Unbearable Lightness Part 9

The only thing I cared about now was not gaining. As long as I never gained, weight loss was no longer that important. But seeing a new low on the scale did give me a high. And the lower the number, the bigger the high.

I walked into the bathroom and used the toilet. I then held my breath as I eased onto the scale, my arms holding me up on the bathroom counter, holding my weight off the scale for as long as it took to gently add weight pound by pound until I could let go of the counter and stand with my arms by my side. In this hotel bathroom, naked and vulnerable, I closed my eyes and prayed. The red digital number in between and just in front of my feet would determine whether I had a happy Christmas or a miserable one. To no one in particular I said out loud, "Please let me be in the nineties. I'll take ninety-five, I'm not greedy, just don't let it be in the hundreds. I'd rather die than be in the hundreds. Please, please, please, please." I started to cry with anxiety, but I quickly calmed myself down as I was worried the jerkiness my body makes when I cry might have caused the number on the scale to shoot up and not come down again. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I needed to start over, to ease back on the scale again just to make sure that the number I saw would be the accurate one. As I got off the scale looking straight ahead at my reflection in the mirror, I felt as though I needed to use the bathroom again and I did so hoping that I'd gotten all the excess water out of my body. I eased myself back onto the scale feeling fortunate that I hadn't read the first number, that G.o.d had whispered in my ear and told me to get off the scale and use the bathroom so I could avoid the pain that the false read would've given me. I stood now with my hands by my side. I was empty. I was no longer crying. I was ready to receive my Christmas present, the gift of health and self-love that I'd given myself this year. With complete calmness and acceptance, I looked down at my feet.

89.

"Merry Christmas, Portia."

"Merry Christmas, Portia." My aunt Gwen and Uncle Len walked through the door of the hotel suite bearing gifts and my uncle's famous Christmas fruit cake. Frank Sinatra was crooning carols in the background, a giant, fully trimmed Christmas tree was the centerpiece of the s.p.a.cious living room, and my grandmother and mother were sitting on chairs together in front of it, talking. Moments later, my cousins wandered in and the tableau was complete. I silently congratulated myself for providing this lovely experience for my family. This was what I could do with the money that was given to me in exchange for my freedom. I could create a Christmas where they could all relax and enjoy one another without having to worry about anything. I could create the perfect holiday.

The day started out perfect for me, too. I did sit-ups and leg lifts with renewed energy and vigor. I was eighty-nine pounds. It sounded so mysterious and magical I could barely say it out loud. It was special. Who weighed eighty-nine pounds? It was an accomplishment that felt uniquely mine, uniquely special. I went to the gym at 5:30 and ran up and down the hall for thirty minutes, waiting for it to open at six. I was the only one in the gym on Christmas morning, as I was the only one who took health and fitness seriously. In a way, working hard in the gym Christmas morning was the answer to the question I had asked of myself when I began this journey six months prior. This wasn't a pa.s.sing phase. This was my new way of life. On the day when everyone else slacked off, I worked because being thin was what I liked more than anything else. But something else happened in there, too. I felt lonely. For a brief moment, as I pressed the up arrow on the treadmill until the speed climbed to 7.0, I felt very alone. I heard the thud of my feet as they found the rhythm of the belt and wondered why I had a demanding taskmaster of a voice in my head that could be silenced only if I ran instead of slept, when everyone else in this hotel was waking up gently to a quiet voice that was telling them to stay in bed, that it's only six, it's not time to think just yet.

"Have some champagne, Porshe."

"I don't drink anymore, Ma. You know that."

"Oh, come on. It won't hurt you."

My mother likes tradition and the idea that the family clan will pa.s.s on all the same habits and morals and ideas, generation after generation. A tradition in our family was to drink champagne with a pureed strawberry liqueur concoction my cousin made especially for Christmas morning. I felt that I couldn't refuse.

I drank the champagne and my mother instantly looked relieved. I'm not sure if it was the alcohol from the champagne that loosened my tight grip on my diet, but the simple act of drinking a gla.s.s of champagne with my family was exhilarating. I was happier in that moment than I had been in eight months. For just that one day, I was going to put the "cushion" theory in play. Seeing my family relax as I drank the champagne encouraged me to continue to drink and eat and be merry. Next I ate turkey meat and my mother smiled. Then, at my family's urging, I ate potatoes. They relaxed. They laughed. It seemed that my eating potatoes gave them more pleasure than opening gifts, not having to cook, and Christmas Day itself. So I ate some more. I felt invincible at eighty-nine pounds. And I loved that for the first time since I was a small child, I could just be like everyone else. I wasn't a model or an actress who had to eat special food, nor was I an overweight girl who complained about her weight, making everyone else bored and uncomfortable. I was just one of the family at that dining table, partaking in their rituals, their food.

