WOMAN
People can tell. They can. No matter what dress I wear, what hat with a delicate little bird’s nest in it that I put on my head . . . I once went up to a saleswoman at Bloomingdale’s and told her I needed an outfit for my grandmother.
“She’s my size and she’s an Eastern Orthodox nun.” I don’t even know if there are nuns in the Eastern Orthodox religion. I left the store dressed like my grandmother.
I don’t think she was an Eastern Orthodox nun, but from the stories I heard, she was a very uncomfortable person. I was very uncomfortable.
I think Bloomingdale’s should consider installing an electronic fence around their store. A woman was standing by the doorway eating a meatball sandwich.
An electronic fence would have kept her away from the doorway. And she knew. She looked at me, and she knew right away. An electronic fence would have at least backed her off.
But there’s no fence—so she pulls a meatball out of her sandwich—not even out of her sandwich—she rips half a meatball out of her teeth. Do I look that sick? Do I look like somebody so desperate that I’d eat half a meatball after it’s exploded on the ground?
There should be a fence. Because I should not have to get down on my hands and knees in my dead grandmother’s dress and compete with a dog for half a meatball.
The dog knew I was sick. But it was a sympathetic kind of knowing. He knew what it was like to be hungry.
To be so hungry for your fix that even a dog might taste like a burger. They don’t, by the way, but he didn’t know what I knew that. He took one lick and left the half-ball to me.
I love the feeling of ground beef rolling around on your tongue, the way you feel each separate morsel before you swallow it. I’m not some drooling addict. I savor.
But I am an addict. I know that. I’ve been to therapy. I’ve seen pictures of my intestines with five year old beef still hanging around inside them, I’ve seen pictures of hideous-looking people who are supposed to be me in thirty years if I don’t stop.
I once had sex with a short bald man in an airplane restroom on a flight to Rome because he had the last portion of lasagna.
I almost got food poisoning from the cheese, and I sprained my ankle. But I didn’t stop. I saw a man lying face down in his own vomit screaming for a cheeseburger.
That scared me—for a day. Almost. I sprinkled some chuck on my cereal for breakfast, thought I could taper off. The next day I’m on all fours at Bloomingdale’s.
But today—today is different. Just after lunch, a giant hamburger appeared to me in front of a McDonald’s.
Plain, but in a sesame bun that kept opening and closing, winking at me.
I tried to reach out and touch it, but it disappeared. It was back a minute later, and this time it looked really angry, dripping blood red ketchup.
Had I eaten its brothers and sisters? Was it here for revenge? Or was it a symbol of where I was going? Was I getting one last chance? I’ve been clean now for three hours.
I’ve discovered portobello mushrooms.
I bought a book about breeding cows. I want to give back after what I’ve done. I’m carrying a syringe filled with pureed lamb in case I hit a rough patch.
Tonight, I’m going to a support group. I run even from regular-sized buns. I want to be well. I really, really do.