Getting Waisted (7 page)

6

Speeding to
the Waistland

Diet #7
Benzedrine

Cost
A hole in my soul

Weight lost
50 pounds

Weight gained
0

We moved again.
My mother had found a house she loved but once again couldn’t afford. This time, however, she installed my father in the basement under the pretense that he and I needed to know each other better because he was getting old. In truth, she wanted him to pay for half of the mortgage. She also made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that we were moving because it would soon be time for me to go “husband shopping”
and that I would want to be in the “right store” and this was a terrific neighborhood filled with the sons of the well-to-do families. She really did think that way.

I was twenty and
still
a virgin,
and
living at home. There should have been velvet ropes around me as I was an “unnatural curiosity”—and I was plenty pissed off about it. This was not how I had seen my life unfolding. I still carried the remnants of my Anastasia phase, believing that I should be attending balls with handsome men throwing themselves at my feet, but there was no one. Was it really because I was fat that I was being locked out of the game? I had an uncanny knack for getting men to befriend me and I was in danger of being crowned, “Queen of the Best Friend Club.” But I didn’t want to be their best friend. Fuck brains! Fuck personality! I wanted someone to fuck
me!

Hey, I was young, needy, and not yet the evolved woman it took more than a 101 humiliations to create.

I had to find out, once and for all, if the status quo could be altered if I were to simply disappear and in my place stood a new thin me. Once again, I decided to go on a diet, but this time I was dead serious. My mother gave me an intense top-to-bottom appraisal and shook her head, suggesting I was fine the way I was. She said that I just had big bones, which came from her side of the family; they were all strong like oxen. “Did you just say I looked like an ox?”

My mother became my drug pusher, furnishing me with a never-ever-ending supply of Bennies—Benzedrine, a big-time amphetamine—along with her favorite laxative, Cascara. At last we shared a mother/daughter activity.

I felt as if I were an archeologist; every day I discovered a new bone, and when I caught my reflection in a mirror I had to go back and check if it was really me. I was, however, hopped out of my mind and there was no sitting still to be had. I could not stop moving; I think I even whirred when I walked, and when I talked it was without a filter and at warp speed. I started chain-smoking, too, and I was dropping pounds and barely sleeping . . . but I kept on taking those pills. All good, right? I had to get all new clothes, and when I saw people I knew and said, “Hi” to them, it was more than a little disconcerting to see them look right past me to find out where that familiar voice was coming from.

I got my first bathing suit—up until then I had worn things with skirts and hoods—and I took to the privacy of our garden to tan my blue-white body, which had never before been seen in public. I slathered myself in baby oil and held a giant piece of foil under my chin to reflect as much tanning power as possible up to my face. I was deep into a horse racing dream, in which all the faster horses thundered past me and my swaybacked nag. I leaned forward in an approximation of a real jockey, only I was wider than they were tall, and my cranky horse knew it and he reared up, throwing me to the ground. I was being dragged around the track, gathering mouthfuls of mud and gravel when I was snapped awake by my neighbor’s brother, who had been mowing their lawn. “Sorry to wake you, but you were thrashing about and I was worried you were about to fall off that chaise.” It took me a moment to come to. I thought I was still sleeping as I stared at the very handsome stranger leaning across the fence.

My brain and body kicked in at the same moment. “Oh my God! I’m wearing a bathing suit and I have drool on my chin.” I wasn’t sure if I said this out loud or just in my head, but he was laughing. The flush of embarrassment was dueling with the encroaching crispiness of my skin. I tried to cover up by laying the reflector lengthways, which made the sun beat down even harder. Hal introduced himself as my neighbor’s youngest but most accomplished brother. More words were spoken; some of them by me but they all hung in the air with no place to land until I heard him invite me on a date.

I was in shock! “Why?” He gave me a strange look but this was all new to me, as I had always done the asking.

Still looking puzzled, he said, “I thought we’d have fun together.”

He was a lot older than I was: I was twenty with all the experience of a ten-year-old, and he was a gorgeous, self-assured twenty-seven-year-old man who was studying to be a doctor.

My mother went into overdrive, “A doctor!” She made me a hair appointment, and I bought some very expensive white-on-white patterned silk. (It was expensive, even with the discount I received from the high-end fabric shop where I worked as a kind of training ground for my dress-designing future.) Mummy immediately began making me a beautiful but simple new dress, from a drawing I had done and insisted she not deviate from. I wanted no surprise sequins or any other shiny or dangling embellishments of her choosing.

We took the bus all the way downtown in order to buy me a new pair of shoes to go with the dress. After trying on dozens of pretty ballet flats, we purchased heels. The saleslady insisted they made my legs look thinner. Even though I had never worn such pointy-toed, lady-like shoes I loved them deeply and wore them even with my pajamas in order to appear as if this type of footwear was simply part of my daily routine.