By the time everyone but my brother and my cousin, Megan, had left, however, I was no longer happy or relaxed. I was in shock. I had drunk a gla.s.s of champagne. I had eaten turkey roasted in its own fat. I had eaten beans glazed with oil. But what shocked me the most was that I had eaten potatoes. I had eaten two medium-sized roasted potatoes with oil and rosemary and salt. I started to panic. I clenched and unclenched my fists and started circling my wrists in an attempt to take the horror of what was digesting in my gut away from my mind's eye. My body was shaking. I couldn't control the shaking because the panic that was setting in to make it shake felt like itching. Somehow I had to get relief. I raised my arms above my head and shook out my hands as if to expel the energy. My cousin and my brother were still in the living room, sitting by the Christmas tree, but I no longer cared. In front of my cousin and my brother, I started jumping up and down with my arms above my head and shaking my hands to try to get rid of the calories in the potatoes.

"Porshe, what are you doing?" Megan asked me in a tone that suggested she wasn't waiting for an answer. She had something to say to me. She was quite emotional. I could tell because when Australians are emotional, sometimes they can sound bossy.

"I pigged out at lunch and I'm just trying to work some of it off." To downplay the fact that I was jumping up and down and shaking, I tried to sound nonchalant and used a smiley voice that was on a frequency that sat high above the panic. I smiled and in between bounces shrugged my shoulders in a "you know how it is" way that I was sure all women would understand. But I didn't really care if I was understood. I just had to get rid of all that c.r.a.p in my stomach. I felt so panicked I couldn't be still.

"Portia. You ate potatoes, just some potatoes. They're not going to make you fat, okay? What's the big deal?"

They will make me fat because it's not just some potatoes that I just ate, it's the potatoes I know I'm going to eat in the future now I've allowed myself to eat those. That by eating those potatoes I could get back on the same old yo-yo dieting pattern and suffer in the way that I'd suffered from age twelve to twenty-five. Eating those potatoes could cost me my career, money, and my ability to make money. Eating those potatoes will make me poor. So eating those potatoes will make me fat. Because without any money or a career, I will definitely end up fat.

"I'm going for a run." I quickly walked past her and my brother to the bedroom, changed into gym clothes, and strode past them again and out the front door. Compared to the earlier laughing and talking and singing, the suite was eerily quiet. I don't think they spoke to each other the whole time I was changing. As I jogged down the hall, I replayed the scene in my mind. I knew I'd end up ruining Christmas no matter how hard I tried to make it perfect. I knew I'd end up upsetting the people I love with my selfishness and my lack of thought for others. I had tried so hard to make everyone happy and yet I just couldn't lie well enough to do it. Lying was too hard. As I ran out of the elevator and through the lobby, I could sense that people were staring.

I wasn't like everyone else. I was an actress. I changed my name, my accent, my nationality. I was gay. It was time to stop even trying to pretend.

25.

