Skinny Jeans Have No Place On These Thighs
The Gag Reflex
You know what is the most fun thing about school? When you're sitting in between your two best friends in the canteen when they've just had a blazing row.
It's all because of Mrs Chieftain's 'inspired' punishment for the three of us - giving a presentation to the Arts Faculty at their monthly meeting in two days time. For goodness sake, doesn't Mrs Chieftain know that the old classics like detention and writing lines are still OK? Still boring? Listless? Gloom inducing??
I'm still not certain what it is I did to merit being punished, aside from passing the note, I mean. Anyway, it's thanks to Mrs Chieftain that my lunch break is ruined as Bridget and Izzie now aren't speaking. Izzie didn't help by suggesting we perform dub step music. Me and Bridget shot her a look and she just rolled her eyes like she was thoroughly fed up with us.
Which is hardly fair. I mean, it's Bridget she's annoyed with, not me.
So, I've been sitting here for twenty minutes now in silence while Bridget moodily pushes her food around the plate and Izzie doesn't even touch hers. It's then it occurs to me - is that how people stay so skinny? And by people, I mean Bridget and Izzie.
Izzie rarely eats a thing but it's not in purpose. She just doesn't get hungry. Bridget usually eats almost as much as me yet she remains enviably thin. Whenever I whine at her about this, she just laughs and tells me I'm crazy and I'm not fat.
But if I'm not fat, then why is it that whenever I look at a crowd of girls, they're all slimmer than me? Showing off trendy indie gear on their tight tummies. Modeling skinny jeans on their taught thighs. With high cheekbones and slender arms for accessories.
I don't even bother mentioning it to Izzie anymore. It's not that she doesn't care. It's just she's so confident in herself she doesn't see how anyone else could possibly be insecure about the way they look. I suppose Bridget's the same. If I say anything negative about myself, she'll just balance it out with a complement. Like, "You've got really pretty feet" or "Your eyes are always so sparkly".
The 'eye' thing I can get on board with but who cares about pretty feet, for Christ's sake?! As long as your feet don't resemble that of a hobbit, it doesn't matter!! Besides, feet spend most of their time living in socks and shoes. Who's going to see them?
I didn't say that to Bridget because she was only trying to be nice but honestly! Is that anyway to comfort someone who is emotionally unstable? OK, I'm not emotionally unstable. Those aren't the right words. I'm not unbalanced. I'm just . . . not happy with the way I look. I never have been.
Even when I was younger, I was always aware of my round tummy and round face. I have no idea why Marcus spent all of Friday night with me. Not only did my body mass weigh more than all of the other girls combined, I looked like an idiot. I had on purple corduroy trouser for goodness sake! And a top with a butterfly on it. At least it was a V neck so I didn't look so babyish. And Bridget had lent me her Camden black scarf.
I would love to have a scarf like that. Scarves look good on any figure. I should start collecting scarves.
It's then I look down at my plate and realise I have eaten everything. When I was by the food counter, I was in such a melancholy mood, I just kept heaping things onto my tray. Jacket potato, baked beans, cheddar cheese, a roll and butter, two chocolate biscuits, a sprite.
I panic and look to Bridget and Izzies' plates. Bridget has eaten a few mouthfuls of her tuna pasta bake and left the rest and Izzie hasn't eaten a thing!! I feel my face going red and I'm getting all hot and flustered. How many calories have I just eaten? Two hundred? Four hundred? Maybe even five hundred?
It was a big jacket potato as well!
"Uh, I'm going to go to the loo, guys!" I stammer in embarrassment and leap to my feet.
Bridget and Izzie look up at me weirdly as I grab my bag and hurry away.
What was I thinking, eating so much? Do I want to be a gross yeti for the rest of my life?
I need to start taking control. Getting back some of my confidence.
Getting some of that food out of my stomach.
