“Nothing tastes as good
as skinny feels” – Kate Moss.
I am eighteen and things have improved for me in the last
couple of years. I got twelve GCSEs, one AS level, three A Levels and a part
time job in shop. I made some good friends, learnt that I really, really like pineapple
Bacardi Breezers, kissed five boys and have just got into university to study
English and drama. I have ‘blossomed’ says everyone. Apparently I am normal
after all. Or at least, I’m doing an Oscar winning performance of my new
favourite character: Eve, Normal Girl.
And I have, at last, found my talent. When I was eight,
three girls in my class did an adorable little presentation on ‘self confidence’.
At the end of it, they gave everyone a tiny piece of paper on which we were to
write down one thing we were good at ‘to keep in our pencil cases for when we
felt sad’. I remember how I stared at that piece of paper and cried all
afternoon because I couldn’t think of anything to write on it. Now I wish I
could go back in time and tell eight year old Eve that she was wrong! Because I
do have a gift after all: I am very
good at being thin.
I’m absolutely wonderful at it in fact. I can put my hand up
behind my ribcage, I can hang things from my hipbones (at least I’m sure I
could if I wanted to), in a pinch you could use me as a prop in a human anatomy
class. I am a self crowned Queen of the Lollipop Heads. Granted, this has its
downside. I get a lot of headaches, bruise easily and my periods (which
eventually started at 15) have stopped and so I’m concerned about being
infertile again. But I don’t care. It’s worth it; when my size six prom dress
had to be taken in, people said ‘you’re so lucky’. When I wear a tank top, other
girls marvel at my concave stomach and say they wish theirs was the same. In
2004 when you’re a middle-achieving, awkward virgin, skinniness is the great
equaliser. Now I can say to myself, ‘hey! I do have something special after
all: willpower.’
Of course, this sexless skeleton is more than just a
costume. It’s my life’s work. Like all things worth having it takes time and dedication.
I know its angles and statistics better than I know my phone number and I am
incredibly organised. Taking Weight Watchers as my inspiration, I have devised
a points system. I’m allowed 8 points a day, maximum. A rice cake is worth 1
point, an apple is worth two, a yoghurt or a jar of baby food is worth 4 and a
slice of toast is worth 6. Coffee, alcohol and laxatives are a free for all. I
can earn an extra point with 50 sit ups. It sounds complicated, but actually
the beauty of this system lies in the simplicity of its central equation:
More food + less
exercise = fatter. Bad.
Less food + more
exercise = thinner. Good.
It’s so easy, even I have managed to grasp it. And yet, deep
down, I feel certain it’s all unreal. When people comment on my size (some
appraisingly, others with concern) I feel like I’ve defrauded them. Somehow, I
have convinced everyone that I’m slim when actually I’m not. I’ve lost the
ability to feel reassured by what my eyes tell me. I step on and off the scales
15 times to be sure what they’re telling me is true, I count my items in the
fridge again and again in case I’ve eaten something and forgotten about it, and
I stare into mirrors at a reflection that has lost all meaning.
Thank you Eve
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