WESTWARD HO

Vacation. For the fat, vacation is a dangerous proposition. At home, in my static environment, I feel some element of control over myself. I’ve cleared the house of temptations. But then you’re killing time at the airport. Killing time. How do you fill murdered time? Why, you eat, of course. I’m on a trip. I’m going on vacation. All bets are off.

Then you think about the time you’ve put in. The effort you’ve made. And you go to some random food counter and you realize you don’t want the chips that came with the sandwich. On the six-hour flight, you try to find ways to distract yourself from thinking about food. Every other time I’ve flown, I’ve stocked my carry-on with treats, candy bars, salty snacks, soda. It makes the time go by. It tastes fabulous. This time I bought a wrap with turkey and brie, a diet soda (how I hate diet soda!) and it did not satisfy. My daughter had a small bag of York mini peppermint patties. Two hours into the flight, as I watched her pop one into her mouth, my hand shot out and I said “Give me one.” She did. I put it under my nose and smelled it for about ten seconds, a glazed look coming over my face. My daughter looked at me archly and said “Mom, you’re getting a little weird.” The smell was intoxicating. I put it in my mouth and really savored it. It was really sweet and minty and delicious. I had two more in the next four hours.

Going to California is terrifying for fat people. California is the land of the fit and the home of the trim. When I go there, I actually feel myself bloating up from a 2x to a 10x, just because I’m suddenly among the tanned, ripped, bike-riding, dog walking, visor-wearing people. I’m like a manatee swimming with a bunch of minnows. It’s like I’m wearing a big sign that says I ain’t from these parts.

Visiting my bro and family on this vacation will work in my favor. They are fit. They eat healthy, delicious food, and they are active, so we hike, and kayak, and other things I actually really enjoy doing that don’t involve food. We went to the movies yesterday, and for the first time in my life, I did not eat anything at the movie theatre. And you know what? I enjoyed the movie anyway. The food didn’t matter. But if I had gone to the movies back home, there’s no way I would not have been picking pieces of popcorn out of my décolletage. It’s reflexive. Movies and popcorn. Food and comfort.

California really is like Eden. The fresh produce is to die for. I tried a fresh fig yesterday for the first time in my life. It was lightly flavored, a little crunchy, a little jammy. Why have I never tried a fig before? (Probably because I’ve watched I, Claudius too many times.) There’s so much out there that is good and good for you.

I’ve never been an adventurous spirit, and I’m not just talking about food. I’m most comfortable at home, in my safe zone. I hate traveling. I’m happy when I’m there, of course, but getting there makes my stomach uneasy and my heart race, just like before a big performance. Will we miss our flight? What can go wrong? Food used to provide some comfort. It was something to focus on, something to make me feel better. Now it seems I’m always arguing with myself about it. Because I know the temporary satisfaction comes at a price.

Went to the farmers’ market this morning and had dim sum for breakfast. I don’t even know myself anymore! We walked among the organic produce, glowing in the California sun, nectarines, strawberries, grapes and a million other fruits and vegetables scenting the air. The colors were so vibrant, brilliant red tomatoes, yellow peppers, bunches of green grapes, and the walkways were crowded with children dribbling peach juice down their chins, folks wandering about tasting the free samples, all gently caressed by a light breeze that smelled of the sea.

And I felt very lucky. Which I am.