Training in Love

by Manuela Pigna

  “Oh! Thank you God! I knew you existed!” I cry, letting myself fall on the lawn beside the track.

  Andrea runs up beside me. “What are you doing? I said we’ll go back to the cars walking… I didn’t say you could lie down.”

  “What a slave driver!” I grumble aloud so I’ll be heard. There’s not any satisfaction in insulting him if he doesn’t hear it.

  When we get back to the beginning of the path I feel my heart beating in my legs. I tell Andrea and he tells me that it’s normal, that it’s my circulation that has been reactivated.

  “Let’s do some stretching.”

  I nod, but I stop immediately when he puts a hand on my thigh. “What are you doing?” I ask in a shrill voice.

  “Stretching.”

  “But… what… you do yours and I’ll do mine!” I tell him, taking a step back and removing myself from his grasp.

  He takes a step forward and tries to put his hand back where it was. “I’ll show you how to place your legs.”

  “Show me from where you are!” I exclaim, desperate, taking another step back.

  “I only wanted to put you in position and push to stretch the muscles well…”

  “I’ll stretch them by myself! Just show me how to do it and I’ll do it!”

  Andrea looks me in the face, and I have to say that he seems really, truly perplexed. In fact he nears me again putting out his hand.

  “Don’t touch me!” I yell, now completely alarmed.

  He freezes instantly and looks me in the eyes, in silence, then he finally takes a step back. And without saying anything, he starts doing the stretching exercises that – as I said – I can easily copy from half a meter away.

  He doesn’t say anything until the end. He seems lost in his thoughts. I don’t disturb him. I too am lost in my own thoughts. Most of all, I can’t wait to take a look at the interesting little book.

  After a decidedly pleasant workout, we say our goodbyes a little coldly. That is, I say goodbye normally, he is cold. I can’t believe it’s because of the stretching…

  When I see his blond head recede behind the wheel of his car, I sigh and turn on my engine too.

  6.

  After my shower, I lie on the couch at home to read The Answer is not in the Fridge. I am finishing it when my mother puts her key in the lock, three hours later. The time has flown. Otherwise I wouldn’t have let myself be caught lying on the couch reading. I have let my hair hang over the armrest. It’s very long, practically halfway down my back and it bothers me sometimes when I’m lying down and have to turn my head - it gets stuck and pulls. It is a light chestnut and is essentially the only thing I like about myself – my only source of pride. It’s wavy, natural ringlets, and lots of them – luminous and soft. Even the color, being part of the scale of browns, I like. I have light brown eyes. Once, coming close to the mirror one of those rare times when I put on make-up, I saw little flakes of yellow sprinkled here and there in the iris. Linda always says that my eyes are beautiful, but Linda is my best friend; her vision is clouded by affection. I don’t like much else. Of the contours of my face I only see the enormous cheeks and double chin, while my body… Well, better forget about that right away. In general, when I look at myself in the mirror I try, as much as possible, to look only at my hair. And anyway, I look at myself in the mirror very little.

  As usual, my mother’s steps put me in a state of agitation. I feel my stomach contract. Now she’ll say something and normally it won’t be anything pleasant. I swallow.

  “What are you doing?” She asks, in fact, with a tired voice.

  I don’t get up from my place, but she must see my hair dangling from the couch. “I’m reading a book.”

  She makes a low sound, and then I hear her say quietly, “Imagine that…”

  I swallow again and pretend not to hear.

  “Did you make something for dinner?” She asks me, coming closer.

  “No, the time flew by… and I didn’t notice… what time is it?”

  “It’s past eight,” she answers looking at her watch and finally entering my field of vision.

  “Why, haven’t you eaten?” I ask surprised. Usually she arrives even later than today and has always already eaten out.

  She shakes her head.

