Neighbour: “Can I ask you the obvious question?”
Neighbour: “Are you pregnant?”
MONDAY. Eight o’clock in the morning. Rolling from a fabulously productive and healthy weekend, my face turned white as a ghost, following to a reddish shade of anger.
“That is NOT a question to ask a former bulimic,” I replied, haughtily.
Scrambling to defend her inquiry, (NOT offering apology), this wealthy housewife, an outdated, chubby, physical version of Mary Stuart Masterson’s character from ‘Some Kind of Wonderful,’ was quickly silenced, clearly shocked with my abruptly confident, “I shall NOT discuss this with you. Good day.”
Promptly dispatching text messages, to three European girlfriends, citing the exact discussion, I continued onward in my jaunt with Gwendolyn. On my healthy game, I was fired the hell up, not believing this woman’s accusation to be relevant! Quite pleased at my reaction, or lack thereof, I was also overjoyed with that of my friends. It truly is ‘some kind of wonderful’ to have girlfriends who get it.
Girl One: “Are you serious? What a fucking uncivilised moron!!! I’m expecting a similar question sometime soon. Emailing you right now. x x x”
Girl Two: “Let’s kill her!”
Girl Three: “Really!!! Damn. Did you hit him/her with a baseball bat?”
Real girlfriends are forever…
Breakfast, Monday, eleven o’clock in the morning…
And the rest of my food between then and now is unmentionable. Deplorable. Not my normal fare.
“What the hell? I’m pregnant. Might as well fucking eat!”
“I’m so hungry. I’m clearly pregnant. This food is justified.”
“There’s no other explanation for my disgusting body. I’m pregnant. What’s for dinner?”
And I ate. More calories than usual. All vegan and very pricey. Not a binge of any sort. But just without structure. Without control. Without a plan for nourishing that which is my body. My head could think only of the next meal. I require organisation for happiness. For kindness. And my nasty attitude reminded me of those old bulimic days. In a deep, dark, dirty slump, I went from, “Okay, a fat neighbour with an 80s hairstyle questioned if I’m pregnant. She’s jealous. Whatever. And I hope that her husband cheats on her.” to “I am suffocating in my skin!!! I hate my fucking body!!! I’m so ugly!!! I hate myself for getting this way!!! I am a big fat bitch!!!”
So I googled images of women, pregnant at five months.
Analysing everything about their bodies, I realised that it could be true for me, too.
I DO NOT WANT HUMAN BABIES.
Not only do I NOT want human babies, but I HATE Sir Henry, with all of my heart. To think that I could possibly be carrying the child of a pig, resulting from a faked orgasm? Fat for what? Yes, Sir Henry, I know that you are reading this. I hate you, and I would never share a baby with you.
Pregnancy test one, taken Tuesday night. Negative. Congratulations to me. SO, in celebration, I had the Last Supper. The supper before the structure.
It was delicious. But when I eat this genre of food, unless I have practiced yoga for seven consecutive days, I am not mindful. I am sloppy. Wine belongs with such a gorgeous dish, yet I did not boast the patience or thoughtfulness to appreciate wine.
Diet Ginger Ale as my beverage choice?
Such a culinary manic state involves me shuffling the food contents onto my plate without rhyme or reason. My food does not even pose properly for photographs!
Wanting to vomit after feeding my non-yogic body, I apprehended my body with my mind. Gwendolyn, curled up behind my legs, snoring like a loving baby, reminded me of the promise. Two years and five months without Bulimia. A lifetime without Bulimia it shall be. So we fell asleep to Love Actually. Peacefully.
Wednesday morning at 5am, however, was terror. Snapping photographs of my naked body, in every which way, I could not believe that I allowed such an insignificant person, an ugly, fat, unfashionable neighbour, to screw up two entire days of existence. Two days that could otherwise have been spent in happiness, correcting my body whilst living a sparkling life.
She caused harm to my body. She caused harm to my head, prompting me to think that others are thinking that I am pregnant. She caused me to waste $18.99 on a pregnancy exam. She caused me to waste these moments writing such an epic WIAW. She wasted my energy.
Here I am, moments after being questioned on my state of pregnancy:
Judge my fat, that’s fine. It is hereby in the extreme, revised process of rectification. I am writing a book. It is called, “Earning My Yoga Body, Again.” It shall be published in September of 2013. By me.
And yes, both tests proved as negative. Thank fucking ‘God.’
What did I eat Wednesday? My first day of modern, post-bulimic restriction?
That is all.
I declined nourishment on Wednesday because I feel that ‘detox’ is necessary from Monday and Tuesday’s consumption of upscale garbage. Going forward? I shall resume my diet from 2011. One nutrition bar in the morning. One nutrition bar in the afternoon. Perhaps an apple or pear to compliment. Two martinis. Wine on weekends. And here’s the shocker: After three months of veganism, I shall become a fish devouring female again. Raw fish. My body reacts well to it, and I want it, as of today. Additionally, for dinner, I shall consume hunks of tofu dipped into salsa. And luau salads.
Daily caloric counts shall exist between 1,100 and 1,300 on weekdays/Saturdays; 1,700 and 1,900 on Sundays. Until further notice.
I hereby endorse restriction. The end justifies the means.
I shall, indeed, earn back my yoga body.
So let it be written. So let it be done.
What do you think about my endorsement of restriction?
© Nicole Marie Story Enterprises, LLC and nicoleandgwendolyn.com, 2011, 2012.