IT GOT quiet at night on the streets of Camberwell. It was always quiet with Bill unless I was prepared to talk. Sitting on the stoop of the fish and chip shop next to 7-Eleven was something that we liked to do after we'd done everything else. After we drove across town to the less gentrified neighborhood, where the architecture was better but where the people who lived in it were generally poorer, had coffee, drank beer, played pool, saw a band, and drove back across town to the middle-cla.s.s suburban neighborhood where my mother lived, we'd sit on the stoop of the Camberwell fish and chips shop enjoying the balmy weather and the freedom of not having to look at a clock. There were as many hours as we needed in the middle of the night, if in fact, 2:00 a.m. was considered the middle of it. Usually with these free hours I would tell Bill my troubles, my plans, my desires, but tonight I really didn't have any. I was just sitting there, living. Living was in stark contrast to dreaming about living. Usually I would tell him my plan to make Sacha fall in love with me, the directors I had hopes to meet, why being in Los Angeles was better than being in Australia. When I was bored of talking about myself, I would talk about him, challenge him about why he didn't have a girlfriend, a job, an escape plan from his life. But I was still really just talking about me, talking myself into the reasons why I didn't have a girlfriend, a job that I liked, but mostly, I was trying to find a reason for having had to escape from the place that was my home. To convince myself of my choice, I had to make it a place that everyone should want to escape from. But tonight I really had nothing to say. I wasn't excited about anything. I realized that in stark contrast to Christmases past, I had no drive, no reason to propel me forward. I had nothing to say. And because Bill doesn't really like to talk, Camberwell at 2:00 a.m. was pretty quiet. quiet at night on the streets of Camberwell. It was always quiet with Bill unless I was prepared to talk. Sitting on the stoop of the fish and chip shop next to 7-Eleven was something that we liked to do after we'd done everything else. After we drove across town to the less gentrified neighborhood, where the architecture was better but where the people who lived in it were generally poorer, had coffee, drank beer, played pool, saw a band, and drove back across town to the middle-cla.s.s suburban neighborhood where my mother lived, we'd sit on the stoop of the Camberwell fish and chips shop enjoying the balmy weather and the freedom of not having to look at a clock. There were as many hours as we needed in the middle of the night, if in fact, 2:00 a.m. was considered the middle of it. Usually with these free hours I would tell Bill my troubles, my plans, my desires, but tonight I really didn't have any. I was just sitting there, living. Living was in stark contrast to dreaming about living. Usually I would tell him my plan to make Sacha fall in love with me, the directors I had hopes to meet, why being in Los Angeles was better than being in Australia. When I was bored of talking about myself, I would talk about him, challenge him about why he didn't have a girlfriend, a job, an escape plan from his life. But I was still really just talking about me, talking myself into the reasons why I didn't have a girlfriend, a job that I liked, but mostly, I was trying to find a reason for having had to escape from the place that was my home. To convince myself of my choice, I had to make it a place that everyone should want to escape from. But tonight I really had nothing to say. I wasn't excited about anything. I realized that in stark contrast to Christmases past, I had no drive, no reason to propel me forward. I had nothing to say. And because Bill doesn't really like to talk, Camberwell at 2:00 a.m. was pretty quiet.

Although there were several more days before I had to return to LA, it felt like the holiday was over. The excitement of seeing my family after many months and the thrill of showing off my new body was over. My cousins, my uncles, and my aunts all saw my body. They were all seemingly unimpressed. No one mentioned that I had lost weight or that I looked good or that I was thin. It was baffling to me that they didn't say anything. I didn't even try to hide my arms anymore. I took my sleeves off, put my gym clothes on, and called Sacha. She would be impressed. She would understand the work it had taken to achieve this body. I called her and convinced her to take me to her gym. I told her that she and I were going to work off our indulgences over the holidays. I couldn't wait to see her, to make sure I still had my best friend after what I'd put her through in St. Barths.

I walked past my brother in my gym clothes, my bag slung over my shoulder.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm meeting Sacha at her gym in Prahran."

He looked simultaneously disappointed and determined as he said, "I'll drive you."

I knew I couldn't argue with him. Not when his face looked like that.

My brother pulled into the parking lot at the gym but instead of leaving to go do whatever he'd come into town to do, he parked and shut the engine down.

"Aren't you going to run errands or something?"

"No. I thought I might come in with you."

"To the gym?"

"Yeah."

s.h.i.t. I'd told Sacha to meet me at noon. It was only ten. I wanted to give myself a good solid two-hour workout before she arrived.

"Why do you want to go to the gym? I thought you were just dropping me off. You know what me and Sacha are like, we'll be goofing around for hours." Goofing around? Geez.

Now it looked like it was his turn scan his brain for a reason in the form of a rational-sounding lie. But why? What was he doing?

"I thought I might like to see Sacha. I haven't seen her in ages."

Bulls.h.i.t. Jesus. I wished I'd taken the tram. I didn't know how to get around the fact that Sacha wasn't going to be at the gym for two more hours. As I walked into the almost empty gym with my brother trailing behind me, I decided to cover the lie by acting annoyed at Sacha's lateness. That would do.

"What are you going to do in here? Stand around like a pervert?" He was wearing jeans and boots. He looked like a total weirdo.

