Chapter 5
On Friday, Martha joined the other secretaries from AmFoods for lunch at Mason’s for the first time in three weeks, at Shirley’s suggestion.
“You don’t have to tell everyone about Thin, Incorporated if you feel funny,” Shirley insisted over the Xerox machine. “Just tell them you’ve decided to take off a few pounds for summer.”
“But everyone’s used to me eating like a horse,” Martha said sullenly. She set the machine on “Light Original.”
“Well, they’ll just have to get un-used to it. They think you’re being antisocial by not coming to lunch anymore. You know how they are. You can’t drop out of society completely. Besides, they miss you.”
Martha leaned on the Xerox and watched the light flash on and off. “But I haven’t eaten in a restaurant since I began the diet,” she sighed. “To me, restaurants mean French fries. And rolls. Hot ones, with butter.”
“Oh, come on. You can have the chef’s salad, like everyone else. Are you afraid someone will slip sugar into your iced tea when you’re not looking? Think of that lecture you were telling me about. Remember? Something about salads being God’s gift to human beings?”
“Yes, lettuce and penicillin.” Martha picked up her forty copies and relinquished the machine to the next person on line. “Let’s go. I suddenly have an overwhelming desire to ingest saccharine.” She paused. “But I really will be embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed? Why should you be embarrassed?” Shirley asked, truly puzzled.
Why should I be embarrassed? Martha thought. Would that thin Shirley could know. Embarrassment has always been a part of my life. Embarrassed because I was the only one in the third grade who couldn’t climb ropes. Embarrassed to go shopping for half sizes at Lane Bryant, living in terror that one of my thin friends would see me going in with my mother, and hate me for it. Embarrassed to bring Tupperware containers of tuna fish and celery to school in my brown paper bag, while other kids had sandwiches and Twinkies and ice cream pops. Embarrassed to walk in front of a filled auditorium.
Embarrassed to be different.
Embarrassed to be seen. Embarrassed even to admit that I was fat.
Embarrassed to lose my virginity.
She remembered that day so clearly. She had been seeing Eddie for almost five weeks, that first semester of her freshman year. They would spend hours and hours kissing, but Martha was reluctant to let Eddie unbutton her jeans or even put his hand on naked flesh under her T-shirt, despite his persistent and predictable attempts. It was not modesty or prudishness that caused this reluctance; it was simply shame of her body. She felt particularly amorphous that year, devouring macaroni and cheese as she watched her friends blossom, both socially and academically, in the college environment. She lived in fear of exposing to Eddie that solid mass of white fleshiness that constituted her body. She was afraid that the very sight would repulse him.
But the pressure was rapidly becoming overwhelming. Not from Eddie as much as from her girlfriends.
“So how is he, Mart?” they giggled over breakfast one Sunday morning.
“Oh, he’s fine,” she replied offhandedly, pretending not to understand. As Martha sought refuge in toast and orange marmalade and soggy institutional bacon, her friends burst into loud hysterical laughter. These friends, she realized years later, were even more withdrawn and socially backward than she was. While she was spending Saturday nights pulling down baggy smocks and pulling up elastic waistbands, they were popping corn and watching television movies, waiting for their own Prince Charmings to find them.
She finally decided that the risk of losing Eddie because of his frustration was just as great as the risk of losing him because of the repugnance of her naked body. So the next Saturday, after dinner, she fumbled with the diaphragm she had obtained from Planned Parenthood months before, “just in case.” It took her almost half an hour to get it into place. She used up half a tube of jelly, swearing as the damn thing escaped from her slippery fingers and flew across the bathroom. But, finally, she was ready.
Martha had decided that two ingredients would be necessary to carry out this dreaded initiation. One was a bottle of wine; the other, a darkened room. Eddie eagerly supplied the wine, no doubt suspecting that Martha had something different in mind for that night. She did not eat all day, hoping to banish some of her unsightly flesh, and the wine worked quickly.
The evening proceeded as usual, with the exception of Martha’s heady state. As she began turning off lights, trying to appear nonchalant, she saw that she had forgotten one thing.
