I Want Candy

Copyright © 2012 by Tiana Laveen

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotes embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Cover design by Shelley and Jerry Drury

June 2012

First Edition

This book is dedicated to all the women who have torn themselves in two running away from the wonderfulness that lies within. It is for the women who do not believe they are good enough, smart enough, or strong enough to have a loving union. You
are
worthy. You
are
lovely. You will attract what you think you are.

Prelude

(The author speaks to the readers)

The sticky pink sweetness was what the restaurant called “Watermelon Smash.” It was cold and smooth and sent my mouth into a quivering orgasm that got better with each and every lick. The relationship was almost pornographic. My thin frame carried me right back down the street, delicately holding my sugar cone so that it would not fracture. A moist napkin was wrapped around the bottom of the cone to prevent the precious bubble-gum colored drops from being devoured by the cement. Surely the concrete wouldn’t honor and cherish it the way I did. We had exchanged vows. I was there not of my free will, but to be saved. My love affair with ice cream continues to this day. It is truly my favorite dessert. It is quick, available in a variety of flavors, and never gets old. Of course, many would believe that most children enjoy sweet, chilled treats, but my fixation with ice cream surpassed many.

I had no idea that I was falling in love with something that didn’t know how to love me back. It could only mimic desire, affection, and serenity. My love of sugary, fatty foods never had to show me its true self because I stayed a decent weight as a result of periods of manic exercise, dieting, and restraint. These weren’t usually brought on by healthy reconditioning, but by trauma as I wanted to gain control before I fell into the abyss of depression or paddled up “self-hatred creek.” Not until my first marriage, and subsequently my second, did my weight rise to undeniable proportions in which I would have to stare my “love affair” in the face and find out why it had betrayed me. I never before questioned myself. I simply went straight to fasting, the gym, or a diet. There was never a detox of the spiritual kind. There was never a deep reflection that propelled me to another dimension so that I could look at myself from a bird’s-eye perspective. My time was spent wrapped in shame, anger, and blame, but none of these feelings manifested their true self from behind the locked door of the past. There was never an open invitation. I ran from the pain and scoured my room in search of a dollar for a bag of Swedish Fish. This later turned into a hoagie with fries, homemade chili, conies, or a fried chicken dinner with all the trimmings.

When I would fail a diet, I would tell myself, “Screw it. There’s nothin’ wrong with likin’ food. I like to eat. So what!” And back I would go to the grocery store. Of course, I would throw in some of my favorite cultural delicacies such as collard and turnip greens, calling them “health conscious.” The only problem was I would boil them with a ham hock until they would scream for mercy, or in pork-free years, a smoked turkey bone that could barely fit into the pot. It would be salt-and-peppered and served with thick filets of fried tilapia and a mound of macaroni and cheese, the seven-cheese variety to be specific. Cooking became my second love affair. I received hugs and kisses. The aromas were the most beautiful one could imagine.

My finest cooking occurred after my first divorce in an apartment I rented inside a “senior building.” Neighbors would comment on the steaming peppers, pots of chili, and haunting brownie scents that would permeate the hallways, letting everyone know that some culinary medicine was being prepared. Oh, and do not forget the nuts. Brownies without nuts were nothing more than bland chocolate cake in my cookbook of life. The hatred I had for myself was hidden in depression, with a little cheese on top. Hatred would have been too strong to simply allow it to mosey on in. I was not dealing with my emotions. The little bit I would acknowledge was very watered down and unseasoned. It never correlated to what was in my refrigerator and later in my stomach after unrestrained consumption. I had to be physically full since I was emotionally empty. I kept piling on the emotions one by one until there were so many that I had forgotten where I had put what and how they got there in the first place. The disorganization was overwhelming. I did not want to be left alone with them. I did not realize I was in the midst of a vicious cycle. After two divorces, several broken relationships, a lost sense of self, and an unfulfilling career, something had to give. My relationships with men and my eating habits both were signaling my problem and my solution. They were one in the same, not independent. This basic observation eluded me for years. If I had just looked, I could have seen the “how,” “what,” “when,” and “why” that God had already provided. My answer was steamed, boiled, or fried inside the problem. It was wrapped in lettuce, buried under ground beef, and folded in a taco shell. The dollop of fat-free sour cream didn’t hide the heart-wrenching train wreck that was just below the surface.

