Margaret Atwood’s The Edible Woman: Stay Single or Be Eaten Alive

by Nicolette Westfall

Single hood —it is a fate that not many choose, but it is far more appetizing for this body than the alternative; even when I was with the Gentleman. He was the most recent relationship I had and it lasted 3 ½ years. (4 if you count his syrupy sweet courting while still attached to another female corpse.) By the end of it, I really was John Belushi, even in the middle of the long, dark nights. My body ballooned out, and refined sugars provided one of many crutches to hold as the Gentleman ate the remaining self-worth I had tucked away in my Swiss Cheese mind—but thankfully, he accidentally left a few crumbs behind.

He humiliated me one night in a pub. I have this unwomanly habit of treating both men and woman equally important in our society—it isn’t something that wins over friends let alone male lovers. He tried several approaches to get me to see the error of my ways, all to no avail. In punishment, he brought one of his side dishes out to his birthday party for me to sample. There wasn’t much there; no intellect, no fleshy meat, no personality, no good looks, no style, nothing but irritating verbal vomit, as the two of them sickly touch flirted before every one else’s disturbed eyes.

I’m afraid I didn’t respond properly to my lesson like the good little girl he ordered me to be—I turned around in the parking lot and walked away. I was finished. I had no idea that he was actually watching me out of the corner of his eye while he nodded in automatic rhythm to the candy coated girl. She intently hung onto his Gentlemanly word and responded with expected awe. Despite his self-proclamation that night that he was a true “Gentleman,” while pouring her a drink, he followed me down the dark street and forced me to get into the car with them.

It wasn’t my fault that my body made a scene which embarrassed him and shattered his polished public control over me—it simply refused to eat the intense humiliation the Gentleman was trying to force feed me for my own good! I smiled and told him “Have a nice day tomorrow!”, knowing that as I walked away that night, I’d never see him or his half-eaten side dish ever again.

Later, I began to doubt myself and question my sanity. Who in her right mind would embarrass her man like that?! Never mind that he had completely destroyed me for being an independent woman instead of the whiny drip that was glued to him all night. I was ashamed and wondered if what he’d been trying to tell me all along was true—that I was indeed CrAzY, iRrAtIoNaL, and PaRaNoId.

Fortunately, I stumbled upon Margaret Atwood’s The Edible Woman one day while at the library. Turns out, Marian, the main character, she’s also got a problem like me—she runs when her man, Peter, expects her to conform to presentations that do not jive with her true self. She can’t cope and off she goes!

Atwood has been inside my mind—or maybe I’ve been in hers! Either way, after reading the book to discover a fictional character has also bolted from abuse, I no longer fear that I am insane. Her story washed away my man-made paranoia and I realized that I’m just not the piece of cake the Gentleman tried to wolf down.

In the end, it’s a happy ending for the Gentleman. His career is ceaselessly churning out American green backs, he now lives in the suburbs, has a shiny car, a spit-polished reputation, and, most importantly, a loving, doting, subservient woman who focuses on picking out the perfect off white curtains to go with their sparkling white bed spread. She is pleasantly plump, with the precise amount of low-self-esteem. At the local pub, he plays on his Blackberry, chatting with potential new side dishes, while his main course (already devoured) stares off into space, a permanent smile firmly planted on her obedient face, her rose coloured skin blending oh so nicely with her crisply ironed white blouse and delicately flowered hair kerchief.

I don’t have to ask what she’s thinking because she’s shut her mind off—to use it would ruin his finicky appetite. As for me, as long as I’m expected to be the five course meal on a Gentleman’s well-ordered table, chewed and swallowed piece by piece, I’ll be eating outside, under a tree, with the other free birds who listen to wise women like Atwood, not predator lovers.