Elephants and Princesses

Elephants and Princesses

by Alison Rice

In the Houston airport, Margaret spies two old friends—McDonald’s and Auntie Anne’s. The familiar smells of greasy fries and buttery pretzels with their delicate salty crunch attempt to lure her in, but she refuses to crater. Walking towards baggage claim, her gait is swift and long, her sense of superiority and disdain intact. 

Her small, adopted village in the Cotswolds has its share of fish and chips establishments but nothing like the American fast-food options on every corner. It is, in fact, one of her English town’s many pluses. Other positive aspects Margaret likes are the accessible walking paths, a population of mostly middle-aged residents who keep to themselves, and an overall vibe of quiet coziness. There temptations are few. Except for the temptation to reinvent herself. Which she has. 

There she’s known as Greta (and heretofore will be referred to as Greta). She never liked her given name—Margaret. It always sounded, well…fat. With the “M” and the double “ar,” it was like someone garbling a name while gorging cookie dough ice cream. The name change was all part of her master plan when she turned 40. Move to another part of the world, live like a hermit, and shed 50 pounds. Especially the shed 50 pounds part. 

Other than passing pleasantries with quirky neighbors, her fellow gym rats, and Gus, the plumber (frequently needed to patch up her ancient pipes), Greta does not allow herself a social life. Each evening, she strides past the glowing window of the neighborhood pub, ignoring patrons with their pints and pasties. She declines invitations for tea from her nosy neighbor, Mrs. Tweedleton (a double dose of danger---scones and crumpets plus the constant mention of her soddy bachelor son). At home, Greta follows a strict regimen of tiny meals eaten in silence, each purposeful bite chewed thoroughly. She permits herself TV time only while pedaling her Peloton. Amazon delivers non-perishable groceries to her doorstep, and a local farm supplies her with fresh produce once a week. 

Greta’s system has worked. It has taken four years to drop 47 pounds (just shy of the desired 50) and keep it off. There is nothing—absolutely nothing—that could entice her to put the weight back on. She still holds out hope she’ll eventually lose those last three stubborn pounds.

So when Aunt DeDe’s invitation arrives for Thanksgiving (fifth year in a row), Greta feels it might be safe now to test the waters. While she prefers Christmas (the focus on gifts, not food!), Thanksgiving offers the best chance to see her extended family all in one place, all at one time. A one-and-done kind of visit. She’ll be caught up and back on the plane to her safe, spartan existence in no time. 

Beloved and held sacred by even the most atheist of Americans, the Thanksgiving celebration is the standard bearer of the family gathering. It’s an opportunity to welcome the stray odd friend, a day to express gratitude for blessings, and a time to rekindle relationships. But living across the pond these many years, Greta is not fooled. Thanksgiving is a deceptively devious holiday full of starchy, salty, breaded and buttered foods followed by syrupy, dense, creamy desserts. And don’t forget the overly imbibed alcohol. 

With Greta’s parents gone years ago, her aunt serves as the family’s enduring holiday hostess, sourcing the entire meal each year from Southern Living, that bastion of comfort food served on palatial verandas when stifling southern weather finally relaxes along with waistlines. From Aunt DeDe’s pre-dinner cocktails with the requisite dangling rosemary sprig to the post-meal Irish coffee and chocolate pecan pie, there is no taste bud deprived of flavor or decadence. But for those like Greta, the weight conscious masses, the problem resides in a single meal at a rip roaring 3,000-plus calories. Though Greta is now thin and trim and oh, so tightly wound, she still counts herself among the two groups of people who secretly dread Thanksgiving: overeaters and alcoholics. 

            When Greta was Margaret and heavy, she woke every day feeling wretched, embarrassed, mortified. Facing day after day without self-control and the resulting shameful feelings was worse than the cascading rolls of belly fat reflected in the mirror. 

            And more power to her, Greta’s dramatic weight loss was forged in the pre-Ozempic world. Hers was the hardcore route—fasting, calorie counting, aerobic exercise, weight training, and endless walking, walking, walking. She is now the most recognized member of her neighborhood gym. She survives on black coffee, green tea, plain rice cakes, roasted veggies, and poached chicken. No butter, no sugar, no sourdough bread, no M&Ms, no Cheez-Its! 