The hall light shone brightly through the transom,
It would have been indiscreet to start taping black paper over the door, so instead Martha lay on her bed, bathed in light. As she dutifully allowed Eddie to peel off layer after layer of her carefully chosen outfit, she watched her own white flesh glow in the light.
Embarrassed? She had forgotten Eddie’s presence by then. She concentrated solely on keeping her stomach muscles pulled in tightly. She cringed as his hands stroked and caressed her, her only thought, Is he disgusted?
When it was over, Martha quickly wrapped a bathrobe around herself. She did not feel radiant, or abused, or womanly, only glad that it had been so uneventful. Eddie had not been disappointed, she gathered, euphoric in her relief as she watched him sleep beside her.
She had vowed, once again, to stop eating. She planned to become thin and beautiful, and never to feel embarrassed again.
* * * *
“So, Martha, where have you been hiding lately?” asked one of the girls from Employee Benefits. “Lunching at 21 without us?”
“Or maybe having a lunchtime affair with Mr. Greenbaum?” Louise said wryly.
“Come on, leave her alone,” Shirley interjected.
“No, it’s okay. I’ve been eating at my desk lately, that’s all. I’ve been on a diet, kind of.”
“Hey, Martha, that’s terrific. I’m proud of you. Really.” Eleanor beamed. “What kind of diet is it? Dr. Stillman? Dr. Atkins?”
“Dr. Jekyll?” That was Deborah, a new secretary from Personnel, trying to be witty.
“No, I’ve just been cutting down.” She turned to the waitress to order a plain chef’s salad.
Martha was quickly taken out of the limelight as the conversation turned to dieting. Everyone had something to say. In fact, the others appeared to be perpetually weight-conscious. Closet dieters, Martha thought.
“I weigh myself every morning, first thing. If I’ve gained even a pound, I just stop eating,” Deborah confided.
“Not me,” Kate piped in. “I gain five pounds, hate myself, then lose them. Up and down, constantly. I must have lost about a thousand pounds in my whole life.”
“Well, I don’t understand it,” Louise said haughtily. “I never have a problem. Why don’t you just eat three balanced meals a day, and if you’re hungry in the evening, have a piece of fruit or some celery? That’s what I do.”
Martha found herself wishing that fifty pounds of unsightly cellulite would suddenly descend upon Louise. She exchanged glances with Shirley.
“I must say,” Kate remarked, “ever since I started training for The Big Three, I’ve been able to eat like a horse without gaining an ounce.”
“How’s it going, anyway?” Shirley asked. “I finally got up to three miles. I never thought I could do it! Now I have to work on my speed.”
“I’m up to the full three miles now too,” Kate replied. “The race is only a few weeks away! Have you sent in your registration card yet?”
Martha kept her eyes glued to her salad, feigning total absorption in the way the cucumber slices leaned against the hard-boiled eggs. This discussion was making her uneasy; she felt that she too should be bubbling with enthusiasm over the upcoming Big Three, comparing distances and earnestly discussing registration cards. She had tried, but she had failed.
“Nothing is more boring than a bunch of joggers,” Louise said impatiently, and Martha was gr
ateful for a change of topic. “Let’s talk about something interesting. I’m having my hair cut this weekend. How do you think I should have it done?”
Everyone turned to scrutinize Louise’s hair, and to give an opinion. Then Jenny from Employee Benefits said, “I’ve decided to get a permanent. My hair is thin, so I think I’ll go curly.”
A permanent. Martha had never thought of that. Her own hair constantly refused to do what she wanted it to do. But a permanent. That was something else again.
When she had been in elementary school, a permanent had been part of the annual back-to-school ritual. On the Saturday before the first day of school, Martha’s mother would insist on tugging her hair into tight curls around white plastic rollers. The entire house smelled of the pungent setting lotion for days. Martha hated the feeling of hot water poured over a headful of tight rollers. She felt damp and uncomfortable for hours.
