The Hungry Mirror

by Lisa de Nikolits

  “You also had a good lunch,” she says almost accusingly, confirming my suspicions.

  I don’t say anything in response. I just make agreeing sort of noises.

  “Anyway,” Brit says and sighs, “I agree with my nurse friend. It is disgusting what Meg does. I am going to talk to her about it one day. She is abusing her body terribly. She drinks like a fish, she smokes all day, and she’s either living on diet Coke or she is bingeing. Imagine the state of her insides.”

  I look up. “I wouldn’t say anything to her,” I say, knowing Brit won’t listen to me one way or another. “She won’t listen to you in any case. She is one of those unreachable people and besides, she is quite arrogant really, not to mention vain, and she doesn’t think she’s doing anything wrong. If you say anything to her she’ll assume it’s because you are jealous of her Miss Orange County good looks and I bet if she were to think about it at all, she’d say she is one of those voluntary bulimics, like off that website, practicing sensible weight control. There really isn’t any point.”

  We are safe in discussing this; Meg has called in sick.

  “Hungover,” Brit says scathingly. “That, or she’s looking to score a long weekend.”

  I agree with her. “I must admit I am a bit tired of her coming in so late every day, and still leaving right on the dot. Let’s all start at 10:00 a.m. then.”

  I don’t mean it of course. What on earth would I do with myself from 6:30 a.m. to 10:00 a.m. if I wasn’t at my beloved desk, my sanctuary, my haven?

  “I can’t bear it when people aren’t professional,” I burst out. “I’m here to do my job, not be friends, and if she’s playing on our so-called friendship for understanding, then she’s appealing to the wrong person. I’m only interested in working with her and if she can’t get it together then she should leave.”

  Brit looks a bit alarmed by my speech mainly because she also tends to stroll in at 9:30 or later and finally settles down to her work around 11:00.

  I use the Meg opportunity quite consciously, to tell Brit how I am feeling, because both of their erratic hours have been bugging me for a while. It simply isn’t fair. But, truth be told, my frustrations aren’t about working hours; we are all under too much pressure, our team is too small, and we are beginning to get on each other’s nerves.

  Brit looks at me after my outburst, her candy-pink lipsticked mouth wide. “I’m going down to the caf,” she says carefully. “You want anything?”

  “No thanks,” I say. “My stomach hasn’t been feeling so good. I hope I’m not coming down with something.”

  “There’s a bug going around,” Brit says. She stares at her magenta nails and examines her forefinger. “I asked my nurse friend what Meg would have done if we had gone to the washroom with her and stopped her from throwing up at lunch yesterday, and she said she would have waited until she got home, then she would have taken a box of laxatives; that’s how devious they are.” She gets up to go and I watch her leave and pretend I am working.

  Oh, they are devious and manipulative, are they? I think, discomforted, and I try to remind myself that I am not really one of them. Not really.

  I wonder about Brit’s personal life. She mentioned an ex-boyfriend but he sounded very past tense. I wonder if she’s into girls but I don’t get that feeling. She lives with Chris and another roommate who are both gay and by all accounts, their home is party central, with people coming and going at all hours of the day and night. But, although she moves in a swarm, I get the feeling that Brit lives an isolated existence.

  I realize I know very little about her. I wonder if I should try to get more personal. But I know I won’t be able to follow through and be a reliable friend of any kind so it is better that I don’t.

  Brit returns with six muffins. Six. I look at her in horror.

  “Why on earth did you buy six?” I ask her.

  “Couldn’t decide which one I wanted and they’re really small anyway. Would you like one?”

  “No thanks, I really don’t think my stomach could handle one. But thanks anyway.”

  “Another thing I totally hate about Meg,” Brit continues, as though she hadn’t left the room, obviously having had this on her mind for a while, “is how she tries to force food on me. She’ll buy two muffins, eat a third of one, then palm the rest off on me, even if I tell her no thanks. Why does she assume I’ll eat it?”