My mother continued to fuss about, picking out just the right old-world jewels from her secret treasure box. A rose gold and pink tourmaline necklace formerly belonging to some rich aunt was the winner. She was like those mice attending to Cinderella, fluttering everywhere, only more like a Prussian diva on crack. She didn’t stop her prepping and primping with me, she also sent my father out for a trim, then had her hair lightened and makeup done. She coated her eyes with a heavy silver dust and when she was finished, everything shimmered as though she was on an episode of Star Trek. Even the sofa got new throw cushions. It was as if a head of state was coming over and the only thing missing, thank God, was a red carpet and a marching band. All the bridge ladies were banned for the big night; “Monica has a date. He’s going to be a doctor! He’s very handsome and he likes her.”

It seems that in every neighborhood across the universe, there is always one street where that infamous odd person lives and everyone knows which house to avoid. Sadly, in my neighborhood, it was mine. My father—who was no spring chicken when he had his one and only brief Big Bang moment with my mother, resulting in my birth—was now old and doing “old people” things. He would stand lurking in the shadows behind the curtains, just waiting for little kids to breach the sanctity of our property by letting even a toe touch our grass. If they did, those curtains would fly open, “Private property! No trespassing! Go on . . . go on . . . have a move on!”
The curtains would snap back and the terrified children would run home and spread the word. No wonder they all clutched each other’s hands and hurried past our house on the way to or from school.

My father stood on sentry duty even though we all knew that my date would soon be coming to pick me up. My mother barked, “Get away from the window. Sit! Sit now! Your daughter has a date and you must not be strange!”

The impossibly good-looking Harold arrived to major fanfare even though I had warned both of my parents to act normal—a description that eluded both of them. My father harumphed and stared him down as if he were a Scotland Yard inspector. My mother coquettishly circled Hal, taking his hand in hers and batting her glittery eyes. Hal smiled back at her. I thought she was going to faint. He was a god, wearing a yellow turtleneck with a wooden Tiki hanging around his neck. I had on my beautiful new white, sleeveless cocktail dress with half my hair piled high in a teased and hair-sprayed bucket, threaded with a white nylon cord that I thought made me look very chic, in spite of the beginning evidence of peeling skin peeking out on my shoulders. After the brief introductions, I hustled him out the door and right into his convertible, and Hal smoothly backed out of our driveway without impaling a single flowerbed. Dick wasn’t going to be able to lodge any complaints on this night. The stars were out in full twinkle and my long blonde hair was actually blowing in the right direction—straight back. He had his arm stretched straight out and it was kind of touching my shoulder. I closed my eyes as we sped down the highway, the scent of a warm summer night permeating the air, and I realized I had never had a dream this good.

We went to dinner at the kind of restaurant I had always imagined me walking into: white tablecloths, linen napkins, candlelight and fresh flowers, the room buzzing with a constant hum of sophistication. Hal pulled the chair out for me, then ordered a rum and cola for him and a Singapore Sling for me. He asked if I liked Steak Diane; I had no idea what it was but even if I did, I could barely speak. All my consonants were colliding and I was terrified of making a fool of myself, so I just smiled and hoped that would pass for some kind of answer. Then Hal asked me if I liked Thelonious Monk. Holy crap! Was Thelonious Monk a famous priest, an author? Or could it be a movie? I didn’t want to fail this test; I tossed my head back and went for it, “I like him.” Hal was pleased, thank God, and he smiled and gently touched my burnt shoulder.

The waiter brought the Steak Diane to the table and poured brandy over it, struck a match, and set it alight. I was mesmerized with the absolute brilliance of my life at long last, when Hal suddenly picked up the water pitcher and
threw
the contents at my head! I was dumbstruck in horror as my beautiful bucket hair collapsed; my false eyelashes came unglued and stuck to my cheeks as my mascara ran down my face, mixing with newly forming tears. I was at dinner with a maniac! The other diners stared in disbelief and alarm. Hal reached across the table with his napkin and I drew back sharply, when I heard him say something about my hair having been on fire. The cord I had used to so fashionably wind through my hair had caught a spark from the flambé and set my hair ablaze. The acrid smell of burned hair and synthetic ribbon wafted around me as I made my escape to the ladies room. I looked at my reflection in the mirror feeling embarrassed and stupid but I did my best to pull myself together, wiping the mascara from my face and tossing the soggy caterpillar-like lashes down the toilet. I still looked like something dragged up in a fisherman’s catch, but as I walked from the ladies room toward my table there was a spontaneous round of applause. I was too mortified to acknowledge anyone and wanted to leave the restaurant as soon as possible.