“I have been assured by a very knowing American of my acquaintance in London, that a young healthy child well nursed is at a year old a most delicious, nourishing, and wholesome food, whether stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled…” ~ Jonathan Swift, A Modest Proposal 1729
When fat Aunt Julia says ‘honey you are just so sweet, I could eat you up with a spoon’, I think, hey what a fine idea.
The scale teeters on ‘voluptuous feast’ so why don’t I graze on these freshly plump thighs like chicken fried by the Colonel, pure protein and fat, no carbs muddled in that swelling, ever swelling, over bones and stones and sunken basins.
A hunger devours under marshmallow fluff, softened angles where I used to be buff so I will gnaw my body back. Craving a narrow reflection of an adolescent with tulip breasts has not been sated by Ben or Jerry or Mrs. Fields and has not yet been stifled by any food ending in –i-t-o.
I followed the diets and have Eaten My Words, Swallowed My Pride and Sucked It Up until I can no longer tuck it in and now the bargaining begins. Could I trade my hair for a glimpse of hipbones? If I lop if off there’ll be less of me, but then I consider the invisibility of a pinhead in that big red cushion so I’ll cut a deal to carve my physique with my teeth to get beneath the inflated stranger I’ve become.
Maybe there are alternatives to this course of action. Maybe I could stalk anorexics making tracks on the beach. If I ran faster, caught up and licked them, might I catch their disease before my ass hits the backs of my knees? Oh, or maybe I could rent, or invent, a kit for home lipo, hook it to the Hoover for inhaled absolution of the infractions of sugar mourning, creamy grief and chocolatest chocolate cake.
Instead I pick up a fork and pick up the phone. Hey, Aunt Julia, come on over. Grab yourself a spoon and dig right in. Belly up to the All You Can Eat Cannibal Buffet.
