Popular: Vintage Wisdom for a Modern Geek (2 page)

FIGURE PROBLEMS

Nearly every teen has had . . . figure problems at one time or another in her life. . . . The reason this is so is that as a teen-ager your body is still in a state of flux—it has not stopped growing long enough to find its natural balance. . . . But just because your body is restless and refuses to settle down is no reason to despair of having a good figure. It is a question of mind over matter.

I am average looking. Believe me, I’m not complaining. All my life, I’ve been more than happy to go unnoticed. When mean people forget I exist, the world is a much more cheerful place. But thanks to Betty, things are different. Now, I want to flourish, not just survive.

Ever since I was little, I’ve always had a
panza
, Spanish for belly. It’s varied in size, but through the years it has been my constant companion. When I was in elementary school, my cousins used to poke my miniature muffin top, which usually led to me hiding in my room, crying, with a book and a chocolate bar. Obviously, bad habits start young.

I grew taller this past summer, prompting my
panza
to diminish a bit. It’s wonderful to have my clothes fit better, but I am still painfully aware of my appearance and weight. I’m not alone in my suffering, though. I can’t think of a single girl I know who is genuinely happy with her weight. The Volleyball Girls eat as little as is humanly possible, until there’s hardly anything left of them. They’ll publicly shame any member of the group who comes to school wearing skinny jeans that display the slightest hint of a dimple. “Valeria is fat! Valeria is fat!” they’ll shout.

Outside of the top groups on the popularity scale, most people in my school are a little rounder. I think this accentuates the difference between those at the top and the bottom of the food chain. That is another reason why I’ve got to bid farewell to my
panza
for good. It can’t come with me on my rise to the top.

Thursday, September 1

In preparation for this first month of my experiment, I open the faded book. I feel as though I’m embarking on a great sea voyage. As I slide my finger down the table of contents, I silently pray that it won’t end up like the
Titanic
.

Spending time with Betty

I read the first chapter, “Figure Problems,” and underline key points.

1. Start by intelligently figuring out your figure problem. Find out about your body.

That isn’t too hard. No hips, no breasts, no curves. Well, actually I have curves, but they start in the middle and go out.

2. Always check first with your doctor before you make plans to lose weight.

This is no problem for me. A year ago, I visited a new pediatrician who told me that I was “bordering on the edge of obese.” Her painful, inaccurate recommendation now gives me the permission I need to start a diet.

3. . . . it is just as important to count the calories you eat between meals as the ones you eat at meals. If fact, many of you would probably not need to diet if you cut down your between-meal nibbling.

4. There is still to be considered all the gorging that takes place at parties, particularly at club meetings and general get-togethers.

5. If you are serious about having a good figure, you must eat breakfast.

6. . . . fried food of any sort is fattening.

Okay, this is doable. Betty Cornell also includes possible menu ideas that I will definitely try. I’m going to give myself the weekend to indulge on contraband then start the diet on Tuesday morning, after Labor Day weekend. Fingers crossed!

Friday, September 2

I run for all I’m worth. The bus home could leave any second, and I’m not on it. It’s well over 90 degrees out, and already unsightly sweat stains are blossoming under my arms. Lovely.

One of the security personnel outside the school yells at me, but I ignore him. Since we live on the Texas/Mexico border, they’re just here to make sure that no one is smuggling drugs. Which I’m not. I see Kenzie raise her eyebrows at me through one of the bus’s dirty windows. The bus driver seems reluctant to open the door and mumbles something in Spanish when I get on, panting uncontrollably. Some of the sixth graders snicker.

“Wow, you look like an idiot.”

“Hi, Kenzie,” I manage. I sink into the seat behind her and attempt to smooth back my frazzled ponytail.

“Why were you running?” She spits out the last word. Kenzie is half-Korean, with a wild personality, curly hair, a passion for heavy metal, and a hearty disdain for most exercise.

“We had to get sized for our performance gowns in choir.” Ms. Charles, our director, had spent the whole time guessing our dress sizes and announcing them in her microphone. Her guess for me was way too big. I wonder if that should tell me something.

“Yet another reason I’m grateful not to be in that hell- hole,” Kenzie snorts. She’s been in band since sixth grade. She plays the oboe, but she doesn’t have her instrument with her today, because she “accidentally” dropped it in the hallway, and it “like, um, kind-uh, sort-uh” broke.

I first met Kenzie two years ago on the first day of school. She was sitting alone, wearing a studded belt, and her frizzy hair was pulled back into a menacing ponytail. All I could think was, “Gosh, I hope she doesn’t kill me.” Little by little our classes forced us together and we soon became close, although it’s clear that she could still take me out in a fight. She’s really cool despite her dark aura. She’s my opposite in every way, but she’s one of the few people who doesn’t make me feel like an outsider.

Seeing my Hispanic facial features but light skin, kids here ask if I’m Mexican. I answer that my mom is half, so that makes me a quarter. Actually my mother is a mix of English, French, Spanish, Jewish, Mexican Indian, and African. I’m not sure how you classify that, but on her it’s beautiful. For me, in a school district that is 98 percent Hispanic, I’m told that I don’t have enough of the right DNA to be part of team-Latino. Ironically, off the border, I consider myself Mexican.