This book isn’t about me, but it’s for me, and it’s for you. The characters in this book are from my imagination, but they are all of us. This is the story about a woman named “Candy Benet” who was madly in love with food, but terribly out of love with herself. She is a representation of me, you, and people we all know. This book is dedicated to great meals, brilliant chefs, caring dieticians, enjoyable exercise programs, and the love of God and individuality. It is dedicated to you, the one that needs to step out of the shadows and smile at the brand new day lying before you.

CHAPTER 1

Candy’s grandiose, walk-in cedar closet has an assortment of beautiful vibrant, textured, and high-fashion clothing that ranges from size 4 to 18. This means that should a zombie attack ensue, and her apartment becomes one of the places of refuge, not only would she be able to feed everyone three square meals daily for a month without forcing them to go out into the brain eating frenzy, but all the adult ladies would have wardrobes for days. She keeps all that clothing because it tells a story – the one where “I’ll get into this again” and “Don’t get rid of that. You could use it for a future pregnancy.” Candy rationalizes that she could “use it as a nightgown or oversized shirt” if it got too chilly. There was always an excuse when the true reason wasn’t being acknowledged. “You haven’t dealt with your issues, so you’ll need the bittersweet size 16s again, maybe even the legal eagle size 18s. They will stay there waiting patiently for you, Candy, as you pair them with an XL blouse and a bra that is too small, giving you the famous, yet loathed, quadruple bust.

The clothes hang in her closet like old friends. They don’t judge her; they just smile and say, “Nice to see you again.” Candy would slide them on, enjoying the comfort of the elastic bands and additional rump room. The sizes 4 to 8 wait silently. They beckon her to the treadmill because they miss the sparkling, confident Candy who feels so pretty and alive. They knew it would be fleeting, but they enjoy the brief recurring times they have. They miss her thin, sculptured legs sliding into the tight but well-fit jeans and the button-down shirt that exposes her flat, almost concave tummy. The shirt ties ever so sweetly right above her navel, sealing it with a kiss. They’re envious of the size 16s because the 16s, though hated, get more wear as of late and offer a much easier relationship to maintain. They’re also more accessible because they accept her as she is. They allow her to eat an extra slice of pizza piled with pepperoni and cheese. They allow her the room to breathe. The size 4s judge silently but still cheer her on, even though they talk behind the rolls of her back.

Candy sighed as she selected her outfit for the morning. Today, she was between a size 14 and 16. She slid the gray tweed dress slacks up. They caught slightly around her ample thighs. She grimaced, sucked in her stomach, and zipped them up, smiling at her accomplishment. The white silk blouse felt cool against her warm skin. She readjusted her bra straps, trying to prevent the dreaded “dug-in trail” marks they would leave by the end of the day. Despite the rigorous routine, there was one part of her body that Candy loved – her hair. It was thick, healthy, and envied. No weave, extensions, or wigs adorned her head unless she was attending a costume party or vacationing in Jamaica, at which times long rope-like braids draped down her back. Candy picked up her ceramic flat-iron and began to painstakingly section off the tresses until they were perfectly layered, shiny, and full. She topped off her look with the glistening, clear gloss she had picked up from her local beauty supply store, checked her French manicure nail polish for chipping, then slipped on her size 8.5 heels that she had gotten for a steal on eBay, snagging them at the last second in a midnight auction as she polished off a snack-sized bag of ranch flavored Doritos.

Candy walked past the keys to her Chrysler and grabbed the set to her new, loaded Honda Accord as she headed out the door. She listened to the radio as she made her way to the office. Her mind was deep in the thoughts of the tasks she had scheduled for the morning. She pulled into her parking space and threw on her award-winning smile as she opened the building’s front doors.

* * *

Candy gave a nod to several coworkers before entering her expansive office. She had decorated it with large, exotic potted plants; a small, stone, water fountain; and a clear credenza filled with an assortment of Pier 1 imports. She had a window view of downtown Cincinnati, near the Reds stadium. She sat in a dark-red leather high-back chair and immediately turned on her laptop while simultaneously scanning her iPhone for her neo-soul compilation playlist. She saw the voicemail light flashing on her office phone after a three-day holiday weekend. As she scanned her emails, one caught her eye: