Speaking of all this food, my friend Marina pointed out that
I have comics on the subject that are topical again. I’d totally forgotten
about them, and my old comic blog, but I think it’s time to give them another
airing.
I have great fondness for these drawings. I made them almost 5 years ago, as I was settling into Philly, and getting over the worst of my
food-anxiety through cathartic cartooning. Sometimes you encounter something
you made in the past with a disturbing bolt of recognition, and all you can think
is, "Yup, that's what it was like, all right. That's me."
About the time I finished these, I ran across an old
acquaintance in the New York Times. It's always strange when that happens,
particularly when two unrelated people you know are mentioned in the same
article. One was a boutique nutritionist I had been to in Massachusetts, and
the other was Dr. Steven Bratman, the father of my long-lost childhood best
friend, Claire. As a naturopathic doctor in the late 80s, Steven was always a
hippie on the cutting edge, and now he was getting famous for naming a
brand-new post-millennial eating disorder: “Orthorexia,” the unhealthy obsession
with eating only pure and healthy foods.
What is the deal with eating disorders and irony? The
wealthiest countries are the ones who starve themselves, the most put-together
perfectionists vomit all over themselves, and the single-minded pursuit of
physical health destroys your physical health, through that tricky back door of
your brain. I got really excited that the guy who mowed mazes into his yard and
directed an epic first-grade production of “The Wizard of Oz" in his
living room had now identified an eating disorder I'd struggled with for years.
I thought about contacting him and showing him how I'd illustrated his disease,
but I never did. He probably would've liked to hear from me, but it was one of
those plans whose moment passes, and the next health problem distracts you
from.
One childhood memory the good doctor probably doesn't know
about: Claire and I were both raised in strictly health-conscious households,
where sugar was a rare and special event. Therefore, sugar was all we wanted. Whenever
we were given sweets, by strangers or on "treat nights” by our parents, we
would squirrel them away in our rooms. I used to draw maps to where the candy
was hidden on sticky notes, then hide the maps in my closet. My discipline was
military; I never ate the candy.
Every few months, when we'd stockpiled enough, I would sneak it out in a basket
covered with My Little Ponies, and Claire and I would have a wild sugar-orgy of
a slumber party. It was probably the most disgusting form of sugar we could
ingest: rock-hard gummy bears, graying chocolate, stale Halloween candy and
sugar cubes and Easter decorations. I don't remember the copious vomiting, but
when I saw Claire for the last time, when we were teenagers, she assured me
that copious vomiting was an integral part of the experience. I remember these mostly as really fun nights.
Here are the comics:
