“Some baby food is delicious,” I say, startled, reminiscing. “I did it for a while years ago. They should have asked me; been there, done that. Gerber Dutch Apple was my favourite, then Banana Yoghurt, Banana Strawberry and some porridgy ones. Gosh, I had forgotten all about them. And these days I bet there’s organic stuff too.” I think perhaps I should give them a go again but Brit reads my mind and gives me a filthy look.
“Don’t even think about it,” she says, “I can just see you thinking, ooh, that sounds nice. Beyoncé Knowles lost all that weight living on hot water with maple syrup and cayenne pepper. Don’t tell me you want to try that too?”
“No way,” I say. “Those kinds of fads end up with me eating like a horse. I’ve never been good at liquid diets.”
She laughs. “So then this wouldn’t work for you,” she says. “There’s a thing called drunkorexia, which is substituting your meals with alcohol. There’s orthorexia, which is getting too obsessive about healthy eating – which might be you come to think of it. And then there’s bigorexia, which is a male thing mostly; men binge on protein to increase their muscle mass.”
“I do not have orthorexia,” I protest. “And aren’t ‘orthotics’ feet things anyway?”
“Good try,” Brit says, a big smirk on her face. “No, I said orthorexia, and if you ask me, you could be in danger of having that.”
“Who makes up these names anyway?” I ask her, dodging.
“It’s says here Stephen Bratman coined the phrase in 1997. Orthos means ‘correct’ or ‘right’ and orexia means ‘appetite,’” she says. “So it’s about the obsession with eating things with no preservatives or animal fats. It is an obsessive compulsive condition that leads to malnutrition and emaciation.”
I am not about to tell Brit I have had malnutrition three times and have definite obsessive-compulsive tendencies. Oh well, I shrug inwardly.
“You know what’s totally disgusting?” she says.
I laugh. “I have no idea Brit, tell me.”
“There are websites designed to help you get an eating disorder. If you Google these, you will be horrified at the websites that come up:
Ways to become anorexic; Tip tricks to anorexia; Eating disorder quiz; I wanna be anorexic; Proud to be anorexic; Anorexic beauty pro; How to starve yourself…
“I get the picture,” I interrupt her.
“It’s totally disgusting,” she says.
Pro bulimia puking tips; Bulimia poems; How to make yourself throw up; Who discovered bulimia; Easy purge food; Throw up quietly bulimia; What does a bulimic person look like….
“Have you read any of them?” I ask.
“Yes. They are terrible. Listen to this one, the site is ‘Bulimia Resources’ and their tagline is ‘Beauty and elegance defined.’ They call throwing up ‘losing weight the natural way.’ They say:
voluntary bulimia offers many benefits including: weight loss, lowered cholesterol, and fewer periods for females to name a few. A few practitioners report stomach ulcers, abnormal buildup of fluid in the intestines, electrolyte imbalance, and an irregular heartbeat but these are in the vast minority as most bulimics report becoming thin, beautiful, and feeling better about themselves. As an added bonus, dangerous stomach acid is removed from your body during your release, polishing harmful enamel from your teeth on its way out.
“I don’t think it’s a serious website,” I say. “It sounds more like it’s really saying how bad it is for you, don’t you think? I mean, ‘harmful enamel’?”
“No,” she says vehemently. “It’s serious and they must have meant harmful plaque or bacteria or something and just got confused. Listen:
most people find that getting into voluntary bulimia is easy. The key to successful voluntary bulimia is persistence: if you keep focused on your weight loss goals, you will succeed.
Listening to her, I wonder if perhaps I am just a savvy voluntary bulimic?
“‘Getting started’ is one of the pages on the site,” Brit says and reads:
Go ahead, enjoy a huge meal. Eat the favourite rich, savory, and fatty foods you enjoy and deserve. Once you have completed your meal simply go to the bathroom or another private, easy-to-clean place, lean over, and stick your fingers into the back of your throat. Soon you will feel the welling release coming from within. Allow your release to achieve its natural exit from your person and you’re well on your way to a thinner, better you.
