chapter 4 --- when you started leaving baked goods

When you started leaving baked goods out for me, I thought that this had to stop. It wasn't that long ago that I'd kept a regular exercise routine, stuck to healthy foods. I knew you'd disapprove, so when I mentioned that I was looking at gyms, I was surprised to hear your encouragement. "You really need to adopt a better diet. You're bulking up now, so later you can taper and convert all that to muscle. I've put together a protein-heavy plan for you."

We went to the gym together, and we worked on a routine that we could ramp up as we went. Treadmill, biceps, triceps pecs, abs, lats, treadmill, water, shower, leave. Tired and beaming, we walked out into the sunlit parking lot. As we drove home, we passed the local diner. To my embarrassment, my stomach groaned in hunger. "Oh? We should do something about that, don't you think? Don't want you losing all that potential muscle," you said, with a slight smirk. "No... I guess that would be a waste," I said, surreptitiously cradling my belly with one hand.

The lumberjack special was all part of the diet, you assured me--all protein. Still, when I saw the stack of thick buttermilk pancakes, laden with bananas and walnuts, smothered in butter and syrup, any idea of a diet flew from my mind. While you carefully carved out slices of grapefruit and cracked hard boiled eggs, I lowered my mouth to my plate and began to inhale food. I don't think I raised my eyes once, until I finished the last forkful. You were sitting so demurely, cat-like in your athletic clothes, while I was panting, out-of-breath, bloated from my self-inflicted gluttony. You reached across the table and delicately grabbed my slightly sticky chin, as if to hold me in the palm of your hand. "You did a good job today. Let's see if you can keep it up."

From that day, slowly, exercise just became the preamble for a feast. Each day in those booths was a haze, as I grew blurry, soft, stretched, giving against your sharpened form. You would save your harshest words for when you had to half-pull me out of the booth, as I ordered larger and larger portions to accommodate my growing hunger. How you'd hoped that this time I wouldn't over do it; how even these workouts couldn't hide what a fat-ass I'd become; can't you stop your own disgusting indulgence? I was always shocked to see that turn, where before you had only offered kind words and encouragement while my plate was still full.

* * *

With your encouragement, people started to look at me differently. At work, I could feel everyone's eyes around me widening in amazement as I tucked into your boxed lunches. I began to prey on abandoned plates of cookies and candies. All I had to do was make a quick comment about duty and joke about unhealthy food--people love that--and slip away. They paid attention, and suddenly when someone ordered out and there were extras, they knew to come to me. Someone would come by and tell me whenever something had been left behind. There were whispers too, I think. It sounded like scorn, but at the same time I suddenly became the person for leftovers. No one likes to see food go to waste, and I so obviously enjoyed the opportunity to help.

After lunch or a particularly fruitful gift, I would sit, sedated, and slowly run my hand over my full stomach, carefully feeling the pressure. My belly would sit on my thighs if I leaned forward the slightest bit or took too deep a breath. Eventually I gave up and stopped reflexively sucking it in. I grew to like the feeling, and so I barely noticed the day when I couldn't lift the weight of my belly from my lap. I grew used to the creak of my belt desperately straining to hold its ground. It was you who one day took pity on me. I was waddling about in too-tight pants and rushing to get to work, when you put your hand on my shoulder and quickly loosened my belt by two notches. I let out a relieved sigh, and you patted my stomach. "See how much better that is? You just needed a little more room." I nodded dumbly, too busy to realize that we had this same conversation almost every month.