My Ex-Boyfriend's Band

The Gift of Giving Thanks

On Thursday, my family will sit down to a turkey buffet, catching breadcrumbs in starched napkins and comparing the pumpkin pie to the apple tart. Everyone will bundle up in scarves and sweaters to face the biting winter winds that already blow through Chicago. My brother will complain about his job, my grandfather will complain about his every ache and pain, my mom will just complain, my dad will just smile.

Alas, the eldest daughter is missing. She’ll be in the newsroom in Austin, earning journalistic stripes by working a major holiday, yet secretly content writing arts listings and obituaries. She will pick at festive vegetarian options from Whole Foods, wear a t-shirt, and deal with familial obligations via cell phone. If only all holidays were that simple.

This is the second year I will spend Thanksgiving in Texas, and for that I am thankful.

This tradition of solitary celebrating began as a battle of wills. My mom loudly willed me to be in Chicago while I silently willed her to leave me alone. As a recovering anorexic and bulimic, Thanksgiving has always been a tricky day. Do I eat or not? What do I eat? Will I be able to get rid of it in peace? When will I get to work out? Why is everyone else so gluttonous and fat?

Last year was different. The debates were no longer silent musings. Nine months earlier I was in rehab, learning to trust my body with three meals a day, most of which caused endless anxiety and fear. At a holiday feast I would be the proverbial alcoholic sitting in a bar and staring at the rows of bottled comfort. It just seemed cruel.

Despite my self-preserving instinct to run away from this ordeal as quickly as possible, my daughterly guilt began to weigh on me, heavier than a stomach full of mashed potatoes or the massive thunder thighs I envisioned bursting from my body. For me Thanksgiving was about fat and food. For my mom it was about family. Hanging my head in shame, I was ready to pack a bag and face whatever treacherous dinner spread lay before me.

But, like that single lucky turkey given a presidential pardon, I was saved. My mother declared she did not want to spend Thanksgiving with me. Knowing I had been so sick and that I still struggled made her unbearably sad. Many nights she got into bed with the dog, looked at a picture of me as a pigtailed girl, and cried. She did not want to face the prospect of me sneaking upstairs after dinner to take a shower and throw up. Perhaps, she admitted, I should skip the feast and stay in Austin.

It was the first Thanksgiving I felt true gratitude. No aching throat, no bloated stomach, no need for escape. When I opened my eyes that Thursday morning I was in my body. And my body felt like a safe place to be. My blood pumped rhythmically through a healthy heart, warming my limbs, filing me with life.

It was the first Thanksgiving I felt at home. The place I was born and raised, the place my brother nad parents still live, the place so many memories are grounded, is not my home. Neither is Nashville, the setting for college, my first job and inevitable breakdown. Here, in the heat and creativity of Austin, I have found my home. The sky, oh the blue Texas sky, it stretches impossibly high, pale and untouchable. Nothing is holding me in. Nothing is holding me down. I am uninhibited by the city, its buildings and hills, the sun and the rivers, even my own body.

I spent the morning walking around Town Lake. As I walked I prayed. I do not know what I was praying to, I have no saints or gods, but I know what I am praying for. It is a prayer of gratitude. Thank you for my life. Thank you for my body. Thank you for setting me free.

Battle of the Bones: In Spain, Skinny Becomes a Sin

Once again the Spaniards are leading the world into uncharted territory overflowing with golden opportunities. While the United States crusades through the Middle East, North Korea shows capitalists its nuclear muscle and the entire continent of Africa practices genocide, the Spanish government has waged war on our true common enemy: thin models.

Organizers of the Madrid Fashion Week barred all walking clothes hangers with a body mass index under 18 from their runways this fall. That means a 5-foot-9 model would have to weigh at least 122 pounds. Such a rule is equivalent to requiring a Clydesdale run in the Kentucky Derby. Not only are they slower and more cumbersome than sleek Thoroughbreds, the daft beasts are just plain big. If Calvin Klein, Kate Moss and heroin chic taught us anything, it is to avoid largeness and its inherent ugliness at all costs.

I have to admit that on some not-so-deep level, the Spanish request for normalcy amongst its model citizens fills me with deep satisfaction. Down with the waifs! Down with the supermodels! Down with Heidi Klum’s perfect hip-to-waist ratio! We, the pizza eaters and wine drinkers, the real people with round stomachs and sturdy limbs, have triumphed!

With all the bravery and excitement of 1492 channeled into this mission, a new world order must appear. More than 30 percent of the models that walked through Madrid in 2005 were deemed illegally underweight for this year’s show. Yet, despite my smug contentment, it occurs to me that we are heading in the wrong direction. Instead of the gilded Orient of Acceptance, our fleet is pointed at the Deadly Amazon of Rejection.

The Spanish regional politicians cite the unhealthy psychological influence of severely underweight models on average women and girls as impetus for the ban. Like most American and European women, I struggle with body image issues, and seeing stick figures in $5,000 dresses does not help. But plumping up those beauty icons isn’t the solution either. I don’t want models punished for winning the genetic lottery; I want society to see my body, your body, her body, as beautiful, too. We should not be labeled too big or too small, forced into a perfect framework, required to fit the right mold. Instead of moving away from static standards, this rule creates more.

The sad truth is healthier models won’t eliminate the cultural pressure to be thin. There are still fashion magazines, advertising, Hollywood gossip and Nicole Richie. There are still social standards that objectify women and place inordinate emphasis on a sleek physique. To what extent does the media cause our obsessions? To what extent do our tastes fuel the media? This internalized war with the female body will not be resolved through a minor battle on the runway.

I know Giselle’s lean legs are deadly weapons, right next to suicide bombs and an arsenal of mass destruction. But the international community doesn’t have to pool its couture resources to her take her down. Not yet.