  “Yes, I know what you mean,” I say pointedly. “I mean if you had wanted a muffin, or two or whatever, you would have bought them yourself. You are not her or anyone’s garbage disposal. She can’t bear to throw food away, that’s why she gives it to you. She’s hoping you’ll eat it.”

  Brit eats all six muffins. She is getting increasingly angry about her food obsession. No matter what she says, she wants to be thin and she’s furious because Meg is. I’m not thin, not like I’d like to be, but I am small in stature while Brit’s a tall girl with generous breasts, a thick, chunky waist and a round, naturally double-chinned face. She will never have a thin face, because even her skull is large and round. Maybe that’s why people think I am thinner than I am. I have a tiny head and a small face which looks thin even when I am really not.

  I am worried all her eating will upset my equilibrium. I tell myself I must be aware, vigilant and careful.

  A candy cane for support

  The following Tuesday, Brit comes back from the caf, her arms laden. “Look what I picked up,” she says. I am not sure I want to see. I think it may be her usual terrifying 11:00 a.m. snack but she hands me a pamphlet instead.

  “What’s this?” I ask. “The Weight is Over, Train Your Brain, Control Your Mind. What the heck is this Brit?”

  “Found it in the caf,” she says, her mouth already full of chocolate muffin. “I think I might try it. He’s a personal weight loss coach. Wait, I’m going to check out his website.” She starts clicking away on her keyboard.

  I read the pamphlet.

  There are dozens of reasons why people eat, other than hunger. The Personal Journal System has helped thousands of people become truly aware of what’s in the way of losing weight long term. Take control of evening eating with convenient one-on-one support in person or on the phone.

  “You can phone him any time,” I call out to Brit who is studying her screen. “And he’ll help you break your bad habits and feel better. Look at his name, Tim Candy. How funny is that, for an eating therapist person? Slim Tim, the Candy Cane.” I start singing “Lean on Me” and Brit gives me a dark look.

  “He’s not an eating therapist.” She finishes her muffin and brushes the crumbs off her desk. “He’s a certified NLP practitioner, which is Neuro-Linguistic Programming…”

  “Which is what exactly?” I ask. “And what does it have to do with food therapy?”

  “I don’t know,” Brit says. “But he is also a Weight Loss Coach at a Master Level.”

  For some reason I find that funny.

  “You are such a skeptic,” Brit says. “He’s very good-looking, and he’s been in all the newspapers and magazines.”

  “So he says,” I say and get up to check out her screen. Yes, clean-cut, boyish, middle-aged; he could be a car salesman or realtor.

  “He looks like Ted Bundy,” I say and go back to my desk.

  Brit waves at me. “You are hopeless. I might give him a try. Look, you get a free Psychometric Eating Evaluation Session for free, when it’s usually fifty dollars.”

  “Total bargain,” I say. “Once you call, that’s it, you’ve taken the bait, there’s no escape.” I can’t think of anything worse than having someone monitor my eating. On the other hand, imagine if I never have to think about it again. Imagine the relief of having a coach doing it all for me.

  “Your desire to eat will decrease,” Brit reads off her screen. I think that sounds wonderful.

  “So, he’s all about exercise,” she says, and I think that sounds less wonderful. “And he studied psychotherapy to look at unconscious behaviour. H
e says you need to eat to live, not live to eat.

  “A catchy phrase,” I say. “I didn’t think you would be into this kind of thing, this personal life coach training exercise stuff.”

  “Well, Chris is not happy with my weight,” she opens a bag of chips. “And I’d love to really be in tune with my body, and imagine it all fit and happy. Then Chris will stop being such a pain.”

  I think she should just off-load Chris but that doesn’t seem to be an option.