  My mother had me pretty early, at twenty-two, so now she’s a woman of forty-seven but she looks at least ten years younger. She really cares about her appearance. Physically she’s in great shape - slim, more or less as tall as me – that is, around a meter seventy – a honey blonde (dyed obviously). She always dresses well, because of the job she has too, and wears a lot of makeup. She’s what they call a career woman and she’s been one since I was eight, when my father left us. My memories of that time are hazy. I felt so bad that I think I’ve blocked out things. I don’t even remember what my mother was like very well, but she was certainly at home more and smiled more. I was happy until he left. And I believe my mother was too, until he left.

  “Shall we get a pizza?” I suggest without thinking. Experience has taught me nothing evidently. No, it’s not like that… It’s that it would be so nice to have a normal mom - one to whom you could easily say, “Shall we get a pizza?”, when she comes home late from work or one who I could sit at the table with and chat normally with while eating - that occasionally, ridiculously, I try anyway.

  “Suggest something that could help you lose a couple of grams no, huh?”

  As I was saying.

  She looks at me, looks at the book I have in my hand which I closed, putting my index finger in and keeping the cover turned downwards, she sighs and goes away. “I’ll see what’s in the fridge.”

  I hear her moving and touching things – the sound of plastic and steps, the sound of cupboards opening and closing. “There’s some pastrami, and… also a little arugula, and… yes, there are also a couple of cherry tomatoes,” she shouts from the kitchen.

  “Whew, dinner is saved,” I answer, but too quietly for her to hear.

  I breathe deeply and look at the book I have in my hand, half-closed. This book is small but contains some great truths. It also has some exercises to do at the end of each chapter. I read ahead out of curiosity, but when I’ve finished all of it, I’ll go back and re-read it from the beginning, doing all the exercises as well. At the same time I’ll start with Andrea’s photocopies too. I look for something to use as a bookmark, but don’t find anything. I take it in my room and put the first thing I find between the pages. Then I make the effort to go downstairs again. Once I’m in the kitchen I stare at my plate, already prepared and at my place, and I realize that I don’t want to eat this stuff. Not so much because it’s dietetic, but because it’s prepared by my mother and done with one and only one objective. I suddenly realize that if I eat this, afterwards I’ll go to look for something a lot worse than a pizza, just as I do every Sunday without even being aware of it. I take my plate and slowly take off the pastrami and put it away, trying to stay calm because I already know that a battle will follow. I push the bowl of salad towards my mother, who has now raised her head with an air of astonishment but says nothing.

  I look directly in her eyes and gather my strength. “I’m getting a pizza.” And this is the absolute first time that I’ve done something like that. Usually I put up with what she says in silence – I eat everything that she gives me or puts in front of me because I don’t have the courage to eat something vaguely high calorie in her presence. Usually I swallow my pride in silence, because even though I try to be indifferent and not let her get to me, in reality she hurts me every time, with every phrase, every look. Then I go to console myself with other food, when she’s not looking, when she’s not there. But one of the things that Andrea’s book says, is to do away with food prohibitions. Food has to be something normal, not prohibited, otherwise it just becomes more appetizing and inviting. Luckily I’ve kept my plan to lose weight a secret from her. She would never understand, right now, why I’m getting a pizza.
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  “Do you think that’s the case?” She asks me aggressively. “Aren’t you fat enough for your tastes?”

  I don’t answer, but I don’t lower my gaze either. She puts her fork down on the plate and leans back in her chair. “No one will ever want you if you continue like this. Men don’t like whales.” She speaks slowly, as though she were speaking with a person who’s a little simple. “Or if someone ever wants you, it will be to use you for something, but you’ll be cheated on constantly, with girls who are slimmer and prettier. In case you haven’t noticed, others make some effort to look a little decent.” She pauses, but I still don’t answer. “Or do you want to remain alone for the rest of your days?” She pauses again. “What will you do at, I don’t know, say forty…? Will you read books alone until late at night?”

