Getting Waisted (11 page)

I muttered under my breath, “And his rust ones.” I promised I’d be there in an hour.

The paramedics were just packing up; it had been a mild stroke but I knew it was just the beginning. With me gone, so was the glue. My father needed care and my mother was my mother. They were like two people with rubber cement under each of their shoes; no matter how hard they wanted to escape from the prison of their own design, they couldn’t.

Whoosh!
And in the speed of light, I was back home living in a bedroom that no longer belonged to me, filled with memories that I didn’t ever want. It struck me as perfectly paradoxical given that my mother had almost sent out a daughter-wrangler to get me back home, that exactly at the same time, she had managed to turn my not-so-old room into a repository for all of their out-of-season clothes, old tax papers, and books. There was a terrifying box filled with pointy frozen-faced, glass-eyed foxes sewn together with heads and tails all out of order that she wore when grand occasions arose that required evening stoles and muffs. Muffs? I had awful dreams filled with animals, their faces still attached, casually tossed over my mother’s shoulders. I woke up sweating and threw the box of foxes into the basement. Where would she have worn those—to some Bavarian opera in hell?

It was true; one can never go home again. Nearly instantly I felt the stress bubbles percolating. It started almost imperceptibly with a need for a small bite of cheese, just a nibble. That nibble sprang into a full-blown craving, that craving then became manic as I shoveled almost half a round of Havarti into my newly pristine gullet. I didn’t even enjoy the taste as it went in and down so quickly. I followed that with a quick trip to the nearest grocery store where, as I gathered my emergency supplies, I consumed half a fresh baguette, some olives, a few grapes, maybe . . . just a little chocolate, and this was all before getting into the checkout line where telltale crumbs stuck to me as witnesses to my crash.

I was twenty-three years old, living with my mother and father who were allergic to each other and went out of their way to bully and bribe me into being on their side and
boom
, I fell right back into my old routine, eating fatty foods from a long-gone empire and loving the familiarity of every bite. My mother’s cooking always began with the sizzling sound and smell of chicken fat, pork fat, butter or Crisco, and this was before the cream cheese or bread-crumbing began. In some homes the daily ritual consisted of saying a prayer before every meal; in my home the ritual was to have a cream-filled dessert after every meal. Fruit was canned, vegetables were frozen, and all meat was baked until grey. I succumbed so quickly to giving up my newly carved out independence and reverted to being right back in the middle of the well-traveled footbridge between my mother and my father’s wants and needs. The latest foray was my mother’s request—meaning demand—that my father sort through his things in case something were to happen to him so that she would know what things really mattered. What did she mean by “if something were to happen” to him?

My mind flipped to black and white, as in a 1940’s film noir: My father, skeletal from not eating, sits in a wheelchair behind the lace curtains waiting for someone to make his day. My mother arrives home. She has a hammer in one hand and carpet tacks in the other as she opens the door and silently walks to the curtain, then hits him sharply on the head. He slumps over and she drags his withered carcass out of his wheelchair and onto the floor where she nails his body in the exact position he has fallen. She begins to walk over him, over and over until he’s flat as a bearskin rug. She’s smiling as she reaches for the vacuum cleaner.

The gnawing, searing, need to feed was back! I knew it would
happen; it always happened as soon as I hit even the smallest of bumps
in the road. In order to live a fat-free life, I would have to live in a Zen garden in Bhutan where possibly a life could be lead with no stress. But I’d always be struggling in this one. “
Ommmmmmm, Aaaarrrrrgggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh . . .”

I knew how to lose weight! I had done it over and over again. I had a gold star for losing weight and a platinum one for gaining it back: fifteen pounds lost, thirty-five found; sixty pounds lost, a hundred pounds found. Off it came and on it went like a cheesy “lights on, lights off” Clapper, just as it does with 90-plus percent of those who lose weight. But do you ever wonder where the fat goes? Those hundreds of thousands of pounds lost every year—lost and then found. I’m no scientist but I do have a hypothesis. Fat doesn’t just disappear. These “fatoms” circle high above the hole in the ozone, just waiting for one bad hair day, one teeny emotional meltdown, a mini-rejection and
WHAM!
Fat always finds its way back home.

10

Shaky Ground

Diet #11
Bananas and Milk

Cost
$14.00

Weight lost
4 pounds

Weight gained
18 pounds

I stealthily slipped back into my far
more satisfying life with Beverly and Katja, careful to leave a few things lying around my old room in the hope that my parents would think I was simply staying away for just a few days, my closet still filled with enough clothes to fool the eye as I shuttled back and forth between my real life and my obligatory shift work managing my parents, hopefully making enough appearances to keep the ruse going. I was relieved to be back with my friends and on the wagon in an attempt to recover from living in the “food time warp” that I got sucked into at my parent’s house.

The bananas and milk diet, which had been around for decades on the top ten celebrity diets list, had made a return appearance, and became the newest crazy fad I embraced. I had always detested milk, but now I had to swallow gobs of the slimy stuff. I tried, really I did, but I couldn’t do it, so I made an executive decision and substituted chocolate milk. This was somewhat more palatable, but after four days of nothing but half a dozen bananas and three or four giant cups of chocolate milk, I was not just bored, hungry, and seriously irritable but, worst of all, I was blocked—as in severely constipated. Much of my time was spent rocking back and forth on my bed clutching my stomach as it throbbed and died, like a car that had been fed the wrong kind of gasoline, the rest of the time, I was pacing back and forth in front of the refrigerator and pantry, visualizing every food I craved—and none of them were bananas. I wanted bread, salami, cheese and cake, and I didn’t care in what order. On day five, I couldn’t look at another banana as they were now the enemy and I treated those little Chiquita’s like the betrayers they had become by tossing a whole bunch of them into the backyard composter, giving them the punishment they deserved. Bye-bye bananas! The sickly sweet and slimy chocolate milk was given an equally harsh punishment as it swirled to its death down the kitchen sink drain.

But that wasn’t the only kind of blockage I was suffering from. I had shoved the horrible date rape deep under a carpet of food and denial, taking on all the shame and even some of the blame. I knew intellectually that it wasn’t my fault but that didn’t stop me from a daily dose of emotional self-flagellation. I knew I should talk to someone, but the dishonor I felt was too big to share so I buried it deep down in the vault for another day.

If one’s body was one’s temple, I’m pretty sure mine would have to have been considered a teardown; I was my own slumlord. I was in need of chocolate and lots of it, as in deep, dark, soothing, mind-numbing chocolate. I had a spiritual ritual when it came to eating chocolate and no Hershey’s crap need ever apply. My chocolate had to be a silky, crave-worthy temptation, a dangerous and potent siren that called out to me, and I had a seductive ritual to consume it. I would slowly take off the outer wrapping and place the foil-wrapped bar between my thighs just long enough to get it to just the right texture, still hard but creamy-dreamy, mouth-meltingly perfect. Potatoes were my other solace-inducing, go-to antidepressants. I didn’t care if they were baked, roasted, mashed, scalloped or the most tantalizing of all, heavily salted and french-fried.
“Aaahh”
I would become weak at the knees at the oh-so familiar taste that would soothe me into a sense of tranquility.

Normally, I wasn’t dumb enough to go out with my two hot and sexy best friends, but the deadening effects of a full stomach sometimes clouded my judgment. So once again we went to a club and the mating ritual began within minutes, with Katja swept off her feet by some poseur playboy and Beverly face-to-face in chemistry with her beautiful male doppelganger, leaving me to dance with all the pretty gay boys who loved me just the way I was. I was having a perfectly wonderful time despite knowing that when the clock struck midnight, whomever was making me feel so special would be out the door with someone slim and trim with a mustache. I was on the dance floor, pulsing to the music when a slow tune came on and everyone began to pair off.
I
was conspicuously alone, no longer able to pretend to be part of the crowd.

I made my way over to the jammed-up bar and within minutes I accidentally made eye contact with one of the most beautiful men I had ever seen. He had the kind of naturally streaked blond hair that women pay big bucks for, a heartbreakingly warm smile, and vivid blue—nearly turquoise—eyes. He took my breath away, along with every other man-hungry guy’s and girl’s alongside me. I knew I would have to bump off every one of them to stand a chance of getting marginally close to this man even for a second.
Why does one never have hemlock or eye of newt when one needs it?
I prayed I wouldn’t have to resort to hostage-taking, but then he motioned for me to dance with him.
Sigh
. . . of course, he must be gay.

