your blood sugar stabilizes as much as it can – well it’s fleeting, but it’s great. Of course I didn’t know about blood sugar levels when I was six. But I knew what I had to do to make sure no one ever said those nasty words about me.
Round, plump, fat.