Greta Gleissner - Something spectacular: the true story of one Rockettes battle with bulimia

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Table of Contents

FOR GRANDMA PATTY AND GRANDMA SALLY

ACT I

Overture

Its eleven in the morning and Im already back. The familiar gush of wind from the air conditioner sweeps across my face and adds a little more frizz to my already curly mane as I pass through the automatic doors of the supermarket. The same cashiers are still diligently scanning products and punching in produce codes. Across the store, dressed in his white button-down shirt and paisley tie, the manager scurries about wearing the required ass-kissing smile of a customer service professional in New Yorks Upper East Side.

Although the customers are different than they were on my last visit, their faces are the same: contemplative stares as they squeeze cantaloupes and scrutinize apples, each vying for the perfect fruit; eyes filled with frustration and lips curtly positioned, as they steer their carts down doll-sized aisles. From aisle to aisle, I dart past these faces like a woman on a mission. My statement is clear. I know what I want. Dont try to get in my way.

As much as I frequent the DAgostinos on Eighty-Third Street and Lexington Avenue, I should receive some sort of special recognitionfood vouchers, for Christs sake, or at least one of those boxes in the bakery with the bright orange sticker filled with day-old donuts. It doesnt take me long to gather the necessary items, as I have memorized the exact layout of every aisle. Standing in the checkout line, Im hoping the checker doesnt notice that Ive already been through her line once today. As a rule, I alternate checkout lines attempting to remain as anonymous as is possible for someone who enters the same grocery store day after day. Right now, however, Im in a hurry and my impatience will not tolerate a long line.

I place my items on the revolving black belt in a deliberate manner, trying to give my high-caloric food choices an innocent facade. After looking at my selection of Hersheys Kisses, Reddi-Wip, sour cream, cheddar potato chips, French onion dip, cinnamon rolls, chocolate donuts, and a twelve-pack of Diet Coke, Emily S., as the label states on her nametag, which is almost covered by the Five Years of Dedicated Service sticker, becomes inquisitive.

Are you having a party? Emily S. asks.

This exact question has come up dozens of times by other prying cashiers, but my conscience still cringes with embarrassment every time.

Yes, I am. Its my roommates birthday.

The lies roll off my tongue so naturally. If she only knew the truth. Occasionally, I tell cashiers, No, the food is for me, which sparks their curiosity and inevitably leads to a discussion of how lucky I am to be able to eat so much and stay so thin. For a moment, I gloat, telling each of them that my secret is my fast metabolism, which, of course, is another lie. Today I dont have time for idle chat. I need a fix.

Emily S. bags my items carefully, in her own style, at her own pace. Clearly, shes clueless about my sense-of-urgency. Youre not bagging eggs, Emily S., only binge food. Just as I want to reach over the counter, grab this pimply-faced cashier by the neck, and tell her to hurry the fuck up, she smiles pleasantly and responds.

Okay. Your total is $24.61.

Finally. I shove my ATM card in her direction, praying that I have enough funds in my account to cover the bill. While waiting for my card to process, I realize that Emily S. has failed to notice the twenty-ounce Diet Coke bottle sitting next to my purse in the grocery cart. I dont feel obliged to let her (or any of the other cashiers) know that she has failed to ring me up completely. I mentally rehearse my prepared story for the security guard who may tap me on my shoulder as I exit the store.

But officer, I will say, I thought that she saw my Diet Coke. Isnt it her responsibility to look in my cart? Sorry, I guess I wasnt paying attention.

This imagined exchange between some middle-aged, wannabe-cop security guard and me never takes place, but I am still nervous every time I leave the store, thinking about the undercover Diet Coke cop potentially waiting outside to arrest me.

Bags in hand, I head down Lexington Avenue to my next destination: Pick A Bagel. On the way to my favorite bagel shop, I cant help but notice the many undernourished stay-at-home mothers. Usually their nannies accompany them, pushing the kids in a stroller alongside. These women are so busy with personal trainers, personal shoppers, and decorating luxurious brownstones that they simply cant live without nannies. Im jealous of these women, whose lives appear so picturesque. If only I could have what they have, then I would be happy.

In my heart, I know this is a lie. Beneath the forced smiles and conservative Chanel maquillage lie a misery and emptiness with which I deeply identify. Theres a certain hollowness that doesnt discriminate based on social class.

Nonetheless, I still want what they have. Looking down at my frumpy selfRockette sweatshirt, Broadway Dance Center cut-off sweats, which Ive been sleeping in for two days, hair heaped on top of my headI suddenly feel embarrassed. Haunted by hollowness or not, these mothers are ten years older than I am and look better than I ever will. Im a mess.

Tomorrow, I will start to live my life differently.

Unable to wait to eat until I arrive at the Pick A Bagel, I break open the airtight bag of Hersheys Kisses. Chocolate aromatics race out of the bag as it bursts open, soothing my nerves. Unraveling their shiny aluminum jackets excites my mouth. My taste buds vividly recall the succulent bites of milk chocolate perfection. Chugging my stolen Diet Coke in between bites, I pop Hersheys into my mouth one kiss at a time to tide me over as I make my way to my next destination.

At Pick A Bagel, ten or more people are already in line. I want to scream. My body is screaming. It infuriates me to be waiting in line at a time like this. All I want is to walk into an establishment, buy my drug of choice, shove massive amounts of it down my throat, and then spew it out a couple dozen times, until I have reached my goalpure numbness.

My anger is not only for the long line. Im angry with myself for ending up here again. Like every other morning, I had promised myself that today would be a good day. A good day means eating perfectlyno bingeing, no purging, and eating three, low-fat meals. Once again, my day has turned into one of wasting money, wasting time, and wasting my life.

Scanning over the familiar array of cream cheeses, three different choices of tuna and chicken, made-to-order salads, and fresh-baked bagels, I engage in one of my favorite pastimes: planning my future diet. Lets see... I will have a toasted everything bagel with butter for breakfast, a fat-free salad for lunch, and for dinner I can have....

Are you ready, lady? asks the man behind the counter.

Oh, sure. Now you want my order. Interrupt me as Im planning my perfect diet, you rude asshole.

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