The House of Body Dismorphia

 

We had grown soft after eighteen months of cohabitation. So soft, in fact, that it became a problem. Suddenly, we were reminded of the Will Self novel in which the afterlife involved living with taunting blobs of fat that the characters had gained and lost over the years. Together, we had gained enough to create another person. We were not sure we liked that person. At all.

When nothing fit and my face resembled the waxing moon, I joined Weight Watchers. Perhaps it was fear of getting married in a mumu, but I found myself in a room of hungry WW enthusiasts, maniacally chanting “LIVE IT, DON’T DIE IT!” and standing in line to be weighed and processed like a Texas Longhorn. “You’ve lost 4.2 pounds,” hissed the desk clerk after the first seven days. “Don’t think it’s going to be like this every week.”

And it wasn’t. Every one of the seven pounds I’ve lost so far has been a fight to the death. DIE ITs are tedious. Thinking about food all the time is boring, especially if that food is low in calories, fat, and chocolate. They are also supremely unsociable. I’ve found that moderation is not conducive to joie de vivre. The galling thing is that when I finally reach my goal, I won’t even be bride-orexic. I’ll just be back to normal, which is to say bigger than a breadbox and smaller than a baby elephant.

Meanwhile, Fauxhawk was also showing signs of despair. “Six months,” he said, rubbing his belly tenderly. “Six months and we’ll have a new life.”

“Come on, you’re not pregnant,” I reassured him, as I watched him stick out his gut to its full potential. “I mean, look at this!” slapping my own round belly.

“STOP IT!” he screamed. “YOU CAN’T DENY ME MY FATHERHOOD!”

It was around this time that Fauxhawk stopped eating real food.

“There is a new rule,” he said. “The rule is that I will not eat any food in this house until I am thin.”

There had been a problem with a box of low calorie fudgesicles. The day after we bought them, I found a dozen wrappers smeared with chocolate scattered about the apartment in strange places. I’m not going to lie - moderation is an issue in our household. To remedy this fact, Fauxhawk decided to substitute several Zone bars and four lattes for the daily consumption of nutritious meals.

“This is not healthy,” I pleaded. For the love of God – think of the child!

So far, my warnings have fallen on deaf ears. The man-orexia shows no signs of yielding and Fauxhawk grows increasingly svelte. This annoys me. I eat my calorie controlled meals alone, counting points and being responsible as Fauxhawk freebases on caffeine and soy by-products. At least I have the moral high ground, I reassure myself. At least I’m doing this the right way.  Still, all I can think is:

If he gets skinnier than me I'm going to be so pissed.

Good to know that as the world falls apart all around us, the Hawk and I have our heads screwed on straight.

Photos: top via Sabino, bottom via We Heart It.