Being a female in the mod con world of sex drugs and parole, usually always come with one common universally unifying factor, excess weight and the social demise that comes with it.
In this big world, green is the new Nike, hurricanes virtually host the weather report; people are cold and hungry and life is cruel; a time when we need to come together to save the planet and work the land and preserve our Earth…and the most important thing, above all else, is being skinny. Soooo skinny that you can post myself, and Postman Pat can sling you over his shoulder with his happy cat.
I am just about to reach my quarter-life crisis birthday, if, of course, I live to…(hold on 24 x 4… um…I’ll get there…20 x 4 is 80, and then 4 x 4 is 16…so 80 plus 16 is…94! Right 94!) …if I live to 94, unless of course, I eat myself into a shallow grave full of pudding or if I just quit eating altogether and pray to Gandhi Wandhi and rot away in the pits of Manic Obsessive Obese Hell!
In this story, I was still in pre twenties and I had just discovered the unbearable life of quitting eating. I thought, well, if I want to be patted and posted by Patman Post, then I must do it cold turkey and eat nothing but cold turkey. It is a small price to pay for the ability to fly like paper in the wind – unlike those curvy girls. Oh no, those curvy girls with real female bodies who enjoy mud wrestling and sumo sandwiches, no no no, they will die lonely and fat and with warts on their nose, because FAT = WITCH. ‘Fat witch die, fat witch die’ they shouted to Joan of Arc’s obese sister as her blubber boiled and they all enjoyed a lovely roast after the celebrations.
Basically, I pretty much royally fucked my body up in a couple of weeks of eating only cold turkey and cucumber. My insides were screaming, ‘Give me deep fried chicken NOW!! I want deep fried battery-grown, leg-growing-from-beak, suicidal crumby chicken! NOW!’
My digestive system had quit on me. It had out rightly refused to carry on working. The previously functioning sewerage system was now…out of order. With a broken removal van, the whole city of my body started wasting away. Acne that could be mistaken for puss-filled bubble wrap, limbs so weak I could barely lift 2 hamburgers. Oh woe is me! I am worried that this is the very end of my little life. Oh daddy of mine, if the cranes cannot life me, I am happy for you to set fire to me right here and burn me. Die, Fat Witch Die.
He took me straight to his friend the Colonic Hydrotherapist. This is one of the very special professions where someone has actively chosen this as a career, gone to university and then specialised in the art of poo-pumping and opened their very own practise to allow for many people of all shapes and buttocks to come and release their foul beast bowel feast.
It began. ‘Make yourself comfortable’. No. No I can’t. You’re about to drive straight into a one-way only alley and I’m not sure I’m entirely happy about this. What about we go for dinner and then to a movie, get to know each other a little and we’ll go from there? How does that sound? No? Alright. I’ll try it your way.
A kind warning of, ‘It might be a little cold’ and *cough*, we’re in! OH MY GOD! I think you accidentally rammed an apple into my don’t-look-me-in-the-eye eye, TAKE IT OUT! TAKE IT OUUUUUTT!!! Mommmmmmmy. Somebody call my mommmy. I want to go back to the warm place of womb where I was safe and nobody could shovel me with a cold, metal rod!! Waaaaa!
Great, how lovely, the kind doctor decided to make small talk while going about her business, or rather while doing my business for me. She started, ‘Oh you should meet my son, he’s visiting for the week! He’s 6 foot and has just graduated. You guys would get on so well!’ Cool. I’m so in, but talking about it right now? Is that entirely necessary? ‘I know! Could I give him your number and you could show him around?’ Totally! I’d love to, whatever you say, just stop waving your cold, flagless stick around in me! I agreed to a blind date while a woman was rearranging my organs.
For a very quick specialised medical lesson, this simple and effective procedure works like this. Water is flushed in, gunk is pulled out. Lovely to think about, no? And if you’re very lucky, some doctors may have see-through tubes so you can see your codswallop pass by on its own little waterslide. Very fancy doctors may even wrap Christmas lights around the tube to give your dingleberries a sense of celebration at it exits. A celebration!! Hoo-ha!
After finally accepting what I was going through, I calmed down, made jokes at the tord’s various appearances and almost starting to enjoy the whole excavation. Then. Blackout! What’s going on! What’s happening! Are we under attack? Oh my god! There’s something stuck in me! Oh wait, that was there before. Somebody put the lights back on!! The lovely lady tsk’ed and said, ‘The switch keeps tripping, let me just go and flip it back on, I’ll be back in a jif’. Ooohhh OK. I’ll just wait here? In the dark, like this. And off she went. There I lay in the pitch-black, facing the wall, back to the door with a large transparent glow-in-the-dark tube that wasn’t planning on letting go anytime soon.
Like the early days of stop motion animation, where each frame tells a story in itself, the following happened.
A small breeze. The door was opened. She must be back.
‘Mom, are you here?’ I heard.
Oh cheese and rice and cod and brother hairy, save me! There’s someone else here. Don’t move. He can’t see anything, but the glowing tube. Don’t…
Light’s On!
FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKK!!! Fuck fuck fuck fuckity quack fuck! Don’t breathe. Don’t turn around.
It was as if the underworld had grabbed me and was tugging me down with its razor-laced blood-dripping claws, one limb at a time.
‘Oh, sorry Sir’, the voice said.
I blocked my throat and in my closest and deepest Mr. Bean impression I mumbled, ‘It’s ok!’
For moments, I lay ready to be buried, quite literally having died from mortification. She returned apologising for her delay, but her son is visiting and had popped by to say hi. “Oh really, that’s great!’ I forced. She pulled the pipes out and let me get dressed, chatting away about how she was so excited for her son to meet me.
I was shuddering with thoughts of him first seeing the luminous tunnel attached to my derriere, then to the lights coming on to a full, unforgiving back-view to him calling me Sir!!! Sir?! What!? I want a dark well to plummet down. We walked out her office, she was describing her findings in acute detail and tell me when I should come for my next appointment. I was still shaking and couldn’t concentrate on anything, while digging in my bag for my car keys. Found them! Then, the little professional stool sucker lady put her arm around my shoulder, as she shouted to the gorgeous man sitting on the waiting chair.
“Mark! This is the girl I was just telling you about!”
Dying. Dying. Dead.
