I didn’t understand the phrase “you are what you eat,” until freshman year of college when my physical appearance could be likened to late night cold sesame noodles, Friday night partying, and overdoses of Rockstars and Red Bull. I gained about 10 pounds in three months. After winter break, my best friend and I decided to go on a health kick and use the six months we had before summer started to get ready for the beach. Of course, we came across crippling injuries, once-in-a-lifetime parties in Brooklyn, and the opening of a Pinkberry two blocks away from campus. The months flew by in about five minutes, and before we realized, we were discussing the proposition of losing eight pounds in three weeks.
We shrugged off inner beauty. “What does that even mean?” my friend would ask on many occasions, as she would woefully gulp down boiled vegetables and milk for dinner. “It’s bullshit Dr. Phil made up to sell books,” I would respond in between mouthfuls of cold spinach. We would then sit sullenly in the corner of the study lounge, giving dirty looks to our suitemate whose diet consisted mainly of donuts and Ramen and wine, and still looked scarily thin, underweight even.
My parents are very good at telling the truth after the fact. When I was 17, I wanted to donate my hair to Locks of Love. The hairdresser cut off too much. I looked like a boy. My mother said she loved it. A year later, when my hair grew out, she confessed to crying herself to sleep the night I got my haircut. When I would visit home during breaks, my parents would tease me about eating too much ice cream, but then tell me that I finally looked beautiful, that I was too bony before. My father would say that it was nice to see me looking a wholesome, healthy woman finally, instead of underweight. Indian people love to see a little “meat on the bones.” I am vegetarian. For some reason, their telling me that I looked ugly before and now looked curvaceous and lovely didn’t quite appeal to my confidence. But, still, they did try.
My friend constantly tried to find the nutritional value in our unhealthy habits. “Saag paneer is not bad—it’s cheese and spinach.” “Granola is not that fatty.” “Milk chocolate has, well, milk.” I am still waiting for the day when she will tell me that it is okay to indulge in Poptarts because the inside tastes like strawberries. Then she smiles at me and we both look into the distance, at a time when we will be running through some beach and our bellies won’t jiggle, even if we end up fainting from lack of food. “Anorexia is unhealthy, but Bulimia is not that bad of an idea, right?” “Well, apparently you go to rehab for that, so you’re better off trying to contract Salmonella.”
In June of that summer, there was a scare in the Northeast about tomatoes having Salmonella. We began putting ketchup on everything. There was still some hope left.
We shrugged off inner beauty. “What does that even mean?” my friend would ask on many occasions, as she would woefully gulp down boiled vegetables and milk for dinner. “It’s bullshit Dr. Phil made up to sell books,” I would respond in between mouthfuls of cold spinach. We would then sit sullenly in the corner of the study lounge, giving dirty looks to our suitemate whose diet consisted mainly of donuts and Ramen and wine, and still looked scarily thin, underweight even.
My parents are very good at telling the truth after the fact. When I was 17, I wanted to donate my hair to Locks of Love. The hairdresser cut off too much. I looked like a boy. My mother said she loved it. A year later, when my hair grew out, she confessed to crying herself to sleep the night I got my haircut. When I would visit home during breaks, my parents would tease me about eating too much ice cream, but then tell me that I finally looked beautiful, that I was too bony before. My father would say that it was nice to see me looking a wholesome, healthy woman finally, instead of underweight. Indian people love to see a little “meat on the bones.” I am vegetarian. For some reason, their telling me that I looked ugly before and now looked curvaceous and lovely didn’t quite appeal to my confidence. But, still, they did try.
My friend constantly tried to find the nutritional value in our unhealthy habits. “Saag paneer is not bad—it’s cheese and spinach.” “Granola is not that fatty.” “Milk chocolate has, well, milk.” I am still waiting for the day when she will tell me that it is okay to indulge in Poptarts because the inside tastes like strawberries. Then she smiles at me and we both look into the distance, at a time when we will be running through some beach and our bellies won’t jiggle, even if we end up fainting from lack of food. “Anorexia is unhealthy, but Bulimia is not that bad of an idea, right?” “Well, apparently you go to rehab for that, so you’re better off trying to contract Salmonella.”
In June of that summer, there was a scare in the Northeast about tomatoes having Salmonella. We began putting ketchup on everything. There was still some hope left.