  Certainly it’s hard to get a pizza after a conversation like that, but I want to change, and you don’t change if you continue to do the same things and always react in the same way. “Better a book than bad company,” I reply after having swallowed. “And that’s as true today as it will be in twenty years.”

  She’s angry, maybe also because I’ve never dared to answer back before now. “You can’t know what you’ll want in twenty years! You can’t know!” She cries bitterly. “You’ll be sorry, you’ll be sorry about all this time wasted!” She predicts, her mouth twisted horribly.

  I could say a lot of things in this moment, I could really hurt her if I wanted to. But for today I’ve done enough. One step at a time.

  I take the number of the pizzeria here on the corner and I phone. I do it so often when she’s not here, but this evening I feel as though it’s the first time. I feel as though I’m being spied upon while I do something… dirty. My mother observes me in silence for the whole time. She doesn’t even eat, she just stares at me. When I finish phoning, I sit at the table and meet her gaze on purpose, displaying an external calm, while inside a storm is raging.

  She continues to stare at me and we stay like that for a few painful seconds, after which she sighs and picks up her fork. Her voice seems tired when she says, “Well, ok… do what you want. I give up. Enough. I’ve had enough of trying to help you. It’s like tilting at windmills.”

  I take a deep breath without being noticed as soon as she bends her head towards her plate. At the end of this sort of battle I realize something – I really don’t feel like pizza now – and Andrea’s book says that you can eat anything you like, as long as you are hungry and stop when you’re full. It says to listen to your stomach. My poor stomach… I’ve always overloaded him. I used him in the worst ways, I’ve never thought about him, never taken care of him. But starting today, starting now, I want to listen to him and take care of him, and he’s telling me that he doesn’t feel like having pizza anymore. He doesn’t feel like having anything, to tell the truth. I hope, however, that when it arrives my mother is already in her room. I have to make it disappear somehow, but she mustn’t find out otherwise she’ll think she’s won, in spite of everything.

  ***

  The following Saturday morning I meet Linda to have breakfast together at a cafè downtown. I haven’t crossed paths with my mother since Thursday evening and already I’m anxious about tomorrow. I may just invent something to stay out of the house the whole day.

  In these two trial days I’ve continued to listen to my stomach and am slowly becoming aware that he hardly ever feels like anything, unfortunately. It’s really difficult – not so much listening to him as obeying what he says. I never realized it – it’s crazy.

  Yesterday afternoon, for example, Elenina had some of her classmates over to play after homework, as often happens on Friday. And usually, when we have her friends over, we eat bread with Nutella as a snack because it’s as though it were a sort of party. Usually I participate actively without even thinking, but yesterday, before preparing my part, I asked myself if I really felt like it. Right away I realized that no, I was not at all hungry, but spreading their slices of bread… Smelling the perfume of the Nutella in my nostrils… Anyway, in the end I ate a sandwich too even though I didn’t really want it. It’s really difficult.

  Then yesterday evening, I stayed up late looking at the photos of when I was a little girl. The exercises at the end of the first chapter are about childhood. You should ask your parents about your eating habits when you were little and about their interpersonal relationship – but this is definitely not do-able. I have no intention of asking my mother anything about anything regarding the subjects of food, and my father... who sees him? He calls me on my birthday, which is several months off. The most I can do is look at the pictures and try to remember. And ask Linda.

  When the waitress arrives I order a cappuccino and a piece of apple tart. Linda, who I found already seated at a table when I arrived, gives me a questioning look and asks hesitantly, “But… the diet?”

  I smile, because I feel like explaining it to Linda. “It’s part of the program. I have to get rid of the sense of prohibiting certain foods.”

  Linda nods and I add, “I wanted to talk to you just about this, among other things. This book that Andrea gave me… I really love it. The one I told you about on the phone.” She nods again and I continue, “One of the exercises is about childhood, and I wanted to ask you, since we’ve known each other all our lives, what you remember about how I was?”

  “When you were little?” She asks me, “But ‘how you were’ in what sense?”