The music was pulsating, the lights were strobing, and I was gyrating with blissful abandon as he and I danced three more dances. I had no breath left and thought I was going to die of a heart attack but I wouldn’t be the first to quit. I felt faint and thirsty. Thank God, he threw his hands up in defeat and returned to the bar. I tossed my hair around and kept up the pretense of dancing, but then he waved me over. I checked to make sure he meant me. He thought that was funny and handed me a drink—we still hadn’t said a word to each other but he had a beautiful smile and a very direct gaze that made me feel weak in the knees. It didn’t take long for me to discover he didn’t speak a word of English. I made a vow to only pick up young men fresh off the boat from there on in. He was “Johann from Amsterdam” and on the flip side, I still didn’t really know if he was gay or straight.

I offered to show him the town, which culminated in a visit to my place so I could show him off to the girls. Up until then, I had always been the date-o-meter for Katja’s pickings. Whenever she’d bring a new guy back to our place, she would ask me to join them for a short while so I could assess his worthiness. Inevitably and quickly I’d give him a thumb’s down, as they were mostly creeps and cretins. Kat had terrible taste in men. Beverly usually was savvy and careful with her choices so I hadn’t had any to worry about with her. But the minute Johann stepped across the threshold of our house, it was obvious that neither Kat nor Beverly approved. I chose to block my ears and tune out their misgivings. I did the justification quickstep, so sure they didn’t know him the way I did.

I introduced Johann to all my favorite cafes, bars, and shop owners. He knew how to charm everyone, and I was in heaven as I followed in the wake of this spectacularly good-looking specimen. In some unrealistic way, I believed his aura washed over onto me, casting me in a prettier and better light, one that made him choose to hang out with me. But still, I was gob-smacked that he wanted to spend more and more time with me and I allowed myself to fall deeply in love. Soon, he began spending nights at my place. At last, I had a man in my bed and all of Katja and Beverly’s suspicions were ignored. I actually believed they were jealous. What I didn’t know was that he was thrilled to be out of the crowded hostel he’d been living in and my place was perfect for his needs. I think even if I had known, I would still have allowed myself to ride the wave—in case it was one that was never going to come to my shores again.

It didn’t take long for the gloss to fade. If my self-esteem was fragile before, it was now Code Red as I came to understand that I was in love with a man who preferred sleeping with a mirror more than with a warm body. Johann was a model. Shoot me now! How perfect for him that I was a dress designer and
knew people.
I was so happy to introduce him to everyone I knew that could help him and it wasn’t long before he began to get one fashion gig after another. On the downside, I was anointed with the less than glamorous position of sherpa: his personal 24/7
schlepper
. I had a car and I came to understand how valuable this commodity could be, as I drove Johann to his go-sees—auditions for modeling jobs. I delivered, picked up, and often paid for his dry-cleaning, and ferried his massive wardrobe back and forth to wherever he was shooting.

To hang with him, I had to hang with his new friends who were all picks of the litter, meaning other
fahboolus
models. I dragged giant wardrobe bags, enormous tool-chest-like containers filled with hairspray, special brushes, tweezers, nostril-hair clippers, and gallons of water to dazzling locations where I thumbed distractedly through countless magazines, which featured the very people I was waiting on, while Johann, Yanka, Vibecka, Tiiu, and other exotic giraffe-like creatures were primped and polished before being posed in unnatural positions on freezing cold beaches in winter—but propped to look like summer—and to ski slopes in summer made of mashed potato flakes piled mountain high. I liked those shoots, knowing that if I were desperate, I could just add hot water and salt and I would be able to feast for weeks. Johann was not the brightest penny in the purse but he was smart enough to thank me over and over for all that I did for him, which was pretty much everything except cut his meat into bite-size pieces.

What the hell was wrong with me? He was a divine genetic creation put on this earth to make mere male mortals feel inferior, and I already believed I was an inferior, clearly made not in God’s image but more likely in his Latvian housekeeper’s. Johann was so full of himself it didn’t matter; he never noticed. He didn’t see me. I even went back on the dreaded bananas and milk diet in the hope that if there was less of me, he might come to love me. Ha . . . not ever. He was already in a committed relationship with himself.

I may have been insecure, but I wasn’t stupid, and when I caught him cheating on me with a woman old enough to be his mother, I packed all his clothes and put them outside the front door. He assumed that she could help him even more than I could because she owned a big-time modeling agency. Johann from Amsterdam didn’t understand, but this time it wasn’t a language problem. He just couldn’t believe I was throwing him out. I could. I was deeply grateful to both Beverly and Katja for not rubbing my nose in one of the endless plates of leopard-spotted bananas that began piling up in our trash bin.