A Former Fat-Camper's Life in a Teenage Waistland

By Abby Ellin, SMITH Magazine. Posted April 13, 2007.

Note: The following is an outtake scene from author Abby Ellin's debut book, Teenage Waistland: A Former Fat-Camper Weighs in on Living Large, Losing Weight, And How Parents Can (And Can't) Help, that her publisher decided to cut. In this scene Ellin has traveled to Israel with her two best friends: Sue and a scale.

***

Finally, I'd had enough of America and its discontents and decided to spend my junior year far, far away from Ithaca and all of its pain. As Suzanne Vale, the main character in Carrie Fisher's "Postcards from the Edge" puts it while sitting in a bombed out bus stop in Jerusalem: "I wanted to go somewhere where my insides finally matched my outsides." I, too, longed to be somewhere where the chaos around me mirrored the chaos inside me. I chose to do a semester at the University of Tel Aviv, which seemed far enough away.

I met my best friend for the year, Sue, on the plane to Israel. We were both from the Boston area, both aspiring hippies, and had both been to the Dylan/Dead show at Foxboro Stadium over the summer. After spending 14 hours in a space the size of a soup can, we felt as if we knew each other and decided to room together.

As soon as we reached the dorm, we unpacked our stuff. Clothes, Grateful Dead tapes and other American luxuries -- Maxi Pads, Marlboro Lights -- were strewn about the room. Sue was the neater of us, and it took her twice as long to fold her clothes and store them in the faux Formica shelves. I vaguely tossed mine in: T-shirts on the top shelf, shorts and long pants on the next, aerobic-wear on the bottom. Bras, socks, bathing suits and underwear went in one drawer; beneath them I placed my shoes. I threw mismatched sheets on my bed, which was really a narrow foam mattress on a rickety wooden frame. Yet I took a sort of pleasure in this; this was, after all, my year to "rough it." Giving up futons and queen-sized beds seemed the least I can do, a hardship I should be able to endure.

I unzipped my duffel bag and removed the cardboard box hidden in a tangle of sheets and blankets. I peered over at Sue, who was methodically stacking tapes on a shelf. Quickly, I tore open the box and took out an oval-shaped white scale, which I'd bought especially for this trip.

I didn't know what to tell Sue, how to explain the addition to our room; I tried to slip it beneath my bed and hoped she wouldn't notice. But I wasn't quick enough.

"You brought a scale?" she said, a pair of Janis Ian and Suzanne Vega tapes in each hand.

My face flushed, and I folded the box in fours. "Well, uh, you always hear about people gaining weight here, so I decided to, you know, make sure I don't. You can use it whenever you want," I added.

She said, "You don't look like the type of person who would care about her weight."

I glanced down at my ensemble. I was sheathed in a wraparound skirt decorated with psychedelic peacocks, a flowing embroidered shirt, and Birkenstocks. A crystal the size of a small egg dangled from my neck, and my hair gave new meaning to the term "windblown."

"Well," she said, turning back to her stacking. "At least airport security didn't think it was a bomb."

We laughed, even though I didn't find it particularly funny.

Over the next few months our room became increasingly popular once people learned about my scale. The women shyly asked if they could slip in and borrow it; the men jumped on it irreverently, as if it were a trampoline, which caused me terrible anxiety. What if they broke a spring? Eventually, I cleared space for it in the closet so people wouldn't come in and abuse it when I wasn't around. I set it down beside my crunchy sandals and Chinese slippers, but I always felt its presence: taunting me, glaring, alive.

Two months later, in October, Sue and I headed to Europe for our Fall Break. Our friends planned exotic trips -- Istanbul, Kenya, Tangiers -- but we were tired of sun and Semites. We wanted culture, art, images of mountains and cowbells. With this in mind, we made reservations for a three-week trek: arrive in Amsterdam, depart from Rome, take the middle part as it comes. We bought Eurail passes, validated our student ID's, took out hundreds of dollars in traveler's cheques. I briefly considered bringing the scale, but ultimately vetoed that idea. Yes, Sue was supportive and understanding, listening when I moaned about how fat I was, turning away when I stepped on the scale, but I didn't want to push it.

By the time we reached Italy we had been traveling for nearly three weeks. I'd eaten space cakes in Amsterdam, potato pancakes in Bonne, chocolate bars everywhere in-between. In Florence, I gave up.

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Abby Ellin is the author of Teenage Waistland: A Former Fat-Camper Weighs in on Living Large, Losing Weight, And How Parents Can (And Can't) Help.

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