  “In the sense of, do you remember how I was regarding food? Did I overeat? Did I have strange habits? Stuff like that.”

  Linda thinks about it for a minute, concentrating as she always does. It’s one of the things about Linda that you remember, that she gives you her complete attention and she always takes you seriously.

  In the meantime the waitress arrives with our orders.

  “I… don’t remember anything in particular, or strange,” says Linda once the waitress has gone. She takes sip of her cappuccino and furrows her brow. “I don’t remember anything…”

  “Was I fat?”

  “When we were children… no, you weren’t.” She is silent while she breaks off a piece of croissant. “You weren’t a stick, no, but you weren’t excessive either… you looked fine to me.”

  I nod and pick up my cappuccino. “I didn’t think so either when I was looking at the photos last night. But I still felt enormous and the kids at school teased me.”

  “Hmm, yes, but in elementary school…” Linda huffs raising an eyebrow. “Kids are idiots sometimes and they make things up or latch on to everything. They teased me about my nose, when I have a perfectly normal nose.”

  “Wow!” I exclaim as though struck by lightning, “It’s true, I had completely forgotten that they teased you about your nose!” I look at it as though I didn’t know it perfectly well. “And then, it’s perfectly normal… Straight too…”

  She rolls her eyes, “I told you. Teasing in elementary school doesn’t count and from an objective point of view, you were fine. It began in junior high. There I saw that something was changing, and then at the beginning of high school you gained a lot. That I remember.” She pauses, wrinkling her brow, “But you know something? I have never seen you overeat. You’ve always eaten in a normal way… Like me.”

  Well, sure. My screw-ups, my binges, my eating disasters have always been hidden, done while I was alone.

  “Since then you’ve stayed more or less the same. I’ve seen you lose something while you were doing some diet, but then gain it back almost immediately afterwards.”

  I nod, a little dispirited.

  “So. Junior high. Does it tell you something?” Linda recaps, as usual entering into the spirit of the thing.

  “No. Frankly no,” I reflect. “Certainly my father’s abandoning us was a trauma, but that happened before. Years before.”

  We remain silent while thinking. In the meantime I begin to eat my cake, but slowly. Another lesson from the book was to slow down, to give your
stomach time to get used to it.

  “Anyway, it has to be that,” says Linda between one mouthful and another of her croissant. I look up. She nods to herself. “Sure, what would you say it is? Unless some other serious thing happened to you that I don’t know about, it’s got to be your parents that messed you up. You would have begun to look for comfort in that, as an outlet, and then over time, your mother’s nice little remarks only worsened the situation.”

  I relax on the cafè chair. We look at each other in silence for a few moments and continue with our breakfast.

  “Anyway, this thing is interesting,” Linda says after a little.

  “Yes, I think so too,” I reply while stirring my cappuccino a little.

  “And…” She clears her voice, “how is the training going?”

  “Oh, well, I have to say,” I answer while taking another tiny piece of tart. My damned stomach has almost had enough. “This week we began to run and you know, I was afraid I couldn’t do it… fucking terrified – you know how I am at sports.” I look up a second to meet her gaze. “With Andrea’s method though, I managed to finish. I was destroyed at the end, as though I’d done who knows what instead of ten minutes of running alternating with walking, but… anyway, for someone who didn’t think she’d even get to five, it’s not bad,” I conclude smiling.

  Linda nods, she’s studying her cup too, then she begins to play with the teaspoon. “Well, fine. But,” she clears her throat again, “how’s it going with him?”

  “Him who?”

  Linda looks me straight in the eye, cocking her head to the side as though I were a child in need of reprimanding.

  I look at her quizzically.

  “With this Andrea.”

  “Oh.” I had, obviously, understood, but I played around because I didn’t like the tone she’d used and all the throat clearing she had to do. “Really well. I’m very pleased with him.”

  Linda looks at me for a second without speaking. “That’s it?”