Fatgirlitis

    As a young girl, I was cursed with one of the most damning diseases known to man: fatgirlitis.  The symptoms were obvious, presence of two or more chins, sausage fingers, and a striking resemblance to the Pillsbury Doughboy.
    It was an awful disease in any situation, but on top of everything, I went to a French school in India.  These are two cultures not very fat-people friendly.  The French rarely eat more than three square inches of food a meal, and are so thin they often disappear from view when they turn sideways.  Though there are a number of overweight Indians, the comfort you feel knowing you are smaller than someone is quickly erased with a blunt: “My, my, you are a fat one.”
    It didn’t help that my name, Madeleine, happens to rhyme with the French words for “American”, and “whale”. The three words put together, and sung to the universal “Children Making You Miserable” tune, became the bane of my eight year old existence.  I would silently curse my parents for giving me a name and nationality that rhymed with the French word for whale, thinking if they had been thoughtful enough to be Russian and name me Ivanka, this never would have been a problem.
    Having a relationship with food similar to alcoholics and drink, I would run to the American Club after school where I would drown my sorrow by ingesting the largest amount of chocolate and ice cream I could before throwing up.  I would then return room and settle myself in front of the television for the rest of the evening, my fat child’s ass leaving a permanent dent in my parent’s bed.  The reason I was fat remained a mystery to me, and I decided that it was obviously no fault of my own, and that God had randomly chosen me to store all the weight those skinny French children never put on.  To try to counteract this, I tried to fatten them up, but to no avail, and as they remained small, I remained remarkably spherical.
    Because it was India, my family had both a housekeeper and a cook.  Little attention from me was paid to the house keeper, but I was very nearly permanently glued to the cook’s side.  I was never fully satisfied with my large bowl of plain white rice with an equal rice to butter ratio, and my stomach still craved more after the deep fried pakorahs, and three slices of plain white bread.  By the time I finished my lunch binge, my parents had arrived home and it was time for dinner.
    My mother and father would try to dissuade me from eating junk food, but their efforts were pointless, as I could get anything I wanted at the American club by signing slips of paper.  I loved the magical system where by simply signing my name, I got everything I could ever eat at no cost. It wasn’t until my parents came home at the end of the month with a two inch stack of signed slips for King Size Twix Bars, that they started to really crack down, ordering that I call them before any food purchases were made.
    I was a determined and creative dough ball though, and in no time had learned how to manipulate people into buying me food.
“Honestly Laura, buy me two ice cream bars, and I’ll give you my gold plated Barbie that’s being sent to my family from the Vatican. Actually, I think I’ll have three Ice cream bars? I mean it is gold.”
    The only thing I spent more time doing that eating food, was thinking about it.  As I wolfed down the last of a packet of M&Ms, I imagined a regenerating M&M, one small chocolate that would reappear endlessly in your pocket after you had eaten it.  I would dream of my house made entirely of food, Chocolate walls, a Cookies N Cream air conditioner, a caramel bed, and licorice doors.
    Once, after a day particularly filled with “Madeleine the American Whale”, I asked my dad through my choked tears if I was fat.  He shifted uncomfortably on my bed, and became deeply fascinated with his toenail. He hurriedly mumbled and excuse about having to do something, and sent my mom into the room.  I never asked the question again, and have learned to only ever ask questions about me when I believe the response will be positive. Some people call this fishing for compliments, but I’m sure that’s not it.  I wouldn’t ask them that anyway, as that isn’t very positive.
      Today I am still “healthy”, to quote more Indians, but thanks to exercise and an overall healthy diet, I am far from being fat.  I am the oldest grandchild by eight years in my father’s family, and as my cousins grow up, I search desperately for similarities.  So far, they are all slim and beautiful children, and even though I’m happy for them, I couldn’t help wishing to find one fatter than me, one that I could pity.  Their parent’s force them to sit down and finish their dinners, where my parents would beg through their tears: “For the love of God, Maddie! Please stop eating!”  Their birdlike eating habits are nothing compared to the bottomless pit I was at their age.  I have found peace with myself though, and when feeling a bit down, I comfort myself the same way I would when I was young: “Whales aren’t that fat.”