“Eat something,” my mother says. “Anything.”

I gaze at her. She has changed her attitude over the past few weeks. No longer does she give me looks of disappointment for failing to meet her rigidly high standards of academic achievement, or extra-curricular activities, boyfriend or wardrobe choices, or room tidiness. Now all her signals are warm and nurturing. She is like a mama bird, trying to stuff a fat, twitching worm down my reluctant baby beak.

“It’s delicious, mom,” I say. I radiate sincerity.

I put three string beans on my plate, add a thready fragment of chicken and a scant spoonful of mashed potatoes. I stare at my compilation. Stir it around. Raise a loaded fork halfway to my mouth, let it hover, tantalizing my mother. Then, I lower it to my plate and watch as her face crumples and her eyes despair.

At the beginning of the summer, my mother’s bitchy best friend Suzy pointed out that I had gained weight during my year away at college. “Oh, look at you; you’re so cute with those extra pounds on you,” she had said.
My mother was mortified. Clearly, Suzy’s words stung, as if they applied to her and not to me. I knew that my mom couldn’t look at me without thinking I was pudgy and bordering on unattractive. She suggested, in a let’s-have-no-arguments kind of way, that I fix myself by going on a diet. Those ten freshman pounds needed to go.

I complied. And how. Today’s weight check shows that I am down by a good twenty pounds. My clothes are too big for my body and my eyes are huge in my sharp-cheekboned face. But, God almighty, I feel powerful.

At the beginning of my self-monitored weight-reduction program I ate balanced meals, but as the days passed I started to cut more and more calories. My mother told me how pretty I looked.

“Suzy says she hardly even recognizes you. You’re almost ready for the runway, in her opinion,” my mom said. She had a smug look on her face as she gave me an up-and-down appraisal.

I thought it was interesting that my mom could be so proud of my trimmer body, yet had not even commented on the rather good grades that I had received that year at school. But, I didn’t really care; I was much more interested in thinness than academic standing, loving my ever tinier body as it continued to shrink.

It was amusing to see my mother’s pride in my weight loss turn to worry as I went from slender to skinny. It made me happy to see her become uncharacteristically caring and solicitous. And, it made me laugh to see how she wanted to keep me out of Suzy’s sight.

“You’re getting to be far too skinny. I don’t want our neighbours to think that I starve you,” she said, more than once.

I never deny myself completely, of course. When my mother isn’t watching I sneak into the kitchen and snaffle a teaspoon of peanut butter, straight from the jar. The sensation as it coats my tongue is voluptuous. I gasp with pleasure and grip the countertop to keep from falling as my knees buckle. If the little bears on the jar’s label demanded sex in exchange for peanut butter I would agree instantly; it’s that good.

I wash the luscious creaminess down with diet cola. I like the way the carbonation creates knife-edged sparkles as the liquid splashes its way down the length of my gullet. There are zero calories in diet cola and I guzzle as much as I want, whenever I want. I can drink it and persuade myself that I am full. On any given day I drink eight or ten cans of the stuff, not caring that aspartame isn’t part of a complete and healthy diet. To me, it’s the greatest invention ever.

The diet pop also energizes me with its caffeine. My mind is bursting with ideas and my body is restless. I am never still. I walk a lot and when I do, I lead with my hip bones. Before, I moved in a straightforward way, never paying attention to the physics of my actions. Now, I glide; my legs are stilt-like extensions and I sashay with long, skating strides. I always thought that supermodels had to learn this method of walking, but perhaps it’s a natural side-effect of super-skinniness. It feels great – smooth, sexy, lithe.

Everything about the new physical me is wonderful, while I am awake. Night-time is different. I sleep very little, and when I do I am tormented by nightmares. They involve two things: eating and being fat.

The eating part starts out as fun. I see a banquet spread before me and I help myself to a modest serving of everything. I sample the food, enjoying the forbidden tastes and physical sensations. But, inevitably I lose control. No longer am I eating politely with knife and fork from a china plate; no, I am sprawled across the buffet with my face embedded in red velvet cake. I gorge. Occasionally, I come up for air. Cream cheese frosting plasters my cheeks and forehead and drips from my nose. I plunge back in and gorge some more.

And I am obese in my dreams. Not overweight in the socially acceptable way I used to be, but bulbous and cascading and pendulous in my grossness. I feel the slabs of lard on my torso overlapping and chafing, shifting as I move. My eyes are tiny and pig-like in my triple-chinned face, but I can still see clearly and there, standing to the side of the table is my mother, smiling at me in an evil, satisfied way.

I snap out of sleep, horrified, still tasting the sweetness of the dream cake. I rejoice that it was just a nightmare. My hipbones – yes, there they are, sharp and Alp-like in their steepness. I trail my fingers over my picket fence ribs. Sublime.

This morning I weigh two pounds less than I did yesterday. I’ll weigh myself at least three more times today, and chart the results in my journal. Hunger pangs are my friend, I tell myself. Food is the enemy, right up there next to my mom.

I am thin. I am in control. Of myself, and, better yet, of my mother. She is putty in my hands.

Nothing in the world has ever tasted this good.

END

Sally Basmajian asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work