Getting Waisted by Parker Monica

Author:Parker, Monica [Parker, Monica]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: love, survival, waisted, fat, society, being fat, loves, guide, thin
Publisher: Health Communications, Inc.
Published: 2014-04-01T00:00:00+00:00

16

Falling Rocks

Diet #19 The Baby Food Diet

Cost $24.00

Weight lost 4 baby-sized pounds

Weight gained 7 jumbo-sized pounds

My father was parked on a side rail, rusty and no longer of any use. The Folger Home was doing its best to keep him entertained and comfortable, which was not always easy seeing as he was convinced he was back in merry old England and that the beleaguered caregivers who looked after him were family members whom he had never trusted. He was still keeping a list and taking names, along with all their infractions. To ward off my ongoing fear that Ms. High Anxiety might make an uninvited appearance, I still kept some Valium in the candy dish at home, which was empty of candy because I had eaten all of it. Not that I was ever planning to take the Valium, but I needed to know it was there. It had become my security blanket.

I had never thought of myself as a depressed person, but my recent behavior said otherwise. I had always thought of myself as outgoing, happy, and a self-starter. Perhaps I was like Sybil, that oft-written about multiple personality. Maybe I had a different persona for every occasion and Rotunda, the dark one, had eaten me out of house and home.

Whatever the truth, I knew I never wanted to be thought of as a victim. That’s not who I was. I was the cheerleader and the instigator of fun.

My mother’s boutique dress shop catered to a very privileged and demanding clientele, and she was their much sought after queen. I had taken to the role of princess as comfortably as ice cream on cake; the clients liked me and my mother was proud, sometimes too proud, and misguided. Whenever I lost ten pounds or more, she’d look at me and say: “You could be a model.” I would look at her and tell her she needed a white cup and a cane, as clearly her vision was gone or the mother filter was so rose-colored it blocked sanity. I had come to the conclusion that most Jewish mothers thought their daughters looked like Audrey Hepburn, even if they were sporting duck lips. Going to work every day was like picking my way through a minefield in a pretty garden. I loved my job, but my mother was my boss and her lifelong mixed messages had me spinning, the general theme being, “You are perfect just as you are, but a few changes couldn’t hurt.” That, coupled with her ease at setting my father adrift in an un-swimmable sea, deeply upset me.

My inner Southern girl had come out with a vengeance, cooking carbs as if I were a female Paul Prudhomme on a bender. I devoured crumbly, toasted mac and cheese made with butter, a little more butter, triple cream Paradiso cheese, and a hearty thump of sharp cheddar, fried chicken, and anything au gratin. Once again, I had determinedly thrown myself off the wagon. All modeling requests, even from those wearing tinted lenses, ceased.

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