She looks up at me. “Man, this is totally sick.” She shakes her head and her voice takes on the singsong cadence of an infomercial.
Voluntary bulimia isn’t just the latest fad diet sweeping the nation—it’s a whole new way of eating. You too can eat rich, delicious food and lose weight – without dieting, exercise, or harmful drugs. Using techniques employed by the powerful ancient Greeks, and modern-day celebrities you can release the inner you, and find your key to a healthy new lifestyle.
“Oh man,” she pauses for breath. “This is really bizarre stuff. Like hello, let’s all practice voluntary heroin therapy why don’t we, to calm our nerves. There’s an equally great idea.”
“Is there more?” I ask, although I am not sure how much more I want to hear.
“You bet your sweet booty there’s more,” Brit says. “‘Voluntary bulimia’,” she continues,
helps avoid the side effects of so many diets. Drugs often cause uncomfortable cramping, excessive sweating, and in some cases rectal discharges that can cause unsightly oily spotting on lighter clothes. By being 100% natural and involving no drugs or exercise, voluntary bulimia is the safest way to lose weight.
“Oh stop,” I say. “I have had enough. It’s too horrible to listen to. You lost me at ‘unsightly oily spotting’. Oh, Brit, you are making me feel sick. Do they have an email address? Because I’ll tell them, in no uncertain terms.”
“No, no contact details whatsoever,” she says.
“Why am I not surprised?” I say. “What irresponsible morons.”
I am getting too excited about it. I need to back off before Brit suspects I am a non-voluntary bulimic person. I need to throw her off track.
“Amy Winehouse is anorexic, not bulimic,” I object.
“Not according to her father, who swears she is bulimic,” Brit says.
“He might not know the difference between the two,” I say. “And besides, he probably thinks whatever she does is fine as long she doesn’t get fat.” I am thinking of my own father.
Brit shoots me a look. “Hardly likely,” she s says. “No father would want his daughter to be that screwed up.”
I am not so sure. Screwed up is fine, I think, as long as it is screwed up and thin.
Kenneth and Meg come back from their movie premiere in high spirits, wanting to tell us what a debacle the new Tom Cruise movie is. Brit gets caught up in details of Tom’s flaws for the rest of the day for which I was grateful.
I hope she has had her fill of eating disorder celebrities. I came out of the conversation unscathed but it had been nerve-wracking. The most important thing to me, ever, is that no one ever discovers my secret. I am determined to escape life without ever being discovered, no matter what happens. In a way though, everything Brit said today is helpful, I realize I am not alone which makes me feel okay for about five minutes.
If I sound sarcastic, it’s because I know that the solidarity cure only works for a short time, then it’s back to the angst. What a thin-pressuring society we live in, I think. Of all my weaknesses, I hate being bulimic the most. But then again, I’m not really bulimic. Well, not really.
Designs on food
PABLO HAS DECIDED TO SEND all the art directors and designers to a seminar on “Design and the Future of Print Media.” I guess he is trying to pretend he still has a future. It is a Friday, which is good because work is stressing me big time and a day off is most welcome, especially before the weekend. Kenneth has been off-the-chart hysterical about how bad our ad sales are and he is really beginning to get to me. I arrive at w
ork at 6:40 a.m. We are supposed to meet and go in convoy together. I totally hate things I have to do with other people. This is like some kind of stupid school outing, I think. In my case, the school report would read has no desire to play with others.
Naturally I get to work before anyone else. This really bugs me since I am actually on time, which means the rest of them are late. I wasn’t sure what the eating situation would be like for the day, so I’d thrown a bunch of apples into my bag.
I am resolute that, come what may, it is not going to be a bad food day. I am power-dressed for the occasion; I will doubtless be bumping into some of the industry’s key players and I need to look the part. I am intent on lobbying for a new job, convinced Pablo’s days of dolphins and Sistine Chapel ceilings are numbered.
I also know that the last thing on the power players’ minds will be the food and I am trying to get into their mindset and become one of them instead of being part of the food-obsessed, insecure loser set.