"I'm just gonna check it out. Don't worry about me. Do your thing."

I took his direction and stopped worrying about him. I didn't care about the whole Sacha lie either. Once I checked in to the gym I got to work. I did what I came to do. I got on the treadmill and started sprinting for twenty minutes. Then I got on the elliptical. I did twenty minutes and burned 137 calories on that, which I counted as 100. In my mind, twenty minutes on any cardio machine gave me a 100-calorie burn even if the red digital digits said otherwise. I couldn't trust machines. They were all different. By the time I was done with cardio (I felt okay about only doing forty minutes because I'd run for over an hour that morning) and moved to the mats on the floor to begin the glorified sit-ups they call Pilates, I noticed my brother still standing in the corner. I had forgotten him completely.

"Why are you still here?" I had to speak loudly over the whirr of the machines and the yelling of the sports commentators on the TVs.

"Oh. Ahh . . . I dunno. Just do your thing. I'll wait for you." He was acting strangely. He had his head down and was avoiding eye contact, which was so unlike him. He was a helicopter pilot. He loved eye contact. He'd have laughed if he could have seen himself like I did. He really looked creepy standing around in the darkest corner of the gym in jeans and boots. I hoped all the women in there didn't know he was with me.

I did my thing. I finished my forty-minute mat workout (so many reps to be effective!) and moved to the weights. I occasionally did weights to tone my arms and back, and I figured that since I wasn't doing a photo shoot or appearing on camera for a couple of weeks, the muscles would have time to deflate if by accident I somehow pumped them up. I would've hated to look fat because I'd worked out too hard and my muscles added the inches I'd painstakingly taken away.

After I'd worked my bi's, tri's and deltoids, I saw that my brother had found a friend. It was Sacha. My desire to run to her was curbed by the seriousness of the conversation she was having with my policeman of a brother, creepily brooding in the dark corner. I wondered what the h.e.l.l they could be talking about. Could they be talking about my having come out to him? It seemed unlikely, as I doubted that either of them would betray my confidence. Surely it couldn't be my weight. I knew I was a little thin in places, but not enough to have a serious conversation about it. I started to worry, like perhaps their somber mood had nothing to do with me, and so I went over to them in a hurry. As I approached, I realized they were talking about me because Sacha's mood immediately changed when she realized I was within earshot.

"Peeeee!" She squealed my name and hugged me all at once, leaving me deaf in my right ear. But my brother didn't smile. He stayed the same. He looked at me, this time in the eyes.

"Porshe, can I see you outside?" He turned away from me and walked out of the gym.

The seriousness of his tone made me follow him, leaving Sacha alone, but I got the feeling that she was fine with me following him, too. It was exciting almost. It was so different. My brother had never pulled me away to talk to me seriously about anything before. I couldn't help but be excited because it was so different. I could tell that he wasn't angry, but I couldn't quite figure out what he was feeling and why his feelings were so important that he would pull me away from my best friend whom I hadn't seen for months.

We got all the way to the car before we stopped. The longer we walked, the more concerned I became. By the time he spoke, my stomach was in knots. He leaned on the hood of the car with both hands, his broad back to me, blocking his face from mine. I couldn't see where this was going. I started to get really scared.

"Porshe." When he turned around, I could see that he was crying. I was shocked. He bent over now, his hands on his bent knees, his elbows locked. He was looking at the ground. I was shocked and I couldn't speak. I just had to wait.

He started talking and standing upright at the same time, deliberately but with difficulty.

"I'm just really worried about you. I just can't believe how thin you are."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I knew I was thin but not nearly thin enough for this reaction. If I'd worked out in a sweater so he didn't see my arms he wouldn't be reacting like this, but I felt that now wasn't the time to explain that to him. Besides, I'd never been so upset, seeing him cry. I'd never been so upset.

He got himself together a little, enough to look at my face. I was speechless, still, but I could see he wasn't asking me to speak.

I watched as his face started breaking again. His face crumbled into creases. It went red. Tears were falling down his cheeks. He looked at me imploringly although he still wasn't asking anything of me. It confused me.

"Porshe . . ." He cried harder. As he inhaled to say what he was leading up to say, his breath caught, making short staccato sounds. "You're gonna die."

