***TRIGGER WARNING: DIET CULTURE, ED***
I hate math. Yet, I’m greatly fascinated by and utterly obsessed with numbers, especially even numbers. It’s a paradox that has haunted me for the past 22 years. At night, the volume of the tiny TV in my childhood bedroom had to be set on an even number between 12 and 20. The steps that led to the elevator of any of my friends’ houses, an even number. The buttered penne on my plate, an even number.
50 is the only even number I hate, because it always marks a conclusion. Never a beginning, or a possibility of continuation. Once you turn 50, you’re closer to the end of your life than you are to its beginning. In Italy, the multiplication table of 5 canonically ends after 10 x 5. According to Dunbar’s theory, one’s friend circle can only count up to 50 people.
50 is safe as long as it is unreachable, especially on the scale. Until five years ago, my perfect body weight was 48 kilograms. Not 47 or 49, because, obviously, they aren’t even numbers. And definitely not 50, or any number above it.
I was 17 and weighed 52 kilograms when my nutritionist suggested I go on a seven-day, carb free diet, just to “round it down to 50 for the summer.” I don’t blame him for simply doing his job, but I blame myself for believing a number on the scale could determine my happiness and my well-being. I blame myself for believing that a week of restriction would be what I needed to make peace with my body and the way I looked at myself on every reflecting surface.
I said that, yes, I would try the seven-day meal plan, and no, I was not going to make myself sick in order to lose weight. One day and a significant amount of money after, the doctor sent me an email with a detailed list of what to eat and when. Years later, I still remember what was on it. On Monday, I was allowed up to 200 grams of lettuce and 150 grams of ricotta for lunch, while the dinner menu consisted of roasted vegetables and veal with nothing but olive oil and a few drops of lemon juice for seasoning. The meal plan went on, in what seemed like an endless succession of eggs, turkey, vegetables and a crazy amount of fish, whose smell never failed to make me gag.
That Monday, I started the day with a cup of coffee (unsweetened) and a great deal of determination. When it was time for lunch, all I wanted was my grandma’s lasagna. As I waited for my mom to come home and eat lunch in her company, I squeezed myself into a ball and cried in my bed. When my mom finally came home, she noticed my red, puffy face. She didn’t even close the door behind her. She said “vieni,” and dragged me out of the house. We had pizza for lunch and, when we came back, we threw the meal plan in the trash.
Giulia Leo 