as I was. While people warned me about the impending “freshman fifteen,” I knew I had laid the groundwork for that to never be me.
I never told anyone what I was doing, not even my mom. I knew she would try to stop me. And, no way in all that is good and holy was I going to let that happen.
“Are you okay?” asked a former math teacher in her thick Russian accent. “You look really so skinny.” She was a tall, heavyset woman with short brown hair and a noticeable gap between her front teeth. It was hard not to stare at it, even though I tried with all my willpower not to.
“Yes, I am okay, just stressed from studying so hard for finals and APs.” Shit, I caught myself staring at the gap again. I quickly returned my gaze to her eyes, then looked back down at her feet. I couldn’t lie to her dead in the face.
But her insinuation infuriated me to the core. Just because I lost some weight that I clearly needed to lose doesn’t mean I am unhealthy.
The truth was, I wasn’t okay. My feelings of being overwhelmed, not good or smart enough, out of place, out of control, and not sure of my identity without soccer were crushing me. And starving was my only coping mechanism.
Before I knew it, it was time for senior prom. I didn’t really want to go, but my friends were going, and I wanted to feel like I fit in for once. Now that I was skinnier, maybe I had a chance.
No one asked me to the prom, which was kind of expected—don’t worry, no sad violins playing on my behalf—so I asked my best guy friend, Mathew, from a neighboring town. As far as attire, I decided to borrow one of my mom’s slinky red Valentino dresses instead of going through the shameful torture of shopping. Don’t even get me started on that pastime. With each outfit I tried on, I would see every flaw on my body, every roll, and every imperfection. Shopping served as a big self-loathing trigger and self-esteem deflator. The sizes would define me. If I were a size zero, I was doing well. If I were any size bigger…well, that would be an automatic binge/purge fiasco.
Mom letting me borrow her dress saved my sanity. Plus, she always had amazing style, an eye for fashion, and a closet with endless options. How were we related again? She let me alter it to my size, and I was actually okay with how it hung on my increasingly skinny frame. Okay, because I was never satisfied with what I saw in the mirror. I only saw something that needed improvement—a constant work in progress.
Photos were being taken at my good friend Dawn’s house. I got my hair and makeup done while my mom talked and laughed with me. Then we ate lunch at my favorite sushi place, Hanami. As I looked at the menu, I started to self-consciously play with my stomach with my hands, feeling it, in anticipation of filling it.
“I only want something light. I don’t want to bloat in my dress,” I admitted to Mom while looking over my ordering options.
“That’s insane!” Mom exclaimed but let me get away with only two pieces of tuna sashimi, despite her and the waitress’s disapproval.
“She so skinny already,” the waitress said to my mom. “Tiny girl,” she added as she placed food and chopsticks in front of us. This reaction was a far cry from Jabba-gate only a couple of months back, I happily thought, smiling to myself.
“Yes, I know. She is being crazy,” my mom said, giving me strong side-eye.
“Okay, I get the point. Look, I am eating!” I said, looking down at my two pieces of tuna sashimi and shoving one piece into my mouth. “Did you pay the waitress to say that?” I added, with slight paranoia mixed with jest.
“I don’t know what I am going to do with you,” my mom sighed and began eating her Hanami special roll, which consisted of two kinds of tuna, salmon, lobster salad, and avocado, wrapped in sliced cucumber. I loved that roll, but it was too much food for me these days. I watched her eat as I sipped on Diet Coke.
Later in the day, as she helped me slip the dress on, she glowed with pride. In response, I did a little spin for effect, the dress flowing in circles. “So beautiful,” she marveled, and I took a bow, completing my performance. Okay, Mom, I know you have to say that, especially at prom. I had to be silly to get through the moment, the attention, all of it. I thanked her and smiled. Even with makeup painted on my face and my hair done stick straight, I didn’t feel anything near beautiful.
My dad came home from work early that day, and tears filled his dark brown eyes when he saw me. His little girl, who he had cradled not too long ago—in his mind at least—was going to prom.
“Who is this woman? And where is my little girl?” he said.
“Oh my goodness, Dad, no more! I hate this kind of attention, but I love you,” I said, wanting to off myself with embarrassment.
“Learn to take a compliment. You look beautiful.”
“No more! Thank you!” I screamed, holding my ears in protest, as we headed to the car.
The time came to head out for prom pictures. As we pulled up, I shivered with social anxiety, as I could smell the strong odor of teen angst in the air.
As we entered Dawn’s house, I gave my friends hugs and cheek kisses and told them how beautiful they looked, as I looked around for Mathew. There were appetizers spread around the house and drinks for the parents (and sneaky kids who would take a couple of sips when their parents weren’t looking or turned a blind eye). But I didn’t want to look at the food or chance anyone offering me anything I would have to decline.
There he was: Mathew, dolled up in a tuxedo, like my very own penguin. I was so happy to see him, my comfort in the prom chaos.
“Hi there, you stud,” I joked as I gave him a big bear hug. “I like this whole penguin look; it suits you well.” I paused. “Or, should I say, tuxedos you well.”
“Your jokes suck, Dani.” He smiled back at me.
“You look handsome. You get the point!” I said laughing.
“Handsome like a penguin, I’ll take that.”
“Picture time!” shouted one of the mothers. “Everyone get together!”
“Perfect timing. We wouldn’t want to miss pictures. I mean, heaven forbid.” I winked at my date, placing my hand jokingly over my mouth, as we moved to the backyard.
Between the camera flashes that briefly blinded me, I could tell Dawn’s mother was looking at me peculiarly, and I started fidgeting in response. I rubbed my cheeks; did I have a makeup smudge? Even so, she didn’t have to stare and make me feel more insecure and out of place than I already did.
As I was walking around after pictures, looking for my parents, she approached. “Hi, Dani. You look beautiful, but…I think you are losing too much weight. You’re so frail.” She grasped my arms and looked at me like she was reading me my last rites—so dramatic.
“I am fine, I promise, but thanks,” I said, taking her hands off my body and backing a few steps away. Like two cowgirls in the Wild West, we stared at each other, in a standoff of sorts. It appeared she had nothing else to say and neither did I, so I unloaded my lipstick for touch-ups and walked away pretending it was time to reapply. Hopefully, this interaction would never be spoken of again.
How dare she judge me! I don’t look too thin. Why did she have to point me out as different and ruin the night before it even started? I am not bingeing