  “Neuro-Linguistic Programming,” I say to Brit, having done some quick online research. “According to Wikipedia anyway, it is ‘a model of interpersonal communication chiefly concerned with the relationship between successful patterns of behaviour and subjective experiences, especially patterns of thought underlying them.’ Although how the link from neurological processes to any of this is made, I have no idea and it is not explained. This particular form of psychobabble was apparently big in the ’70s and was promoted as the ‘science of excellence,’ developed from examining how successful people achieve what they do and the NLP people say that anyone can learn those same skills. It seems, however, that the scientific community has never validated the findings and NLP has made ‘no impact on mainstream academic psychology.’ Instead, it has ‘had influence in management training, life coaching and the self-help industry.’ In other words, it’s a rip-off, designed to make you part ways with a lot of money so someone will say things that will make you feel good about yourself.”

  Brit dials a number.

  “Are you going to call?” I ask. “Even after all that? You’re calling the Candy Cane for help? I’m telling you Brit, it will be an expensive waste of time.”

  Brit waves at me to be quiet and leaves a message. “He’s got a very nice voice,” she says. “He sounds very reassuring.”

  “When you talk to him, make sure to get an exact list about the reasons people eat, other than hunger.” I can always use a few tips to help me eat less.

  Brit isn’t listening. “It says here that Tim Candy has been recognized as North America’s Best Weight Loss Coach; the Weight Loss Journal said so.”

  “There you go then,” I say. “Tell me this, how is this going to fit in with your being Isis and the whole goddess thing?”

  “I am not afraid of new things.” Brit is airy. “I am into anything that can help and I don’t see the harm in combining things.”

  “I think stick with Isis, this guy sounds horrible. I bet he’ll be exhausting to be around. He’ll have super-caffeinated Red Bull in his veins instead of blood. He’ll be like Mr. Hyper Enthusiasm; you’ll feel all excited after you see him and then watch, the post-Candy low will hit like the aftermath of a sugar binge.” I am not sure why I feel so triggered by this guy or what he stands for, but I am prickly with static anger.

  Brit laughs. “Oh, you,” she says. “I think it could be fun.”

  “And there really is life on Mars,” I tell her and we change the subject.

  A hunka’ burnin’ trouble

  THE NEW SALES GUY FOR Namaste starts. I am taken aback by how cute I think he is. Well, not so much cute as really hunky. He’s a big blond guy, with electric blue eyes and a Flash Gordon square jaw with a cleft chin. Dimples, and a whiter than pearly-white smile.

  I didn’t know he had started until I went to collect my printouts and spotted him on the way back. My stomach did this weird lurch thing and now I am all self-conscious about going to the printer.

  It’s so stupid really, this teenage-like desire. He’s married. I saw his ring, and of course so am I. It’s weird because I’ve been married to Mathew for just over four years and I haven’t felt this attracted to anybody since Stavros all those years ago.

  This kind of out-of-the-blue attraction is all par for the course of married life I am sure, and I would never actually do anything, of course not. But I wish his desk didn’t have to be right there because I go to the printer a lot which means he’ll get to see my gluteus maximus a fair number of times in any given day. I don’t want him to think I’m big or anything. I don’t want him to think anything that might put him off me.

  What am I thinking? Who cares if he likes me or not? I don’t. Let him think whatever he wants to. I have a great husband, who’s very good-looking, who’s very powerful, and who loves me very much.

  The new guy can think whatever he likes.

  Madison’s back

  I GET A PHONE CALL FROM my sister. It has been ages since we talked. She has been traveling around the world with her textbooks and her scale but she’s back in B.C. now, living in Vancouver.

  A couple of years ago she signed up with an online university to get a B.Comm., and she’d been struggling to finish. So my father sent her to Europe, where he figured she’d be less distracted by her hard-partying pals.

  She settled in Greece and pored over her books. She came back five pounds heavier, commerce degree in hand. My father, while relieved about the degree, is now concocting ways to help her shed the weight since, according to him, a fat girl with a degree is worth much less in marketable terms than a thin one.

  Madison, in the meantime, has found employment as the assistant to the marketing director of a large oil company. She phones to tell me a story about how recently she had to leave work due to severe stomach pains and that before leaving for the day, set up her work phone so that it would ring directly through to her boss.

