‘Moose’ details hardship of being an overweight kid

Come Labor Day, we’d have our first big blowout fight. I wouldn’t remember the details of it, only the midnight peace offerings made barefoot in my kitchen. We foraged the cabinets, finally composing tomato sandwiches with wobbly mayonnaise and crisp white toast. “Wait,” I’d say, adding kosher salt. “Okay, now.” We’d make up by the light of the open refrigerator. And I’d swear to myself that I’d never forget that moment.

We’d come home drunk some nights. I’d change into sweats, wash my face, turn on the television, and he’d lie in bed, still dressed, one foot on the floor. “I’m not going to be able to sleep here,” he’d say, and for a moment, I’d worry it was his way of distancing himself. “The room won’t stop spinning.” I’d get dressed and walk with him to the diner for grease.

“This will make you feel better,” I’d say, but really I’d feel better because I’d still be with him. We’d sit in the diner and order chocolate malteds, cheese fries, and hamburgers. And I’d love it—that refrigerated rotating pie life, lived behind glass doors beside plastic-wrapped cantaloupes filled with red Jell-­O. Everything felt safe and preserved.

In the fall there’d be football games and foot massages. Tailgating and tagliatelle. A warmed bowl of parsnip pear puree swirled with roasted garlic. “So what’s for dinner?” wouldn’t be a passing comment; it would become our evening activity, our plans, along with a TV Guide lineup. Battened in layers of his clothes, we’d play dirty Scrabble, drinking shots of Irish whiskey. Parts of the Sunday paper would be read aloud while we feasted on navy bean stew and a loaf of toasted peasant bread. Nurturing our relationship with food. Pumpkin, potatoes, potpies. So my pants no longer fit; he still wanted to get into them. “Stephanie,” he’d whisper, “I sometimes forget how beautiful you are.” After sex, he’d need to rush to his front door to pay the delivery guy. He’d grab jeans off the floor. We’d picnic in bed. Hung over. Half dressed. Have the last bite, baby. His hand wiping my chin. Kissing me, food still in my mouth. Those jeans he was wearing, I’d notice midbite, were mine. I spit out the rest into a napkin, silently declaring that my diet started now.

But in his boxers come morning, I’d scoop apple pie filling from a flimsy baking tin, eating hunched over his kitchen counter. Drinking milk from the carton.

A glass of wine after a long day, his hands on my hips, fingers near my mouth. I’d drink too much, and we’d argue over plans and friends and parents. He’d fall asleep angry. I’d eat quiet foods straight from the fridge. Custard. Whipped potatoes. Lemon curd. In the morning there’d be soft-­boiled eggs, strips of fried bacon, and apologies.

As real as it all felt, that’s all we’d be: a few seasons. A morning. A wakening. A couple who were courteous, who asked each other if you’ve had enough fish and would you like more rice, but really, that’s all we were. This couple that wouldn’t be there tomorrow, for the bacon he liked a little chewy or the grapefruit juice I preferred to orange. The memories would taste like burnt coffee. And that’s when I’d stop living my life in meals. We’d be over before the official start of winter.

And by February, I’d be thin again. Thin, single, and miserable. These patterns would cycle through seasons for years. The men and menus would change slightly, but the archetype was the same. I spent my whole single life trying to be thin just to find someone who’d love me once I got fat.

As an unattached adult with no “So, what are we having for dinner tonight?” it was far easier to be slim. My cupboards could remain barren; there were no complaints about my desolate fridge. The take-­out menus I kept were limited to sushi and the health food joint down the block—because even then I was still too lazy to walk there. I was despondent, but at least I was skinny. Of course once I found myself in a secure, loving relationship again, I’d gain it all back, finally at ease.

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