Now I know why my Italian family members were such doers: pizza is motivating. It just is.

~~~

I asked Aaron if the pizza he had delivered mid-afternoon yesterday was big enough for all his troubles. He said it was.

Me, on the other hand, I could eat the whole pizza (you see, the devil hides in pizza and cake boxes, and talks to me romantically), hate myself for it, and want consoling from that same villainous heartbreaker. Real stupid.

I was in a laughing mood and told Aaron I wanted the rest of the pizza. It’s only funny when the good guy is winning.

I imagine I was born this way. My first memory of having a problem with food was in second grade. I don't remember anything else about second grade except for this. It was the first warm spring afternoon and my teacher, a Catholic nun, had a problem with me wearing my sweater over my uniform. She interrupted the lesson to ask me to remove it. My reaction was insane, so early in life. I looked over at Katherine Vrana. She was beautiful. Her long, batting eyelashes were so much darker than her hair. I learned about covering myself with a sweater from her, though she just wore it to be warm apparently, because on this day it was off. My head pounded from the silence. I said I was fine. I was going to keep my sweater on.

That was close, I thought. The pounding would soon fade and be forgotten. Then Sister felt the need to call me into the hall. Fuck. I know I didn't think, "Fuck," because I had gotten the soap in my mouth that washed even vulgar thinking away. I thought something similar to what I would now call "Fuck." Actually, I'd probably think "Crap."

I don't remember what the hell happened. I think I was forced to take it off. I felt fat for an awful long time after that, and not because of the nun. Maybe it was because of the underwear my grandma gave us. She'd buy them way too big and bust open the pack on Christmas in front of all the relatives. She'd hold them up and ask if we thought they'd fit us. (Another time I'll write about her attitude towards my mom and how she took us to get our hair cut really short without telling anyone. She was one of those motivated Italians.) Maybe it was because I overheard an innocent remark stating that I was growing out of my clothes quickly. My daughter is six. I see that happening. Maybe it was because both of my grandfathers were alcoholics.

I was not fat, I just felt fat. I hated class pictures. I was always in the front row being fat, blubbering all over the place as a matter of fact. And just moments before, I had not even been a “self,” I had been a spirit. And now I was a fat self again.