My brother had left shortly after I'd pleaded my case. I told him that I knew what I was doing. When that didn't work, I told him that I would eat, that I would gain weight and stop obsessively working out. He seemed pleased to hear all that so he left me to hang out with Sacha, who, after pointing out a very thin girl in the gym, dropped me home. She didn't say anything about my weight, she just pointed to that girl on the treadmill, exclaiming that she was anorexic and how sad it was, and then she dropped me home.

I had cried a lot with my brother. The tears weren't for me. They came because of him, because I hated seeing him cry like that. The only other time I'd seen him cry was when our dad died and to be honest, I didn't know why my weight made him so sad. And I didn't know why Sacha pointed out the so-called anorexic girl. I knew that I was thinner than usual. I knew that I was underweight, but anorexia was never something that I thought I could have. The girl at the gym didn't have it. Not just anyone could have anorexia. It was a disorder of the highly accomplished, cultured, beautiful. It belonged to models, singers, and Princess Diana.

I had always been secretly in awe of anorexics with their superhuman self-restraint. There is a neatness to it, a perfection. Apart from the fact that I could never be thin enough to be anorexic, I didn't want to be anorexic anyway. I just wanted to excel at dieting.

When I arrived home, my mother intercepted me on my way to take a shower and asked me to come to her room. At a glance it was clear to me that my brother had been talking to her about the episode at the gym and it was clear that her nonchalant att.i.tude had been replaced by a very serious one.

"Come in here for a minute, okay? I would really like to talk to you."

I followed her through the living room and into her bedroom. I pa.s.sed by Gran, who for twenty years had sat in the chair in the corner of the living room, alternating her attention between the TV and her family's lives, all played out in front of her as a source of entertainment. But my grandmother didn't appear disconnected or uncaring, she just seemed like she already knew the end to all the stories. She'd seen all the reruns on TV and in life. She'd seen it all before. We were an episode of The Golden Girls The Golden Girls in a rerun. Blanche, whose self-worth is based on her looks, has something on her mind but can't communicate it in any way other than by acting out and has been called in to talk to problem-solving Dorothy, who had been given a tip by Rose as she stumbled across the truth, but it was something that Sophia had known all along. Gran gave me a look as I pa.s.sed her that said, "Oh, yeah! I remember this one. This is the one where you confront your mother about her lack of acceptance of you for being gay and she finally accepts you for who you are. Oh yeah! This is a good one . . ." She couldn't really have known that, of course. My mother and I had decided not to tell her about my s.e.xuality. We had decided that she was too old and knowing that truth about me would be a terrible shock. Something like that could kill her. That the words "I'm gay" might just stop her heart, and she'd topple onto the floor, dead from shock. in a rerun. Blanche, whose self-worth is based on her looks, has something on her mind but can't communicate it in any way other than by acting out and has been called in to talk to problem-solving Dorothy, who had been given a tip by Rose as she stumbled across the truth, but it was something that Sophia had known all along. Gran gave me a look as I pa.s.sed her that said, "Oh, yeah! I remember this one. This is the one where you confront your mother about her lack of acceptance of you for being gay and she finally accepts you for who you are. Oh yeah! This is a good one . . ." She couldn't really have known that, of course. My mother and I had decided not to tell her about my s.e.xuality. We had decided that she was too old and knowing that truth about me would be a terrible shock. Something like that could kill her. That the words "I'm gay" might just stop her heart, and she'd topple onto the floor, dead from shock.

My mother stood backlit against the window of her dark bedroom. I could just make out her pink scalp underneath her wisps of gray-blond hair and I wondered for how long gray hair could be dyed. Maybe it became so porous that color would just not take to it anymore. Maybe that's why really old people have gray hair. Until this point I had thought it was because people in their eighties and nineties couldn't be bothered because superficial things like looks didn't matter anymore, but what if the desire to hold on to blond or brown hair was still there but the ability to do it was gone? I wondered if that's what aging felt like. That desire and reality were dueling until the day you die, that n.o.body ever got to a place of peace. I had always wanted to get old so I didn't have to care anymore, but I began to think that it would be best just to skip the getting older part and just die.

"You're so thin, darling. It's awful."

Yes. I'm thin. I'm exactly what you wanted me to be.

"Well, I guess I can get my Swatch watch now."

