The Last Supper(s)
Oh the amount of times I’ve sat in a supermarket car park and launched a six pack of chocolate eclairs down my gullet, followed by perhaps a mini pork pie or three, then, I dunno, a bottle of orange Lucozade or a ready made milkshake in caramel or brownie or fudge flavour.
The very last time, again.
I didn’t necessarily want to do that but I had to, it was the rules. You see it would definitely be the very last time I would choose food that was ever so tasty but nutritionally insulting. Food that would give me a blast of euphoria at the time of purchasing, then popping whatever rubbish I’d plumped for inside my face, followed by an oh so brief moment of comfort. I knew the sensation wouldn’t last and within half an hour I’d be either nodding off, as all my body’s energy has gone into metabolising the skip-full of junk I’d just delivered it, or if I’d really overdone it I’d be on the loo cursing my bad decisions while experiencing percussive bum explosions.
But it was the rules. My new healthy life of yoga and running and salad (or whatever was my vision of healthiness at the time) simply wasn’t allowed to start until I had passed through this ceremony. I had to mark the point of departure from the old me, the me who cited a tin of corned beef and a pint of cherryade on her all time favourites list, and the new one who liked, I dunno, restraint.
Of course sometimes the Last Supper was so sugary and gooey and creamy and gorgeous that I knocked the idea of it being a last hurrah on the head and just got really into eating rubbish for a few days, or months - that’s in addition to proper meals with the family. As I’d secretly sit in my car, parked outside the nearest supermarket, robotically chucking in jam tarts while knowing I had to effectively tackle two dinners again, I chuckled at the realisation I was having an affair with Mr Kipling.
Killing the old me with Kit Kats
The idea of saying goodbye to the old me by trying to kill her with empty calories was a ritual that fitted with my narrative of despising myself. As soon as big fat lazy grotesque me was gone, I would surely rise from the Kit Kat wrappers like a sexy phoenix and reclaim my rightful place as powerful goddess.
The idea of moderation never crossed my mind. Or if it did it would be quickly drop kicked. You see I had a very strong suspicion that people who did ‘everything in moderation’ were probably tedious pests who just didn’t have the capacity to experience all the towering highs and cavernous lows that people like me had easy access to.
I had some evidence that my theory might not be true when in my acting days I shared a dressing room with a wonderfully funny, kind, beautiful woman who was full of personality and had a figure not unlike Jessica Rabbit. She was called Nicky and we became great pals.
What's the point in moderation?
Nicky loved food. She was greedy and had to keep an eye on herself. So greedy in fact that she’d eaten until she’d been physically sick a number of times. Not in a binge, purge fashion, but in the same way that a toddler sometimes does. She loved her food that much. She also told me that after spending her first night with a new boyfriend, he was lovingly stroking her hair gazing at her as she slept, only for her to wake herself up with a loud fart, sitting bolt upright and blurting ‘What was that?’. Aaaah precious memories.
Because she loved food so much and was also happy in the shape that she took, she knew she had to take balanced approach or her shape would change. If we were going out for a curry after the show, Nicky would have a salad for lunch. When we went to Boots to buy sandwiches she would always go for the lower calorie version, so she could eat the buttery, sweet, full-flavoured food she really enjoyed when it came to dinner. She weighed herself once a month but didn’t place much value in the number, as she knew from the fit of her clothes whether she needed to be a bit more careful with what she ate, or alternatively could roam free food-wise.
I had always assumed that women who looked like her either hated food, exercised obsessively, or had won the genetic lottery and their body just sort of happened. But in spending time with her I realised that moderation had its upsides.