I am six years old, in first grade, and my father is hoisting—that’s really the only word for it—me up into the backseat of the family’s Chevy Suburban. “She’s solid . She weighs 65 pounds,” he’s telling a friend.
I am eight years old, sturdy bare legs dangling at the end of the examination table while my pediatrician, a woman with a soothing voice, and disconcertingly cool hands, tells my mom to stop packing me two sandwiches for lunch. And my mother, overweight herself, nods and says nothing. The hunger pangs would start around 10 a.m., and by lunchtime I’d be bolting my sandwich my mother dutifully packs and eyeing cupcake, offering to trade my apple for someone’s half peanut butter sandwich. Hungry, always hungry.
How can anyone say no to food? I’m beginning to recognize that there are people born with an “off” switch, people to whom food, even the most delicious, is simply fuel. Then there are people like me, who eat every bite and still want more, who sneak into the kitchen when the house is dark for slices of white bread slathered with margarine, sprinkled with sugar. I have no off switch. Happy, sad, lonely, content—the one constant in my life is hunger.
I’m 15, five-foot-six, 145 pounds, most of its muscle thanks to three-hour varsity crew-team workouts every day after school. My parents have shipped me off on a teen tour to Israel. The group is filled with mean girls from my own high school and from a neighboring town, a wealthy Jewish suburb. There are five girls named Jennifer with my group that summer. “Oh, not the fat Jennifer,” I hear one of my tour mates saying matter-of-factly to another as we hang out by our swimming pool, holding his hands out a good foot away from his hips to indicate my girth, “the other one.” So that is me: the fat one.
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