Anyway, I sit in my car and wait for the rest of the studio to arrive. They do, fifteen minutes later, by which time I have nearly left and gone by myself despite Pablo’s decree we bond together and unite. To my dismay, one of the graphic designers from another magazine elects to hitch a ride with me, when I really would have preferred to be alone. I want to use the time to psych myself and mentally prep for the day. Instead, I have to think of ways to make meaningless social chitchat.
It seems I don’t have to worry about having to talk. Karl, the designer, monologues the whole way and the conversation is bizarre to say the least. He is very into all kinds of New Age stuff and he goes into way too much detail about his beliefs. I thought I knew a fair bit about New Age but it turns out I really don’t.
Apparently, God is to be found in ourselves, God is the Self, the Self is God. There is no sin, since whatever the Self does cannot be wrong, and nothing exists but the Self.
I say it sounds quite self-centred and selfish and he says, yes, that’s exactly what it is.
He also says it is very pagan and that many New Agers, including himself, have experimented with the Occult and pagan religions.
I am alarmed by this to tell you the truth. Am I sitting next to a devil-worshipper? I sneak a glance at him and wish Brit were with me.
Karl looks like your average conservative guy. I have noticed him at his desk, always stuffing his face with chocolate and chips and fizzy drinks. He has a really bad complexion.
I have been dying to tell him to cut acids out of his diet and his acne will clear up but I don’t think I know him well enough.
“I wonder what the food is going to be like today,” he says, startling me. As a New Ager, maybe he can read minds; I should stop thinking about his acne.
“I bought my lunch with me,” he says. “Just in case there is nothing for me to eat there.” He has an old black satchel with him, with some kind of mystical symbol painted in chalky white on the front.
“Me, too. I brought apples if you want one,” I offer, “because I also don’t know about the food. They mentioned coffee a few times on the itinerary and so I brought some green tea with me because I don’t do coffee anymore.”
“I also try not to,” Karl says. “It gives me the shakes and makes me more depressed. I am also trying to not eat any sugar or bread, because of the yeast.”
Huh? I look over at him, and try to reconcile what he is saying with what I have seen him eat. Sometimes people are not what you expect at all. We chat about the day ahead and I say I am looking forward to it. He says he thinks it will be a waste of time. I tell him I am just happy to be away from my dreadfully nervous boss. He says his boss isn’t so bad and that she is away for a week so he would have been okay at work anyway.
We finally reach the seminar and go inside to be greeted by Fat Janet who had decided to make her own way instead of joining the convoy. I wish I could be more assertive about things like that.
“I know the people who are catering here today,” she says, affable and pretty, her red hair falling in waves. “So the food is going to be really good.”
I groan inwardly. Fat Janet’s and my idea of good food are like chalk and cheese; fat-free chalk and Kraft cheese. I am relieved to have my supplies.
I wander around collecting pamphlets and bump into the first of the power editors. I had wondered why Pablo had sent every single art person and not one editor, when it is at least half an editorial thing. I had asked Kenneth who shrugged, wild-eyed, beyond caring. The power editor is cool and composed and she commends me on the design of my mag as if she is the queen bestowing a compliment. She nods graciously and sails on.
“Who is that?” Fat Janet pops up next to me and I explain.
“Looks a bit stuck up if you ask me,” Fat Janet comments.
“Goes with the territory of being an editor I guess. They all think they’re the next Anna Wintour,” I say and take out an apple. “Everybody thought The Devil Wears Prada was a documentary. Now they think that’s how they should act and we’re the ones who have to live with the consequences.”
When I have finished eating, I suggest we go into the auditorium and reserve our seats since I can’t see anyone else worth talking to, and besides, I always worry I won’t get a seat.
Fat Janet agrees and we go inside and she reserves a whole row for all our colleagues. That’s the difference between Fat Janet and me; I would have sat down and not given anyone else a thought. Actually that’s not true. The truth is, I would have thought about reserving seats too, but I am too insecure a person to do it because what if I reserved all those seats and no one wanted to sit next to me? There I’d be, all alone, among a whole row of empty seats, with the spotlight on rejected me.