Maybe with Kenzie being Korean, me not being Mexican enough, and neither of us with sufficient knowledge of Spanish to ask directions to a bathroom, we connected by not fitting in anywhere else.

Although Kenzie isn’t the pillow-fight-at-sleepovers type, I’ve always appreciated her honesty. If I have a booger in my nose, she tells me. If my fly is down, she’s quick to let me know.

“Maya,” she says now, “you’re a mess. Like, really.”

Friends like that are hard to find.

The sixth graders are staring at us over the tops of the seats with large eyes. “They look so innocent,” I say. They giggle in their prepubescent voices.

“Not for long,” Kenzie grins. She turns to them and shame-lessly belts out a chorus of filth that includes the anatomically correct names of body parts and their biological functions.

I hide my face in my hands. I try to chastise her, but Kenzie is laughing so hard, she can’t hear anything.

Just before we get to my stop, one of the sixth graders turns around and spits at me.

First week of school down, countless more to go.

And yet, this year will be different. This year I have a plan.

 . . . . . . .

I open the front door.

“Hi, babe!” Mom chimes from the kitchen. To my surprise there is a box of apple fritters on the counter. I notice the perky yellow
60 percent off
sticker. I also see a bag of stale cookies and a loaf of cinnamon raisin bread. They all have the yellow tag. And a massive calorie count.

“I shopped without eating breakfast,” Mom says. “I hear that it has an effect on what you buy.”

I nod solemnly.

“But don’t worry,” she continues, “it was all on clearance.”

Mom has a not-so-secret love affair with food. “It could be worse,” she says. “I could be a raging alcoholic or a cocaine addict.” Mostly she buys chocolate. When I was little, I used to find her stashes of sweets. They were always in places where my dad would never think to check, like the cleaning closet or the vegetable drawer. But Mom works out at the gym Monday through Friday and is rather fit.

“How was your day?” she asks.

I look down at my feet. “I got spit on by a sixth grader.”

She bites her lip respectfully to keep from laughing. “I guess it’s a good thing that it’s the weekend, huh?”

I nod and grab a fritter out of the package. Natalia, my autistic five-year-old sister, wanders in with crumbs all over her face. It’s quite clear that she’s already enjoyed hers.

“Eat quickly, Maya,” Mom says. “Those have to be gone by the time your father gets home.”

 . . . . . . .

Dad opens the door an hour or so later. He throws out his arms in a gesture of defeat and shouts, “Well, we’re officially the Fat Wagenens!” It’s definitely not his usual “Hello, everyone!” or “I missed you all.” He must have had a rough day. The university is really struggling, and they’re getting ready to fire faculty.

“Excuse me?” Mom’s voice rings out loud and clear.

My nine-year-old brother, Brodie, cowers in the doorway, a banana grasped in his hand. His eyes are wide. He’s rather touchy about his size, and how quickly he’s growing out of his clothes. He’s most often prey to Dad’s “You-know-(Insert-Name-Here)-the-eating-habits-that-you-develop-as-a-child-stay-with-you-your-whole-life,” lectures.

“I said we are officially the Fat Wagenens. I saw the doctor today and he said that I have to lose some weight. We all need to lose some weight.”

“Excuse me?!” Mom is really quite angry now. She has that dangerous tone in her voice she sometimes gets when she’s on the edge. Dad’s weight plan can only mean three people in our family. Like I said, Mom works out, and Natalia never stops moving, so her calves are like rocks.

I go upstairs to avoid seeing Mom and Dad whisper-fight. Brodie is staring wide-eyed at his
panza
.

“Oh please,” I say. “You’re just going through a chubby stage. I did too when I was nine.” I don’t mention that mine hasn’t ended yet, but it’s okay to bend the truth when trying to build self-esteem.

He smiles halfheartedly.

Maybe it’s a good thing that I’m starting the Betty Cornell Diet on Tuesday. It sure would make Dad happy. Anyway, I’m not ready to start signing my name Maya “Fat” Wagenen.

Monday, September 5

Many of you bring your lunches to school and buy milk at the cafeteria. That is a good way to avoid temptation—you don’t even have to go near the long line of delicious dishes. . . . Any sensible combination of three or four of these items will make a healthful luncheon and probably one that is light and easy to carry. . . .

1. Hard-boiled eggs.
   
2. Small container of cottage cheese.
   
3. One slice of whole-wheat or rye bread . . .
   
4. Fresh fruit (you can eat lots of it).
   
5. American or Swiss cheese sandwich, lots of lettuce—no mayonnaise—use whole-wheat or rye bread.
   
6. Any kind of lean meat sandwich.
   
7. Consommé.
   
8. Milk.
   

I pack a lunch of a half sandwich, some applesauce, and a hard-boiled egg. I don’t include any meat though, because I’ve been a vegetarian since I was eight years old, thanks to
Charlotte’s Web
, my pet parakeet, and a bad case of the stomach flu.