Deconstructing Kari

I skulked quietly into the room, selecting one of the seats near the rear, closest to the door in the off-chance that I needed to make a run for the exit.  I sat uncomfortably in the metal chair, folding my arms in a failed attempt at warmth.  My head was tilted downward, my eyes cast up as I scanned the room.  Looking face to face I was hoping to see some commonality, some glimmer of understanding, something that reminded me of myself.  What I found were blank stares with unconvincing smiling faces; like a marionette shop that had lost all its string.  

Next to me sat a woman dressed in her tennis best, gleaming whites that matched from her teeth to her sneaks.  She smelled of orange juice and old sweat.  She talked of her childhood, her fascination with cookie dough and how it caused her to wreck her car one afternoon.  Desperate for the sugary sweetness, the chocolatey-goodness, this woman got up from a not-so-deep sleep and drove to the nearest twenty-four hour grocery store.  She walked down the florescent-lighted isles, searching for the cooler section and her deepest desire.  She found the packages nestled between the low fat butter and the nonfat yogurt and hustled down the isle to the checkout, then drove off toward the comforts of home.  Pushed to madness by her craving, she jammed her house key into the plastic wrapper and pushed the gooey goodness into her mouth feverishly.  In the pleasure of the moment, she failed to remember that she was still in motion, barreling down the road in the middle of the night.  She learned this fact after she found the front half of her car implanted in the side of a car parked in front of a Circle K convenience store.  She gave her name, said she was glad to be sharing her experience and folded her hands in her lap in silence.

Sitting about three rows ahead was a man with a Miller Light baseball cap on his head.  The back of his tee-shirt read “Jesus saves: One prayer at a time.”  He prayed every day, he said.  He prayed every day for sanity, he said.  He prayed every day for release from his addiction, he said.  He gave his name, said “praise be to the Lord”, and sat back on the chair with his hands folded cockily behind his head, resting against his Miller Light baseball cap.

Immediately in front of me sat another generously-cushioned man, dressed in faded khaki pants, a filthy and faded grey tee-shirt with spaghetti sauce stains, decorated with leather straps and dangling medallions of unknown origins.  His hair was thinned from premature balding, his body was malformed from excess weight and his shoes appeared ready to burst under the pressure.  Then he spoke with a woman’s voice and declared to the room that his name was a woman’s name.  I wondered if I was not the only one surprised to find that this monstrous being was indeed a woman. The woman went on to talk of her past.  She reminisced on shopping for dresses as a little girl and the embarrassment of never finding garments that fit around her “big-boned” frame.  She discussed her love-hate relationship with french onion-flavored potato chips and red cream soda and admitted to trying to slit her wrists.  She joked that she was so heavy, she could not find the vein to end it all.  Desperate for comfort, she ate two Sara Lee cheesecakes, washed them down with a three-liter of coke and drifted off to sleep while watching a Tony Little infomercial for the ‘Gazelle’.  She wiped a tear from her ruddy, plump cheek, said thank you for listening and retreated to her safe space without another word.

Many others shared, their stories similar in many ways, their faces still locked in a look of zealous adherence to the guidelines posted in a list of twelve on the wall.  They were powerless, they said.  They were uncontrollable, they said.  They were diseased, they said.  Their drug of choice was food and they were ready to admit they were addicts.

I was not supposed to be there.  I was not supposed to be sitting in that room.  I was an outsider, a non-believer, an empowered person in a room of weaklings.  I wanted out of that room.  I needed to leave before they sucked out my soul and ate it for breakfast.  I looked to the exits.  The one door closest to me, my planned escape, was now blocked by a rather large man with work boots and stone-washed jeans.  The other, at the front of the room, was in grabbing distance to all the drones sitting in the metal chairs.  I thought to myself that leaving that way would be cruel, hurtful and just mean to the others in the room - the confessed addicts - the powerless.  I thought that by leaving I would be a physical example of prejudice and disrespect.  I thought it would say that “Not only do I not believe in your group, I do not believe in your so-called-disease and do not want to be around you losers.”  No matter, I wanted out.  But, it was my sympathy for their plight, my understanding of issues with weight, that forced me to stay planted to that metal chair until the team leader said otherwise. 

Finally the minute hand on the clock fell into the correct place and the team leader made his final statements to the room.  He then requested that we all stand and pray for God, or the Creator, or some higher power, to help us with our powerlessness to food.   With that same breath, he said that the meeting was not one of a religious basis, and was not affiliated with any specific Christian organization.  He then lead a typical Christian prayer:  “Our father, who art in heaven, blah blah blah blah.”

He then dismissed the group, saying lastly that everyone was invited to regroup for lunch.  Apparently, the group was meeting at Golden Corral for the all you can eat buffet.  

I kid you not.  I chuckled as I walked to the car.  

This has been the tale of my first and only trip to an Overeater’s Anonymous meeting.  That’s the truth of it, with a few details changed to protect the identity of the innocent and the powerless.