But because it is Fat Janet it is all fine and our row soon fills up with colleagues from our studio.
“I am sorry we are so close,” I apologize to the creative director who is next to me. He looks startled by my comment.
“It’s just that I am really quite shortsighted and I need to be close to the screen so that’s why we chose this row,” I explain.
“Oh. I thought you meant you and me sitting side by side,” he says, laughing.
I laugh too and pat him self-consciously on the arm, to show him that isn’t the case at all.
When the seminar begins it is with a whimper. The first two lecturers are CEOs of construction companies who try to explain how their share prices have gone up since they redesigned their annual reports. They show a lot of graphs of their successes versus the general industry’s decline. The creative director next to me falls asleep.
By the time tea is announced we are all nearly comatose. We herd out in the direction of the catering room and I take a quick look around at the food.
Tiny white bread sandwiches with yellow cheese; trays of muffins and doughnuts; a carb queen’s dream.
I spot a power publisher I hoped would be here and I make a move towards her. She is eating yellow cheese sandwiches. She is quite friendly and in three minutes I manage to update her on my status and let her know I am looking around, just in case she needs an art director. I also manage to amuse her by dredging up some gossip on a mutual colleague.
I am feeling quite successful and in control, and I casually pick at a carrot muffin I intend only as a prop to stage myself as normal.
I finish my pitch and another power editor joins the fray. She and I had worked together some years back and while she is still a nasty piece of work, I always try to keep on her good side because she has a lot of pull.
You never know what you are going to get with her; she can be your best friend or she can ice you in a second. It all depends on whether there is anyone else around she can talk to.
The last time I had seen her was at a function and she had been alone and therefore really glad to see me. I don’t know why I expect the same reaction from her today but I must admit I am a bit embarrassed and more than slightly humiliated when she cuts me dead and starts talking to the other edito
r instead.
I try again; maybe she hasn’t heard me. I squeak out another greeting but again she behaves as if I am totally invisible.
I am not sure how to leave without looking too obviously crushed when luckily one of my studio colleagues clutches my arm and tells me Kenneth’s sister is somewhere in the throng and I should try to find her. I slide away, a flush on my cheeks. On my way to find Kenneth’s sister, my growing sense of worthlessness is compounded when I spot a girl I had worked with some time back; a girl who always triggers my insecurities.
She is one of those born to-be-cool types who has been consistently scornful to me from the moment we met. This has always bugged me since I have only ever tried to behave with Buddhist equanimity towards her.
I decide to give the Zen thing another go, and I go up to her, thinking that’s what the Dalai Lama would do. Although afterwards I think, maybe he would have waited and let her come to him.
“Hi,” I say. “How’re you doing?”
She is so off-handed I suspect she has been taking lessons from the editor who had just ignored me.
“Where are you now?” she asks with scornful disinterest while she investigates the food on the table. She picks things up, looks at them closely, and puts them back down. I don’t think that is very hygienic. I tell her I am with Pablo’s group.
“Haven’t seen or heard of your mag.” She sounds bored and inspects a sandwich.
I decide to leave her before I can be further humiliated. I grab an apple out of my bag and march up to greet Kenneth’s sister who is as short, oval, and as hyper as he has been lately. She garbles on about paper prices and how people really don’t care. Don’t care about what? I don’t have a clue what she is talking about.
“Excuse me, there’s someone I have to catch up with,” I say and when I leave she is still talking. “I’ll see you later.”
I make my way over to a tall guy with flaming scarlet hair. He and I had met years before when I worked for his father, a one-trick, shyster publisher who took products in lieu of payments: Persian rugs, spa baths, tree houses. He paid us in cash none too regularly, gave us pineapples and avocadoes out of the trunk of his car, and one time we even got fresh loaves of crusty whole-wheat bread. I had followed his son’s newspaper progress with interest and thought he would be a good person to hook up with.
The Hungry Mirror Page 17