  Later, a call came through for Madison, and before her boss had time to interrupt, the caller said, “Hi Madison, this is Tiffany. Listen I must talk quickly, because I am calling from the zoo, and I can’t talk for long and I’m sorry the line’s so bad but I had three muffins for breakfast and two big ice creams. Is that a binge do you think?”

  Luckily my sister’s boss was quite entertained by it all and didn’t consider this an unprofessional reflection on my sister (which would have been my concern if one of my friends had done that, which of course they wouldn’t).

  “What did you say to Tiffany about the amount she had eaten?” I ask my sister and I can feel her shrug across the line.

  “What could I say really? She’s too far gone on so many levels. I am sure she’s going to kill herself one day; she’s already tried twice and she brags about it. She thinks it’s cool. Her eating’s out of control and she’s living with a 21-year-old male stripper she says is sweet, but she’s 30 and it’s time she got her life together. But I don’t think she ever will.”

  I tell Madison again how glad I am that she is back, and that I have missed her terribly.

  “Come over for a visit as soon as you can,” I say. “I’d love to see you.”

  She says she will, then she says she has to go, her boss is coming. He isn’t good-looking in any conventional way, she says, but they get on really well and his wife is a bitch who puts nasty notes into his lunchbox.

  “Madison…” I say, warningly.

  “I know, I know, don’t worry,” she says, laughing. “Gotta go. Listen, I love you to pieces.”

  And she rings off.

  Yes, Madison’s back.

  Panic

  BRIT IS PANICKING BIG TIME. I know because she has started discussing eating disorders with Meg, and even asked for advice, which is a sure sign she’s not coping. She has been the one who up until now has separated herself from Meg, saying that Meg’s the one with the problems. Now she is turning to Meg for help.

  It seems that Mr. Candy Cane of neuro-linguistic programming fame has not helped as much as she hoped. Her enthusiasm and empowerment are gone, and she is desperate and flailing and seems to have given up on ancient mystic goddesses and ’70s psychobabble, although she still reads Messages From the Body like there is no tomorrow. I may have to confiscate it soon.

  “I am eating like a horse right now,” Brit says miserably. “I have eaten a chocolate every single night and then last night I sat down to watch a movie and I got up in the middle of it to go buy myself a chocolate. I don’t know why this is happening. Am I addicted t
o chocolate? What should I do?”

  She is feverishly flipping through the Messages, looking for answers.

  “And I can’t sleep,” she says. “I lie awake all night. Oh my God, listen to what the book says about insomnia.

  Yellow alert; they are into chronic vigilance and implication anxiety. They have a deep fear of letting go and surrendering and they don’t dare to relax because they don’t trust the process of life. There is an inability to release the affairs of the day, a feeling that they have to have hands-on control or all hell will break loose.

  They have a disturbed mental condition, due to subconscious shock, grief and despair arising from a rather severely dysfunctional family. They labour under a great deal of guilt and fear over imagined wrong-doings and failures and their consequences, as a function of being the ‘sane one’ and therefore being in over their heads at all times, along with being targeted with the blame for all the misery. They have an inability to love themselves, to trust love, and to trust life.

  She groans and lays her head on her arms. She looks up in despair.

  “That’s me,” she wails.

  “That’s all of us,” Kenneth comments dryly. He has been standing at her desk, listening. “Nice Chanel suit by the way, where did you get it? Nieve would kill for it. Don’t let her see you in it or she will rip it right off you.”

  Brit is in a vintage, genuine Chanel number, and she is looking very Jackie Kennedy. Except for her mascara which has run panda rings under her eyes.

  Kenneth hands her his handkerchief.

  “I can’t use it, it’s clean,” she wails again and starts crying in earnest.

  Kenneth laughs. “Brit,” he says, “blow your nose and tell me where you got the suit.”

  “I don’t know,” she sniffs. “Chris got it. I’ll ask him but he won’t tell me, I know he won’t. Tell Nieve to give him the chance to style a shoot for Cosmo and then I’m sure he’ll tell her.”

  “Wily, very wily,” Kenneth says. “Okay, I will. Hey, everybody. Update. We are getting a new sales person.”