‘Moose’ details hardship of being an overweight kid

“But I’m hungry,” I’d whine over our cubicle divider.

“No, you’re not. You just think you are. Let’s go tanning.” Instead of using our lunch hour to eat, some afternoons we’d zip to her favorite tanning salon. “Seeing yourself naked should be enough motivation to keep your mouth shut,” she’d said. “Well, I don’t mean you,” she stumbled, “just in general. Besides, tan conceals cellulite.” Yuh-huh.

I liked how bossy she was. It was almost as if she personified my own self-­control. My willpower was power-­walking around the streets of New York in her Nike trainers. When I was around her, I didn’t have to regulate myself because I knew she’d do it for me.

When I wasn’t with her, I did all I could to keep my mind off food. I knew my motivation to lose weight would wax and wane, so I needed a plan I could stick to whether I liked dieting or not. I couldn’t just wake up and decide I was going to eat healthfully; I’d actually need to

do it. I knew myself well enough to know my patterns. Usually, I’d feel hopeful that I’d made it through the first three days of whatever diet it was. Then the diet seemed easier. “Hey, I can do this!” I’d feel proud of myself for doing what my mind was urging me to. I respected myself more and wanted less. “I will not fail at this” became my mantra, and I believed it. But after a few weeks of success, I’d slip into my old ways again, thinking I was immune to weight gain. So this time I thought all I really needed was to get out of the house, away from food, as often as I could. I scribbled ideas into the journal.

At night go to Barnes & Noble.

Hide in movie theaters.

Wake up early & get your tan cellulite to the gym.

When out for dinner, order only a small salad & an appetizer, not an entrée.

After work, instead of rushing home to prepare dinner, I’d go to Bloomingdale’s and try on clothes two sizes too small. On purpose. If I chose clothes that actually fit, I might start to feel okay about myself. And that wouldn’t do. See, I’d say to my stomach as it toppled over, you’ve still got a long way to go. The very words, by the by, Poppa had uttered when I was twelve and just starting to lose weight again with Fran.

After a few weeks, Waif Worker asked me to grocery shop for her. “It’s just that Kyle Peck is coming over, and you’re so good at all that domestic stuff.” And? “And I don’t have time to do it all myself. I have to go out and buy plates.” Of course she didn’t own plates. She didn’t eat. Still, who doesn’t have plates? I blinked at her. “I have to put food in my cabinets, or he’ll think I’m a freak.” You are a freak. “Can’t you make me seem normal?” It would be a miracle at the 34th Street supermarket.

I food­shopped for her apartment because it never occurred to me to say, “Are you fucking kidding me? Why you gotta send the fat girl for the food?” It never crossed my mind to say no. So I went to the market and spent too much time analyzing not my own behavior, but what items would say about her.

What exactly would cornflakes seem to convey about Waif Worker? Wholesome, with an appreciation for the simpler things. I strolled amid the colorful rows of food products looking for other statements. The red and navy canister of Quaker Oats declared that she had patience. Microwave popcorn: the girl appreciates technology. I added a pound of Bavarian old-­fashioned pretzels to the shopping cart because girls are always snacking on pretzels. Lorna Doone shortbread cookies. I paused. No, men like to eat Mallomars. Impressive, he’d think upon seeing the yellow box. I bet she likes sports. I’d buy nothing low fat or low sugar. She wouldn’t want him to think she ever thought about her weight. Instead the goal was to wow him with her genes, a girl who can eat and still look like that! A six-pack of Dr Pepper and a tub of Jif and I was done.

I retraced my steps to the Lorna Doones despite having decided on the Mallomars. Screw it. I filled the cart with everything I wanted. Nacho-­flavored Combos, potato skins, frozen miniature hot dogs, and a red bag of Tater Tots. A jar of Cheez Whiz. Tostitos. A half-­gallon of Moose Tracks. A canister of Pringles. The cart brimmed with all the things I could never have. A tub of icing. Now we’re talking. A box of cake mix — no, not just cake mix. Mix with pudding in the batter. Ooh, what else? How extraordinarily freeing. Go on and giggle, Doughboy. Oh, yes I can! How delicious to pretend I could be this free from food.

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