Skinny

By the age of ten, I was already well-versed in various blow-job techniques.

My sister (somewhat older than I), had a stack of Cosmopolitan magazines in her room, and when she went out, I would spend furtive hours studying the articles on How To Please a Man. I believe every quizzical child should be made to read these things; the sealed sections (with graphic, colour photos of disease-ridden genitalia), guaranteed my virginity for many years.

Cosmopolitan also provided diet advice. I remember these diets, because my sister followed the Cosmopolitan regimen with a fervour that she failed to apply to any other aspect of her life. Breakfast was half a grapefruit, a slice of dry toast, and a cup of black coffee. Carrot sticks, or an apple for a snack. Lunch was half a cup of cottage-cheese and some grilled chicken; dinner a green salad (no dressing).

After her second child, my sister efficiently by-passed the effort entailed in chopping carrot sticks, and gave up eating almost entirely. A bottle of the purgative Ipecac in her bathroom cupboard, (purportedly there in case her children 'swallowed anything poisonous') was emptied and replaced with a regularity that indicated either her children were especially careless, or that she had discovered that one could actually have one’s cake and eat it too. As long as it was followed by a bout of vomiting.

My sister is far from unique. I used to know a staunchly feminist art-curator, who would disappear to the toilet after any meal, and return with watery-red eyes (she really needed to buy eye-drops, like everyone else); a top Auckland lawyer who actually lost weight during her pregnancy; the model who would proudly crow "I can eat whatever I want," when apparently whatever she wanted was prescription appetite suppressants, and celery.

The female members of my social group, can move food around their plates with such dexterity it actually looks like they are eating. It is an illusion of which David Copperfield would be proud. Mrs S's husband told her that the marriage is contingent on her maintaining her weight. She fears divorce proceedings are only ever a couple of kilograms away.

I suppose I am expected to add something sage and empowering now. Write how we women should all eat whatever we want, accept ourselves for what we are, and be happy.

It would be an elegant way to end this, but it would also be utter bull-shit.

The End.