“The draft document, released by the American Psychiatric Assn., for the first time calls for binge-eating and gambling to be considered disorders, opening the way for insurance coverage of these problems. But it refrains from suggesting a formal diagnosis for obesity, Internet addiction or sex addiction, as some professionals had proposed.” Los Angeles Times, Feb. 10, 2010

 

Beanstock-thin Todd Harris attended, along with a gaggle of fashionably anorexic hipster moms, the meeting to plot a series of killer fundraisers to keep the hostile charter takeover of their boutique school at bay. The mere sight of Todd Harris, the diet guru whose renown knew no borders, made the Jills and Jennifers fill their Chinette plates, albeit sparsely, with grapes and bananas and sunflower seeds; they chose Pellegrino water over coffee, and cold-shouldered the fruit juices laced with high-fructose corn syrup. Nevermind the toothsome pastries brought by an outré mom who was slightly out of the nutritional loop.

“West Hollywood Elementary’s Fall Fundraising Blitz raked in beaucoup dollars,” the chairwoman blathered away, as fidgety fingers sought the grapes and sunflower seeds.  “Here at Hancock, it can work for us, too.”

The smell of fresh-brewed coffee beckoned from a side table, and the tray of cinnamon rolls, set appealingly on paper doilies, looked so lonely, as the young mothers forsook them. A dozen cinnamon rolls topped by melting creamery butter, dripping into its crevasses, and spritzed with powdered sugar.

So lonely and forlorn they looked, the diet guru, Todd Harris, overcame his baggage of nutritional mores and grabbed a corner of the pastry coil. Nibbled on it. One nibble led to another nibble and another. Pretty soon the dozen cinnamon rolls diminished to nine. Todd wanted more; after his soul and stomach did brief battle, he devoured another cinnamon roll—“the last one,” he reminded himself in the slightly unsure disciplinary tone reserved for his son. Meanwhile, one of the pudgier moms (0.0001 percent body fat) was watching and commemorating on her cell phone camera as the diet guru broke all his rules.

1) Sugar and carbs will bring you to the cockroach level.

2) Eat with your mouth closed; it encourages mindful eating.

3) Eat sitting down at a table.

4) Stop at one of anything. (Having seconds are lethal to your girlish figure.)

 

Todd gobbled the cinnamon rolls with fiendish abandon, the creamy frosting smearing his lips, and he barely caught his breath between ravenous bites. After the meeting concluded, Todd Harris felt compelled to hit one of the doughnut shops on Santa Monica Boulevard. You could smell the rancid grease out in the parking lot. Showing one last shred of self-control, he asked for a bran muffin. Breaking law number 3, he ate sitting inside his German cabriolet—not at a table—and the crumbs cascaded onto the leather upholstery.

What a compromising position for a diet guru, one who had lost 60 pounds following his own program, and who was a walking advertisement for his revolutionary concepts! Still not having satisfied the yen for another cinnamon swirl and fearing to be seen in one of these dens of toxicity, he purchased a false mustache and a bottle of spirit gum. Looking rather like a young Burt Reynolds, Todd went into Magee’s Donuts and ordered a half dozen cinnamon swirls smothered in whipped butter.

Thus commenced the binge. After three days, he had stopped going to his office. His belt was out a notch; a layer of jelly-like epidermal fat covered his once lean stomach, and self-loathing was a heartbeat away. When the doorbell rang, Todd was late to an important business meeting. On the intercom he confirmed the presence: one of the mom’s from Jake’s school.

On the doormat stood Allegra Newton. Her hair frazzled, she looked like she hadn’t slept for a week.

“It’s only a question of time before this goes viral,” Allegra said abruptly after pleasantries were exchanged.

“This” referred to a portfolio, almost pornographically explicit, of Todd Harris’s transgression. As Todd clicked on Allegra’s cell phone, the snapshots shuffled past. Red flamed in Todd’s pale cheeks, as if he’d been slapped when he saw himself wolfing down the cinnamon rolls at the fundraising meeting, slinking into Yum Yum doughnuts and entering Magee’s Doughnuts disguised in a bushy mustache.

“What would it be worth to you, Mr. Harris, to delete this series of embarrassing photos?”