When teaching freshman composition in New York colleges in the mid-Eighties, I picked up a peculiar pattern in one-on-one conferences with my female students. With improbable frequency, they’d confide that they were anorexic. The term had only entered the popular lexicon about 10 years earlier, and public awareness of the perturbing derangement had been given a huge boost by the pop singer Karen Carpenter’s death in 1983. Yet not all these 18-year-old students were disturbingly underweight. It took me a minute to get it. They aspired to be anorexic. Anorexia was a prestige diagnosis.
Yes! It really was an aspiration of mine! Although I liked food too much to go the whole way, I was very, very slim and was never happier than when someone asked me if I “had a tapeworm?” or told me I was “too thin”. That was why I did it! And also to prove my sister wrong, who’d once shaken her head and told me I “could never be anorexic”.