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distract from everything below my neck, I take one more glance at myself in the mirror. Only to be drawn immediately to my telltale chinny chin chin. I still remember the first time I detected a hint of a double chin. Until that point, I didn’t think I looked all that bad. I mean, granted, I’m definitely lugging around enough of me to constitute at least another small person, which is a depressing thought. But it’s always seemed to be spread out in an agreeable enough manner across my body, like a nice homemade huckleberry jam slathered generously on a piece of rustic bread, rather than a harsh glob of shortening thwacked into a mixing bowl. So nothing stood out as grotesque.
    But the shadow of a double chin did leave me feeling unsettled. I mean, who has a double chin but fat folks? Well, also people whose jaw lines are conducive to chin repetition, I guess. One look at my family photo album will tell you that no one carries the double chin gene, however. And I admit, while I noticed that little excess lumpage sort of flapping there like a wet nurse’s overused breast, I didn’t heed the signs. Like that little pea-sized growth one wants to pretend isn’t there, the one that can be a harbinger of much worse. Ignore it and it doesn’t exist, right?
    You might expect someone who eats rich for a living to have at least a double chin (and perhaps double wide hips as well). But for a long time, that wasn’t the case. I was able to manage to eat out most of my meals and eat well without getting too fat. I suppose after I hit thirty, that became harder to do. That was the bellwether that ushered in not only a double chin, but obviously, now, its more lethal sister, the triple chin.
    Oh, the triple chin. A secondary heart-shaped bracket of flesh at the base of the chin, the point of which functions like a giant arrow at a roadside strip joint advertising Girls! Girls! Girls! , pointing in lurid corporeal neon to the wobbling flap of facial flesh hanging like a slab of meat in a butcher shop. Three Chins. Sounds like a dish at Wing Chow’s, my favorite little dim sum spot in Chinatown. Even my vast levels of self-denial can’t spin this one into a positive attribute. Nothing good can come of one’s countenance taking on the appearance of Howdy Doody’s hinged mouth, the cruel after-effect of multiple-chin syndrome.
    As I stare into the full-length mirror, the harsh light of my bathroom illuminates me as if I’m a suspect in some sort of interrogation. Where were you on the night of your gluttonous binge? It mocks me. Did you really think you could live on pate and crème fraiche forever without suffering the consequences?
    Honestly? Yes. I did. I never thought I’d see the day I’d become what I’ve become. It seemed impossible to fathom. And it’s so unbecoming . I’m a gourmand , not the fat girl.
    Okay, to be fair. I’m not exactly the Creature from the Black Lagoon. I have beautiful, straight shoulder-length hair, with the shine and coloring of black lacquer. And my eyes are, oh, I’ve never thought to describe my eyes. I’d say they’re honest. Yep, I have honest eyes, the color of brandied mushroom sauce. Who wouldn’t want to have eyes like that? Though I know in our society, those attributes are vastly outweighed (there’s that word again) by my size.
    So now what? Here I am, thirty-eight years old, the doyenne of dining in Manhattan, a woman whose entire being centers around food. And yet if I continue to eat, I won’t be able to have an entire being that centers around food. I’ll be that dog dropped off on the side of the highway, left to wander with no destination, no purpose, no kibble. Huh. No kibble. How ironic is that? I end up losing weight because I’m kibble-free, having consumed too much of the stuff throughout my eating career.
    Weary of this assessment, I drag my feet into the bedroom. There, in the corner is what William and I jokingly call my fainting chair: an overstuffed