I reach the girl's toilets even more flustered than I'd been in the canteen. There are two girls in here already. One of them is fiddling about with her hair, trying to tease it out of a plait. The other girl is called Amanda Donovan. She's sort of a bully but then she can be OK sometimes. I hear she sells cigarettes to people sometimes. And that she's a lesbian.
But people are always talking about Amanda and I bet half of it is just made up. She's a bit like marmite, you either love her or avoid her. If Amanda doesn't like you, you have to stay out of her way. She can be so scary sometimes. She'll get right in your face and threaten you with stuff.
So I've heard anyway. She's never said anything to me. She's never really taken any notice of me. She and Bridget used to be on speaking terms until Amanda became really cocky. Even more cocky than Bridget.
Bridget is cocky in a charming, sophisticated sort of manner. Amanda has no class at all. She can be kind of stylish with the way she goes about things but she's not a classy girl. Right now, she's got her hand down her bra, readjusting herself.
She suddenly looks up and catches me staring at her. "What are you looking at fat arse?"
I immediately turn scarlet, shake my head with my mouth unable to form words and dive into the nearest cubicle. She and her friend laugh at me. They take a while to leave and as they go, they kick the cubicle door a couple of times.
As soon as I'm sure they're gone, I have to get started. The insult sort of helps. It means that I have to do it. That it's true.
It doesn't work though.
I'm kneeling next to the toilet, pulling my hair back with one hand and sticking a finger down my throat with the other. I push my finger in really far, then pull it back and try another one with it. Three fingers. Nothing's happening. Have to do it harder!
Then I gag and spit bile into the toilet.
When I hear the bell go for registration, I get back onto my feet. I rub my knees, which are sore from the hard floor, and flush the toilet. Not that there's much point. I wasn't sick. I make my way to my form room, with my metaphorical tail between my legs, feeling really angry with myself. If really thick models and that Olsen twin can manage it, then why can't I? It's hardly rocket science! It's just a gag reflex.
So I make a promise with myself to practice hard. Practice makes perfect, right?
It's all because of Mrs Chieftain's 'inspired' punishment for the three of us - giving a presentation to the Arts Faculty at their monthly meeting in two days time. For goodness sake, doesn't Mrs Chieftain know that the old classics like detention and writing lines are still OK? Still boring? Listless? Gloom inducing??
I'm still not certain what it is I did to merit being punished, aside from passing the note, I mean. Anyway, it's thanks to Mrs Chieftain that my lunch break is ruined as Bridget and Izzie now aren't speaking. Izzie didn't help by suggesting we perform dub step music. Me and Bridget shot her a look and she just rolled her eyes like she was thoroughly fed up with us.
Which is hardly fair. I mean, it's Bridget she's annoyed with, not me.
So, I've been sitting here for twenty minutes now in silence while Bridget moodily pushes her food around the plate and Izzie doesn't even touch hers. It's then it occurs to me - is that how people stay so skinny? And by people, I mean Bridget and Izzie.
Izzie rarely eats a thing but it's not in purpose. She just doesn't get hungry. Bridget usually eats almost as much as me yet she remains enviably thin. Whenever I whine at her about this, she just laughs and tells me I'm crazy and I'm not fat.
But if I'm not fat, then why is it that whenever I look at a crowd of girls, they're all slimmer than me? Showing off trendy indie gear on their tight tummies. Modeling skinny jeans on their taught thighs. With high cheekbones and slender arms for accessories.
I don't even bother mentioning it to Izzie anymore. It's not that she doesn't care. It's just she's so confident in herself she doesn't see how anyone else could possibly be insecure about the way they look. I suppose Bridget's the same. If I say anything negative about myself, she'll just balance it out with a complement. Like, "You've got really pretty feet" or "Your eyes are always so sparkly".
The 'eye' thing I can get on board with but who cares about pretty feet, for Christ's sake?! As long as your feet don't resemble that of a hobbit, it doesn't matter!! Besides, feet spend most of their time living in socks and shoes. Who's going to see them?
