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Al-Ahram Weekly 3 - 9 February 2000 Issue No. 467 
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Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Al-Ahram Weekly 3 - 9 February 2000 Issue No. 467
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| Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Egypt Region International Economy Opinion Culture Features Special Profile Travel Living Sports People Time Out Chronicles Cartoons Letters Blessed Sunday
By Fayza Hassan
As a former fat person, I understood women's excessive concern with their weight, although I never really encouraged anyone, including my children, to lose it. For one, I like people to remain the way they are -- it is reassuring; secondly, long experience has done nothing to promote my faith in diets. On the numerous occasions when I had to shed some extra kilos, I routinely starved myself to death, becoming borderline anorexic, then, as soon as I began eating normally again, promptly regained whatever I had lost, and more. I eventually wearied of the see-saw ride and thought up theories to justify my portliness instead. It was much more fun -- and more delicious -- and I would have enjoyed my status as a non-dieter had my mother not interfered in the subtlest of ways. She never came right out and confronted me about my weight gain. Instead, she would look at me with a smile and raise her hands as if in welcome, noticeably increasing the distance between her palms on each of my visits. When questioned, she would deny that she meant anything special by this new mannerism.
Another sore point was buying clothes, especially when I went to the States and had to ask for a size 12, "maybe 14," from the slim, perfectly groomed salesgirls who handed me the garments with a knowing smile, or so I imagined. On these occasions, I firmly reminded myself that the average American was far heavier than I was and that I had nothing to worry about. Unfortunately, by the same token, I remembered that there had been times, not so long ago, when I had patronised the junior department and been proud of it. I consoled myself with the thought that older women look better when fuller and soothed my bruised ego with an extra slice of pizza followed by chocolate cake and ice-cream. Each time I returned after the summer holidays, the distance between my mother's outstretched palms invariably grew wider.
Last year was different, however. My younger daughter had chanced upon a new dietitian and had lost a respectable number of kilos in a couple of months. In order not to tempt her needlessly, although I disapproved wholeheartedly of her initiative, I had abstained from bringing home the numerous delicacies of which we were both so fond. During those few months, I couldn't help but notice my waistline shrinking. I had come back with a suitcase full of size 10s, "maybe 8," having successfully managed to resist the greasier treats on my yearly trip to the States. Looking like Twiggy, my younger daughter was waiting for me at the airport in Cairo. From afar, I admired her new-found elegance. "You are too thin," I said accusingly nevertheless as soon as I had cleared customs. "One is never too thin," she retorted with conviction. "Look at yourself: aren't you happy the way you are now?"
In fact, I realised that I had been feeling much better, was more active, and once more interested in my appearance. I therefore took with remarkable equanimity the news that she was not simply on a diet, but rather had made a "life-style change". I decided to emulate her. "Will we have to eat steamed zucchini forever?" I asked with a little trepidation. "Not forever," she said cheerfully. "Sunday is a day off."
From then on, Sunday shone like the morning star in our lives. We made plans, dug out recipes and chose restaurants. The boiled carrots and zucchini were almost palatable when eaten with one's eyes resolutely trained on Sunday, when pancakes drowned in honey and fresh cream were perfectly acceptable. Fat-free cheese became relatively acceptable when teamed with dreams of oven-fresh French baguette, thickly spread with butter and Camembert. And there were the numerous restaurants we planned to discover. We made notes of their specialties and fantasised about all the possibilities, anticipating the moment when the menu, and the bread basket, were placed in front of us.
To while away the time between one Sunday and the next, we went shopping for clothes. Now, when the salesperson admitted that they did not have her size, a secret, satisfied smile played on my daughter's lips. I vividly remember the times when such an announcement brought tears to her eyes. Carrying our tiny purchases, we would joke "how about a slice of cheesecake?", then go home to partake of a feast of Brussels sprouts, with a little salt and lemon, perhaps.
Fat-free food is awful. This is a fact of life. So what? "On Sunday..." I would start the description of the numerous dishes I intended to devour, and my daughter would join in. Soon the offensive fare, washed down with numerous glasses of mineral water, became a habit. Our meals were followed by an imaginary dessert -- or two -- which we dwelt on lovingly while drinking our (sugarless) coffee.
A perfect programme, it not only improves one's looks considerably but goes a long way toward preserving one's health. So far, there has only been one problem: on such a regimen, one's eating capacity shrinks so much that, finally sitting before our Gargantuan weekly repast, we can no longer manage more than a few bites. We have to look longingly at the delicious -- and practically untouched -- mashed potatoes and corn, breathe the aroma of fried onions and sample a minuscule morsel of chocolate brownie before kissing our weekly dream goodbye. Still, there is always next Sunday...