The Swatch watch was a carrot my mother used to dangle when I was a teenager if I reached 119 pounds, the magical eight and a half stone. As I had always fluctuated between nine and nine and a half, that number was always just a fantasy, a magical land where perfection lived and all the people who were special enough to get there were covered in Swatch watches. As I struggled to get to that number on the scale, the Swatch watches I wanted were going out of style one by one. First it was the clear one I wanted but was too fat to have, then a yellow one with blue hands, then the black one that pa.s.sed me by without my earning the right to own it. I really did want my plastic Swatch watch. Even though they didn't make them anymore.

"If you don't eat something, you're going to die!"

My mother squatted down with her hand on the corner of the bed. Her other hand was covering her face as she quietly sobbed. I stood over her, looking down. To my surprise I stood there waiting for something to happen. Where was the rush of emotion that had overtaken me when I saw my brother similarly bent over, sobbing and in pain? Where was that panic I felt that made me search for something soothing to say? Where was the deep regret for making my mother so upset? To my horror, a smirk involuntarily stretched over my face. My mother was crying and I was smiling. I loved my mother very much. Why was I being so cold?

The answer came to me with certainty and clarity.

I can be gay now. I can be who I am without pretending anymore. I'm forcing her to accept me just the way I am.

I bent down and picked my mother up off the floor. I put my arm around her shoulders and we sat like that on the edge of her bed until she stopped crying. I was waiting for her to stop so I could start in on her. As my mother quietly cried, I planned my attack. I would tell her that I was angry that she didn't accept me for being gay, I was angry that she seemed to care more about how I looked than how I felt or who I was. I was going to tell her to change or she would risk losing me. My comments would hurt her, but it was better for her in the long run. I was going to show her the same tough love she'd shown me.

But I didn't do that. Instead, I burst into tears.

"I'm so sorry that I'm gay, Mama. I'm sorry I'm not what you wanted."

I cried for her disappointment, and for mine. I wasn't the daughter she was proud of, I was the daughter that made her ashamed. And no amount of fame could take take shame away.

"Why are you sorry, darling? You are who you are."

"I know! But you're ashamed of me! You won't even tell our family and they're the people who love me!"

"I just thought that your being gay was n.o.body's business. It was private."

"Michael's relationships weren't private? You had no problem talking about those! You tell everyone the private things you're proud of!"

My mother swiveled toward me, put her hands on my shoulders, and turned me to face her.

"Listen. I'm a stupid old fool. Alright?" She was looking directly at me. It was like she was seeing me for the first time. "I was scared, okay? I didn't want you to lose everything you'd worked so hard for. But I was wrong. And I was stupid." She folded me into her arms. "I love you so much."

"I love you, too, Mama."

I felt the weight fall away from me. I lost the weight that I'd been carrying around since I was a teenager. Shame weighs a lot more than flesh and bone.

Within moments we were laughing, talking about how crazy I was to take the weight loss too far. We were saying that all of it was really unnecessary, that I was great just the way I was. We decided that it was time to start dating and "to h.e.l.l with it." Happiness was everything. "And health," she chimed in. "Without them, what's the point?" We laughed and hugged and agreed that the most important things in life are health and happiness and that they were the only things I had to worry about now. That's all she cared about.

My health and happiness were the only things my mom cared about.

We walked directly to the kitchen arm in arm and we made lunch together. We made fried rice with peas and a teaspoon of oil. We were laughing and talking, we ate it together, and my grandmother watched from the corner of the room in her chair, smiling as the credits rolled. The End.

26.

I WAS STILL WAS STILL 89 pounds. I liked being 89 pounds. Although the image of my brother crying and my mother breaking down was burned into my memory and I had made promises to them that I would gain weight, January was not a good time to gain weight. I had agreed to shoot the cover of 89 pounds. I liked being 89 pounds. Although the image of my brother crying and my mother breaking down was burned into my memory and I had made promises to them that I would gain weight, January was not a good time to gain weight. I had agreed to shoot the cover of Angeleno Angeleno magazine, a big, glossy fashion/lifestyle rag. I had committed to attending the Australia Day Ball, an annual event held in LA that honored Australians in the film and TV industry. I just couldn't gain any weight until all that was done. What would be the point in sliding backward to the middle of the pack when it was just as easy to take the pictures of me at the finish line, alone in my triumph? My ego wouldn't let me gain any weight. I didn't see the point to it until after the cameras were no longer pointed at me. magazine, a big, glossy fashion/lifestyle rag. I had committed to attending the Australia Day Ball, an annual event held in LA that honored Australians in the film and TV industry. I just couldn't gain any weight until all that was done. What would be the point in sliding backward to the middle of the pack when it was just as easy to take the pictures of me at the finish line, alone in my triumph? My ego wouldn't let me gain any weight. I didn't see the point to it until after the cameras were no longer pointed at me.

