Clever Magazine, Vol. IV, #10 " Sweet Symphony " (www.clevermag.com)

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Sweet Symphony

by Cheryl Levinson

I’m participating in a writing workshop. At the break, I eat a wheat-free cookie, knowing full well it was made with margarine and contains plenty of fat and calories. Guilt sits on my shoulder like a clump of granola. “A heart attack waiting to happen,” it whispers. “And don’t forget your protruding belly and fleshy hips.”

Although I’m considered slender by those in the outside world, I know the absolute truth. Since running head-on into middle age, my body’s ability to maintain a taut and toned appearance just isn’t what it used to be. And health risks never before considered threaten me through women’s magazines as well as TV shows. NO MORE RICH DESSERTS, the messages blare. Neither arteries nor thighs can handle it.

I’m figuring a way to eat everything in small portions so I’ll stay elegantly balanced between health and right weight. This budding plan gives me leeway; it allows me to capitalize on my smallness, and to stay relatively thin. It encourages me to work for my endocrinologist’s approval. “You are nice and slender,” he says. “I applaud you.” “You’re supporting your own good health,” he says. “You don’t smoke, you exercise, you eat a low fat diet with plenty of fruits and vegetables.” He’s like the father I’ve always wanted -- supportive, giving me ovations so I can take those all-important bows.

In spite of my good intentions, and my deep desire to focus in on the writing workshop, the hum of oatmeal raisin cookies comes from the other room. They team up with the chocolate mousse pie, and the miniature chocolate chip cookies. All of them make music together, create a symphony of “We are here for your taste buds’ pleasure” kind of classical piece. I have this amazing ability to taste these sweets without getting up from my chair. I can imagine their flavor without actually eating them. By way of these mind’s eye images, I’m able to let go of the real crumbs, the real crunch, the dark smell of chocolate, the deep ooze of chocolate, the chocolate of chocolate. Oh, sure. Who’m I fooling?

There was a time when my metabolism never quit. It would eat up everything I ate, as if what I ate was made of meringue, the white fluffy topping that sits on a lemon pie, and melts away at first bite. Poof, calories would burn off in seconds.

There was also a time when sweets had almost no importance in my life. I trained myself to refuse chocolate so I’d never have acne. But now, there’s something so “goddess” about chocolate, so Godiva, so See’s. I frequently fantasize about the vision of hot fondue wrapping its thick darkness around a strawberry or a crisp slice of green apple. Chocolate is like the rich soil out of which grows star jasmine and the giant Italian Cypresses that shade my house, and cool it, even on the hottest afternoon.

“You’ve veered,” my father would have said. “Stay disciplined and finish what you set out to say.” Nevertheless, I continue to hear the sweet’s symphony coming from the next room - the clash of chip against chip, the building forte of mousse sliding down my throat, the constant drum roll of sugar on my tongue.

I remember Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast At Tiffany’s eating chocolates for breakfast. Her thinness was never disturbed by this wild and irreverent act. Her petite frame was never compromised. Her cheekbones remained forever chiseled in her doe-like face, and any damage to her arteries was never mentioned. Just thinking about this, I’m frosted with envy.

My father loved Audrey Hepburn. “She’s as petite as an elf,” he said one night over dessert. “A woman who’ll keep her figure even into old age.” My mother had just retrieved a box of goodies from one of her many hiding places and plopped it down in the middle of the table. It certainly wasn’t chocolate. That treat was reserved solely for special occasions. “You can never be too thin,” my father wagged a honey graham at me with one hand. I was aware of his defined muscles bulging out from under his blue polo shirt. My mother, forever a svelte size eight, sent him a soft look.

With parents like mine, the tyranny of thinness plays loudly in my life in an off-key symphony of its own. And I’m left wondering if I can cut the silky mousse cord that pulls me toward the sweet music in the next room, or, like someone in a sexily addictive relationship, be ever unable to resist the attraction. I don’t really know the answer and I refuse to make empty promises. With that bold statement, I mentally push the clump of guilt off my shoulder. What a futile act that is! I sense the persistent little gremlin already climbing back to its rightful place by way of my leg.

“Focus and clarity of purpose amidst such sirens singing from the dining room is impossible!” I whisper to the specter of my parents standing with arms akimbo and shaking their heads. What does remain perfectly clear in my muddled state is that this writing workshop is not yet three-fourths over, and I’m steeped in a fantasy about loading my pockets until they bulge with cookies for the long, oh-so difficult and dark drive home.