“You’re doing fine,” said my mother. “Your day will come.”
“What if it doesn’t?” I demanded. “What if I never get another job, or another boyfriend”
My mother waved her hand dismissively, as if this was too silly to even consider.
“But what if I don’t?” I asked raggedly. “He’s got this column, he’s writing a novel”
“He says he’s writing a novel,” said my mother. “Doesn’t mean it’s true.”
“I’m never going to meet anyone else,” I said flatly.
My mother sighed. “You know, I think some of this is my fault,” she finally said.
That got my attention.
“When your father used to say things…”
This was definitely a turn I didn’t want the conversation to take. “Mom…”
“No, no, Cannie, let me finish.” She took a deep breath. “He was awful,” she said. “Mean and awful, and I let him get away with way too much, and I let it go on for too long.”
“Water under the bridge,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” said my mother. I had heard her say this before, of course, but it hurt every time, because every time it made me remember just what she was apologizing for, and how bad it had been. “I’m sorry because I know it’s what’s made you this way.”
I stood up, grabbing her cup and mine, our used napkins, the remains of the pretzels, and headed off to find a garbage can. She followed behind me. “Made me how?” I asked.
She thought about it. “Well, you’re not great with criticism.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You don’t seem very comfortable with how you look.”
“Show me a woman who is,” I shot back. “It’s just that not all of us get to enjoy having our insecurities exploited for millions of Moxie readers.”
“And I wish…” She looked ruefully toward the tables at the center of the market, where families were gathered, having sandwiches or coffee, passing sections of the Examiner back and forth. “I wish you believed in yourself more. Like with… romantic stuff.”
Yet another conversation I didn’t want to be having with my late-in- life-lesbian mother.
“You’ll find the right guy,” she said.
“I’ve been underwhelmed by the choices so far.”
“You stayed with Bruce too long”
“Ma, please!”
“He was a nice guy. But I knew you didn’t love him that way.”
“I thought you were out of the heterosexual advice-giving arena.”
“I’m making a special guest appearance on an as-needed basis,” she said cheerfully. Outside, by the car, she gave me a rough hug – a big step for her, I knew. My mother is a great cook, a sympathetic listener, and a good judge of character, but she’s never been big on touchy-feely stuff. “I love you,” she said, which was also out of character for her. But I wasn’t going to object. I needed all the love I could get.
THREE
On Monday morning I sat in a waiting room full of women too big to cross t heir legs, all of us wedged into inadequate armchairs on the seventh floor of the University of Philadelphia Weight and Eating Disorders Center, thinking that if I ran the place I’d make sure to have couches.
“A few surveys,” the smiling, skinny secretary behind the desk had said, handing me a half-inch thick slab of forms, a clipboard, and a pen. “There’s breakfast,” she added chirpily, pointing at a stack of desiccated bagels, a tub of fat-free cream cheese, and a pitcher of orange juice with a thick film of pulp floating on the top. Like anyone would eat in here, I thought, bypassing the bagels and sitting down with my forms beneath a poster that read “Taking it off… one day at a time!” and depicted a model in a leotard romping through a field full of flowers, which was not something I planned on doing, no matter how skinny I got.
Name. That was easy. Height. No problem. Current weight. Ack. Lowest weight maintained as an adult. Did fourteen count as an adult? Reason for wanting to lose weight. I thought for a minute, than scribbled, Was humiliated in national publication. I thought for a minute, than added, Would like to feel better about myself.
Next page. Diet history. Highest weights, lowest weights, programs I’d enrolled in, how much I’d lost, how long I’d kept it off. “Please use reverse side if more space is needed,” read the form. I needed. In fact, judging from a quick glance around the room, everybody needed. One woman even had to ask for extra paper.
Page three. Parents’ weights. Grandparents’ weights. Siblings’ weights. I took guesses for all of them. These weren’t things that were discussed around the table at family gatherings. Did I binge and purge, fast, abuse laxatives, exercise compulsively? If I did, I thought, would I look like this?
Please list your five favorite restaurants. Well, this would be easy. I could just walk down my street and pass five fabulous places to eat – everything from spring rolls to tiramisu before I’d gone three blocks. Philadelphia still lived in the shadow of New York City and often had the character of a sulky second sister who’d never made the honor roll or the homecoming court. But our restaurant renaissance was for real, and I lived in the neighborhood that boasted the first creperie, the first soba noodle shop, and the first drag show dinner theater (so-so female impersonators, divine calamari). We also had the obligatory two coffee shops per block, which had hooked me on three-dollar lattes and chocolate-chip scones. Not, I knew, the breakfast of champions, but what was a girl to do, except try to compensate by avoiding the cheesesteak shops on every corner? Plus which, Andy, the one real friend I’d made at the paper, was the food critic, whom I often accompanied on review meals, eating foie gras and rabbit rillettes and veal and venison and pan-seared sea bass at the finest restaurants in town while Andy murmured into the microphone wire running through his collar.
Five favorite foods. Now this was getting tricky. Desserts, in my opinion, were an entirely separate category from main dishes, and breakfast was another thing altogether, and the five best things I could cook bore no relation to the five best things I could buy. Mashed potatoes and roast chicken were my go-to comfort foods, but could I really compare them to the chocolate tarts and creme brulee from the Parisian bakery on Lombard Street? Or the grilled stuffed grape leaves at Viet Nam, the fried chicken at Delilah’s, and the brownies from Le Bus? I scribbled, crossed out, remembered the chocolate bread pudding at the Silk City Diner, heated and with fresh whipped cream, and had to start again.
Seven pages of physical history. Did I have a heart murmur, high blood pressure, glaucoma? Was I pregnant? No, no, and a thousand times no. Six pages of emotional history. Did I eat when I was upset? Yes. Did I eat when I was happy? Yes. Would I be tearing through those bagels and that funky- looking cream cheese at this very moment, were it not for the present company? You betcha.
On to the psychology pages. Was I frequently depressed? I circled sometimes. Did I have thoughts of suicide? I winced, then circled rarely. Insomnia? No. Feelings of worthlessness? Yes, even though I knew I wasn’t worthless. Did I ever fantasize about cutting off fleshy or flabby areas of my body? What, doesn’t everyone? Please add any additional thoughts. I wrote, I am happy with every aspect of my life except my appearance. Then I added, And my love life.
I laughed a little bit. The woman stuffed into the seat next to mine