As the maintenance took up a lot of time, I barely had time for anything else. Even with Carolyn doing the supermarket rounds to find the brands with the least amount of sodium or the lowest fat content, working out took up most of my day. I decided, however, that I needed a social outlet and I joined that ballet cla.s.s with the yelling Russian and the fat women in makeup and tights. I figured at 89 pounds I was thin enough to wear a leotard and developpe developpe my leg into the air. Besides, ballet was a kind of workout, too, if you weren't lazy about it. I met a girl there who liked to count calories and to work out. Melody was thinner than me with a better turnout and a higher extension. She was called on by the yelling Russian to demonstrate good my leg into the air. Besides, ballet was a kind of workout, too, if you weren't lazy about it. I met a girl there who liked to count calories and to work out. Melody was thinner than me with a better turnout and a higher extension. She was called on by the yelling Russian to demonstrate good developpes developpes. I tried to befriend her as we had a lot in common, but what we shared in common made it difficult to be friends. We were both recluses with rituals. Besides, being gay I didn't feel comfortable making new friends. It didn't seem fair after months of presenting myself as a relatable heteros.e.xual to suddenly surprise them with the news that a lesbian had been lurking underneath the whole time, had been in their homes, talking about their s.e.x lives, hugging them and telling them they had good leg extensions in ballet cla.s.s. I stopped going to ballet cla.s.s anyway. I didn't have the thinnest thighs nor was I the best dancer in the cla.s.s. It didn't remind me of a time when I was good at something, it made me aware of the sad reality that if I was good as an eight-year-old, then I had gotten worse. I had peaked at age eight. What was the point in continuing? The old yelling Russian told me that I was too thin and that I needed to gain weight. What was the point?

The Angeleno Angeleno cover shoot was a reward for my hard work. I had trained hard for the event and knowing that I had done the work, all I had to do was relax and enjoy the ride. The ride was a gentle downhill slope with smooth pavement beneath me. The ride was my feet off the pedals, feeling the wind through my hair, smelling the wildflowers as they rushed past me firmly rooted in place. No panic. No doubts. No disgrace. The interview was different. It took place at my favorite restaurant, The Ivy, which was my favorite because they blanched all their vegetables and never brushed them with oil. I ate my vegetables (with no lip gloss or lip balm-one can never be too careful) and attempted to maneuver gracefully around personal questions as fundamental and important to a person's character as their desires to marry and have children. Being secretive was exhausting. But the interviewer had a secret, too. She secretly didn't like me while pretending to find me delightful. She suckered me into being a little looser, a little more truthful. What added to my uncharacteristically easy mood was that the interview took place on my birthday, and when the manager at The Ivy presented me with a large slice of birthday cake, I looked at my new journalist friend and said with a wink in my voice, "Like I'm gonna eat that!" cover shoot was a reward for my hard work. I had trained hard for the event and knowing that I had done the work, all I had to do was relax and enjoy the ride. The ride was a gentle downhill slope with smooth pavement beneath me. The ride was my feet off the pedals, feeling the wind through my hair, smelling the wildflowers as they rushed past me firmly rooted in place. No panic. No doubts. No disgrace. The interview was different. It took place at my favorite restaurant, The Ivy, which was my favorite because they blanched all their vegetables and never brushed them with oil. I ate my vegetables (with no lip gloss or lip balm-one can never be too careful) and attempted to maneuver gracefully around personal questions as fundamental and important to a person's character as their desires to marry and have children. Being secretive was exhausting. But the interviewer had a secret, too. She secretly didn't like me while pretending to find me delightful. She suckered me into being a little looser, a little more truthful. What added to my uncharacteristically easy mood was that the interview took place on my birthday, and when the manager at The Ivy presented me with a large slice of birthday cake, I looked at my new journalist friend and said with a wink in my voice, "Like I'm gonna eat that!"

An Australian tabloid picked up the story and on the cover it printed, "Out to Lunch with Portia."

A cover is still a cover.