But the outcome always made it worthwhile. She would have masses of beautiful curls, shiny and bouncy and full. Her mother would lovingly wrap each one around her finger, brushing it into a smooth frankfurter curl, the morning of the first day of school. She would say that her hair was like gold. Martha had felt pretty then.
A permanent. That was something to think about. She would have to ask Judy about it.
* * * *
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Thin, Incorporated!”
This time, Martha glared at Irma Gold.
Martha sulked and pouted.
Martha had lost only one pound.
“Don’t be discouraged, Marty,” Judy pleaded as they waited for the lecture to begin. “It’s only because you lost so much weight last week. You’d die if you lost six pounds every week!”
Judy was right, of course, but Martha was discouraged nevertheless.
“You’ll lose more next week. You’ll see. That’s what happened to me,” Judy went on. “I lost seven pounds the first week, then nothing at all the second week. Your body needs time to adjust.”
Martha couldn’t decide if she should give up or try harder than ever. She listened to Irma’s lecture on eating in restaurants halfheartedly, hoping to gain inspiration from this woman who now claimed to have lost fifty-five pounds and kept them off for five years.
“Broiled fish,” Irma was saying, “can be your savior. Ask the waiter to broil it without butter. And salad bars are a godsend. Just steer clear of the salad dressing. Now, when a basket of rolls shows up at your table, what should you do?”
Judy had lost two pounds. “Don’t give up,” she begged. “Look, if you give up, then I will too.”
When the lecture was over and everyone had left, the two of them sat at a table in the corner, basking in the Coke machine’s eerie red glow. They passed a can of diet root beer back and forth like dejected winos, mindlessly sipping and tasting nothing.
“Why should you give up? That’s dumb,” said Martha.
“Well, your quitting is just as dumb. Look, you’ve lost seven pounds already, in just two weeks. That’s phenomenal!”
“It’s mostly water,” Martha grumbled. “Blanca said so.”
“Blanca always says that. A lot she knows about losing weight. She actually gained two pounds this week.” Judy sighed impatiently. “Hey, it hasn’t been so bad, has it?”
Martha had to agree that it hadn’t been bad at all. There had been a time, when she was still in elementary school, long before the time she resigned herself to being fat, when she had starved herself mercilessly. While her family ate meat and potatoes and apple pie, she insisted that she wasn’t hungry and went for long walks at dinner time. Her family was touched by her effort, perhaps even proud. She was never able to confess that after a while, her walks started leading her to a nearby delicatessen or bakery. She would gaze longingly at the rows of chocolate and whipped cream confections, or fragrant hot breads, just out of the oven. She would stand in front of the counter for a long time, debating with herself, trying desperately to conjure up images of a thin, happy Martha. Then she would succumb, buy a pound of butter cookies or a loaf of fresh rye bread, and eat and eat until she was sick with the food’s richness, and even sicker with guilt and self-hatred.
She got a job as a waitress one summer between formal diets, hoping that the constant sight of food, especially half-eaten cold food, would turn around her constant cravings and feelings of emptiness. It was disastrous; she gained ten pounds during her six weeks as a counter girl at Lane’s luncheonette. She would starve herself all day, feeling self-righteous. Then, at closing time, her willpower would give way. She would devour mountains of French fries and elaborate ice cream sculptures with nuts and whipped cream and bananas and syrups.
Martha was used to self-denial, then ensuing weakness, guilt, and self-hatred. She had to admit that this structured method of dieting was easy compared to her own impossible discipline.
“Besides,” Judy continued, pushing away the empty can of root beer, “you can’t go off it. You’d die of The Guilts. Just like I did, on my birthday. You’re hooked. I know your type. Think of the Clinique lady. Didn’t they love your make-up at work? Just think of how they’ll love your new body.”
“Nobody noticed my make-up except Shirley,” Martha pouted. “And Eddie. He said I looked like I was playing dress-up.”
Judy made a face, but said nothing. “Well, anyway, they’ll notice your new body. Eddie and the people at work and who knows who else?”
Now Martha made a face.
“Listen, I’ll make a deal with you. If you don’t lose at least two pounds by next Monday, I’ll buy you a hot fudge sundae after the next meeting. Okay?”
“With nuts? And whipped cream?”
Judy nodded.
“What’s whipped cream?” Martha sighed. “Come on. I’ll buy you a Tab, Bones.”
When Martha and Judy separated two hours later, after a long chat over two glasses each of Tab, Martha was in much better spirits. Judy was right: there was no reason to give up now. It was wonderful to have a new friend, one who understood so well the kinds of ups and downs she was experiencing.
Martha walked toward the bus stop, then noticed that it was a delightfully cool evening, the kind when spring floats in the air like cascading balloons. The unusually clean air and the sweet smell of warm breezes inspired her to forgo the bus ride. The evening was too rare to waste inhaling gas fumes and jostling over potholes. The walk home was only a little over half a mile.
As she began strolling up York Avenue, the spirit of spring, combined with the lift from the caffeine in the Tabs she had just finished, gave Martha a sudden burst of energy. She felt gleeful enough to skip, and after glancing around to consider popular opinion, she did exactly that.
The awkward rhythm of her little-girl-like skipping prompted her to break into a slow, comfortable run. She could see the sidewalk traveling under her feet as she reached for longer and longer strides. The faster the sidewalk moved, the faster she ran. Laundromats and florists and candy stores raced by, and she ducked daringly in front of the cars that idled at the cross streets. It was exhilarating, and she loved the feeling of fresh air pumping into her lungs.
I feel so healthy! she thought, amazed, and she slowed down to a walk as she began to tire. Martha glanced up at the street sign, certain that she must have covered a fair distance. The sign astonished her, and she squinted to make sure she was reading it correctly.
My God, she thought, I’m home! I managed to run all the way home!
She was astounded. She had run half a mile, and it had been easy! Without the pressure of having to perform or keep up, she had loped along comfortably, without even being aware of the distance she was traveling.
She rushed upstairs and dialed Judy’s number.
‘That was fast,” Judy remarked, surprised at hearing from Martha so soon. “What did you do, fly home?”
“Almost,” Martha said breathlessly. “I ran all the way home!”
“Were you being followed?” Judy
asked anxiously.
“No, no, nothing like that. This was purely voluntary. Don’t you see what that means? I can do it! I can really do it!”
“I’m sorry to be so slow, but I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”
“The race! The Big Three! If I can run a half a mile, I bet I can work my way up to the whole three miles. Will you help me?”
“Me! Sorry, I don’t consider that kind of thing fun. Sour cream is fun. Hershey’s Kisses are fun. Running is not fun.”
“That’s okay, you don’t have to run with me. Just keep me company. You know, time me, force me to get out there every day... like that.”
“Oh, I see. The old moral support trick. Sure, I guess I can handle that. When do we start?”
Martha grinned. “Judy, you’re a peach.”
“Just so long as I’m not a watermelon or a grape...”
“And only half a banana!” the two women finished in unison.
“All right, here’s my plan,” Martha began, her mind racing. Perhaps there was something to be said for the physical life after all!
* * * *
That weekend Eddie went to New Jersey, to help his parents celebrate their thirtieth wedding anniversary. Martha tried to wangle an invitation.
“You don’t want to go to New Jersey, Mart,” he insisted. “It’ll just be a bunch of stupid relatives sitting around, getting drunk and acting dumb. Believe me, you’d have a terrible time.”
“But Eddie, we’re practically engaged,” Martha protested. “Won’t it look funny if I’m not there?”
“I’ll just say you had to work this weekend. It’s okay. Really.” Eddie made it clear that there was nothing left to say.
Saturday it rained, and Martha puttered around the apartment. It was the perfect day for baking, so she daydreamed about a recipe for chocolate chess pie that she had once clipped from a magazine. It had been weeks since chocolate had touched her lips.
Lisa and Betsy were both home, too. Betsy lounged about in her green chenille bathrobe, listlessly thumbing through magazines and complaining about the weather. Lisa was restless, torn between braving the downpour to putter around antique shops and finishing the systems manual that was due on Monday morning.
Once There Was a Fat Girl Page 8