I didn't say that to Bridget because she was only trying to be nice but honestly! Is that anyway to comfort someone who is emotionally unstable? OK, I'm not emotionally unstable. Those aren't the right words. I'm not unbalanced. I'm just . . . not happy with the way I look. I never have been.
Even when I was younger, I was always aware of my round tummy and round face. I have no idea why Marcus spent all of Friday night with me. Not only did my body mass weigh more than all of the other girls combined, I looked like an idiot. I had on purple corduroy trouser for goodness sake! And a top with a butterfly on it. At least it was a V neck so I didn't look so babyish. And Bridget had lent me her Camden black scarf.
I would love to have a scarf like that. Scarves look good on any figure. I should start collecting scarves.
It's then I look down at my plate and realise I have eaten everything. When I was by the food counter, I was in such a melancholy mood, I just kept heaping things onto my tray. Jacket potato, baked beans, cheddar cheese, a roll and butter, two chocolate biscuits, a sprite.
I panic and look to Bridget and Izzies' plates. Bridget has eaten a few mouthfuls of her tuna pasta bake and left the rest and Izzie hasn't eaten a thing!! I feel my face going red and I'm getting all hot and flustered. How many calories have I just eaten? Two hundred? Four hundred? Maybe even five hundred?
It was a big jacket potato as well!
"Uh, I'm going to go to the loo, guys!" I stammer in embarrassment and leap to my feet.
Bridget and Izzie look up at me weirdly as I grab my bag and hurry away.
What was I thinking, eating so much? Do I want to be a gross yeti for the rest of my life?
I need to start taking control. Getting back some of my confidence.
Getting some of that food out of my stomach.
I reach the girl's toilets even more flustered than I'd been in the canteen. There are two girls in here already. One of them is fiddling about with her hair, trying to tease it out of a plait. The other girl is called Amanda Donovan. She's sort of a bully but then she can be OK sometimes. I hear she sells cigarettes to people sometimes. And that she's a lesbian.
But people are always talking about Amanda and I bet half of it is just made up. She's a bit like marmite, you either love her or avoid her. If Amanda doesn't like you, you have to stay out of her way. She can be so scary sometimes. She'll get right in your face and threaten you with stuff.
So I've heard anyway. She's never said anything to me. She's never really taken any notice of me. She and Bridget used to be on speaking terms until Amanda became really cocky. Even more cocky than Bridget.
Bridget is cocky in a charming, sophisticated sort of manner. Amanda has no class at all. She can be kind of stylish with the way she goes about things but she's not a classy girl. Right now, she's got her hand down her bra, readjusting herself.
She suddenly looks up and catches me staring at her. "What are you looking at fat arse?"
I immediately turn scarlet, shake my head with my mouth unable to form words and dive into the nearest cubicle. She and her friend laugh at me. They take a while to leave and as they go, they kick the cubicle door a couple of times.
As soon as I'm sure they're gone, I have to get started. The insult sort of helps. It means that I have to do it. That it's true.
It doesn't work though.
I'm kneeling next to the toilet, pulling my hair back with one hand and sticking a finger down my throat with the other. I push my finger in really far, then pull it back and try another one with it. Three fingers. Nothing's happening. Have to do it harder!
Then I gag and spit bile into the toilet.
When I hear the bell go for registration, I get back onto my feet. I rub my knees, which are sore from the hard floor, and flush the toilet. Not that there's much point. I wasn't sick. I make my way to my form room, with my metaphorical tail between my legs, feeling really angry with myself. If really thick models and that Olsen twin can manage it, then why can't I? It's hardly rocket science! It's just a gag reflex.
So I make a promise with myself to practice hard. Practice makes perfect, right?
♠ ♠ ♠
This is where the disorder stuff starts coming into the story.Hope you liked it! Well, not liked it, but you know what I mean.