A History of Vices Part 2

Again, this is all pretty draft-like.

II.Gum

      In college, I discover calories- those invisible monsters, those life-and-death judges. I become painstakingly aware of the presence in basically everything and anything edible. They become my, for lack of any better term, gods. I know how many I can consume per day and how many I need to burn off per day to lose weight. I take this approach and multiply it about, oh, 600.

                For the uninitiated, counting calories is akin to a science or an art. At my height, I was a zen master. If only someone had granted me a plaque to hang above my bed. Two hundred calories plus 300 calories plus 100 plus 450 equals 1050 calories- well, I’m set for the day. Time to burn off 600 calories on the treadmill!

                I had to find something I could snack on, however, that wouldn’t be chockfull of calories. And fresh fruit and veggies were a tempting option, but somehow I discovered the allure of sugarless chewing gun. Enter my second vice: Gum, particularly of the Extra variety.

                “Gum is a good way for someone to keep their food cravings at bay,” some talking head said on a morning show. I was absentmindedly watching with my mother, but not paying attention or retaining much information. This was my status quo: I was so weak because I was losing so much weight that the most minute intellectual tasks were chores.               

                Even the Extra gum’s packaging toted its use by “The Biggest Loser” participants. All I had to do when I felt a pang of hunger was reach for the gum. This became my habit, my go-to. My breath never didn’t smell like mint or an exotic fruit combination.    

                I eventually got to the point that what I craved was actually the gum.

                Some days were “bad.” I’d chew the whole damn pack, the way a guinea pig vacuums up a head of lettuce in just over an hour. Then I’d panic about how much I’d just consumed. Every single last calorie…from a piece of gum.

                After a suitable amount of panic- and with me, there really is no such thing, I was born hyperventilating – I’d grant myself leniency. Okay. I reasoned. Okay, okay. I could forgive myself.

                This time.

                Who calorie counts a pack of fucking gum? Me, apparently. Circa three years ago.

                Chomp. Chomp. Chomp.

                My gum addiction hits a head summer 2009. I’m a freshly christened 21-year-old; I feel good about my existence 80 percent of the time.

                See, I have a job I like. I’m talking to a girl I like. I have a promising future. This is the most fulfilling summer of my life in retrospect. I am also severely underweight and malnourished. I went from 160 to ~110 in a matter of months. I walk around in a daze most of the time. It’s also an interesting way to see the world. Colors are brighter; sounds seem louder. The world seems more visual now.

                My job is a groundskeeper at an inner-city 1920s apartment complex. I’m the only person responsible for the upkeep and various tasks, like cleaning the bathrooms and clearing out unwanted laundry from the machines. As mundane as it sounds, to me it’s truly clarifying and gratifying in some unseen way. No one bothers me. I talk to some tenants. I get to listen to my iPod and admire the gorgeous summer scenery in between cleanings. I find someone’s porn collection in a bush. I feel accomplished when the day is over. I will realize later on how important that is.

                The biggest downside is my physical condition. Inevitably, I’m winded half way through my day. I have minimal energy to begin with; work compounds this. I get dizzy spells and pace around the musty stairwells. I sit on a step and rest my head on a knee. I’m basically bones and skin at this stage in my life. My Mom threatens to take me to the hospital and I beg her not to, only imagining what it’d do for me academically.

                It’s these days I chew gum all day. I have a lunch that’s pretty minimal at best: hard-boiled egg, string cheese, diet soda, pack of gum. If I feel brave I have something big and stress about it while I clean. All the while, I chew gum.

                Chomp.

                On the worst of days, it’s two packs. My stomach twists and revolts.

                This continues my last year of college and my first year in the real world. I’m still pretty thin albeit not deathly. I adapted to survive. The girl leaves; everyone ends up leaving at some interim I’m not aware of.

                In 2011, I move to New York. I head to a dollar store in Manhattan nearly every day to buy the damn gum. I chew it on the subway, blissful in those moments. I’ve started smoking, but in New York smoking is less than practical.

                “You don’t eat, Britt,” my ex-boyfriend laughs at me.  “You just chew gum.” He has a blonde friend over whom I really like and he’s laughing with him. They both are. They are just boys.

Chomp. This hurts me, as 9 out of 10 things he says does. I don’t remember if I ever told him.

I only stop chewing gum the next year, when I’ve moved across the country. I have a stabbing pain in my jaw walking into work. I think: Shit shit shit it’s the gum shit shit shit. SHIT!!!!!!

After this, I am able to wean myself slowly to normal-person gum chewing. I still chew gum, don’t get me wrong. Especially when I am trying to get away from smoking my lungs into two ashen pits. I’m also not a stringent calorie-counter anymore, but I still keep a (very) rough tally of what I’ve ingested per day. I stopped altogether when I was with my ex, but I began again shortly after we parted ways.

I don’t seem to normally do things just for the good of myself, it seems.

Chomp.