With the focus always on her future self, Greta tries not to dwell on the years spent in deprivation. To her, the exchange of a social life for a svelte figure is worth it. Relationships inevitably involve restaurants where heart healthy menu options cannot be trusted, and calorie counts are never honest. Luckily, her career as a remote-working, freelance editor suits her dedication to her body’s metamorphosis. But with her weight holding steady and her daily devotion to her calorie counting app, Greta feels ready to risk a return to America. After all, it is only a long weekend, not a lifetime.

            Days before the trip, Greta takes measures to prepare herself. Like a warrior headed into battle, she refuses to be ambushed by this holiday of glorified gluttony. She listens to one of her favorite motivational podcasters, Savannah Slim, who dedicates a special episode to Thanksgiving prep. Not on how to cook the meal but how to avoid all the pitfalls. “Other people will try to sabotage your efforts. Be on the alert. They are inherently jealous of your success. It’s no different than if you were awarded a huge inheritance or took your mom-and-pop company public. People will be envious. Don’t let it thwart you, the real you, the you who knows what it takes to keep the weight off, the diligence you have to steadfastly defend.” Greta types Savannah’s manifesto into the notes of her iPhone for moral fortitude. Because she knows that even if you attain thinness, the memory of the “fat you” is forever etched into the subconsciousness of your family and friends where you are eternally judged. Her brothers’ taunts of “fat wrists” and “pork belly” will never be erased no matter how many carrot sticks replace a jar full of beer nuts.

            Arriving on the doorstep of Aunt DeDe’s Tudor-style home (already wreathed, swagged and pre-lighted for Christmas because she’s one of those people), Greta takes a deep breath and promises to be true to her body. But once inside, she’s hit with the swoon worthy aroma of basted roasted turkey stuffed with the family’s famous cornbread dressing (despite the warnings of food poisoning, Aunt DeDe still does it). But as she moves into the gathering, she’s laser focused on the feel of her slim-cut blazer and newly purchased black leather pants. They fit so well (if a tad bit snug). 

Warmly welcomed after her many years abroad, Greta slips into embrace after embrace, wondering if each recipient of her hugs can feel the exquisite angularity of her bone structure as opposed to her former round squishiness. Daintily sipping a rosemary gin fizz, Greta puts distance between herself and the colorful charcuterie board, adhering to her rule that the only calories she is allowed must come from the main meal itself. 

            And it is at this main meal with its grand centerpiece of gold-sprayed magnolia leaves, autumn-hued daisies, orange ranunculus, and earthy pinecones that she inspects each person across and beside her and marvels at their plates piled high beyond the concept of gravity, their wine glasses filled to the brim, their smiling dimples receding inside full cheeks. What must it be like to enjoy all that food and not worry? While she picks at her turkey (with no gravy), scrapes the mushroom sauce off the green beans, and refuses butter for her one tiny Sister Schubert roll, Greta feels a resurgence of the superiority she felt in the airport. At this grandly set table full of laughter and libation, she is the only one conscious of what she is consuming. The rest of them shovel food into one side of their mouths while speaking out the other. Turkey drowning in gravy, sour-cream mashed potatoes, bacon-laden Brussel sprouts are all chewed without intention, swallowed down with big gulps of fine Chianti. Seconds, even thirds, and more, more little rolls are passed around, fresh from the warming drawer lest one leave a spot of gravy behind on the Wedgwood bone china. 

            The other thing that occurs to Greta and frankly, alarms her is that while her aunts, uncles, brothers, cousins, nieces, nephews, and spouses have all inquired about her editing career and expressed curiosity about her life in Cotswold England, they haven’t said a peep about her weight loss. Not one word. 

            Maybe it’s the boozy cocktail, maybe it’s the large crowd, but something makes Greta suspect an alternative universe enveloping her. Looking around, she has a sudden moment of FOMO. All these people—different shapes and sizes—are not just enjoying forbidden foods, they’re having fun. Even the skinny ones. They’re not shivering in a corner, fearful of what three extra pats of butter will mean to their bodies when they wake up tomorrow. 

            Cousin Charlie, who never met a spirit he didn’t like, strolls around the table with a freshly opened bottle of red. Greta’s head is turned when he pours generously into her goblet. She meant to refuse it (one sipped cocktail is enough!), but even she can’t help but admire its deep garnet color. And before she can protest, a dessert plate of pumpkin pie with nut streusel topping and bourbon whipped cream is placed in front of her. She stares at it. Of course, she is still hungry. Her miniscule meal has hardly been satisfying. 

She takes a sip of the wine, glorious wine.

“It’s from a winery we visited in Tuscany in September,” says her uncle. “We ordered a whole case.”

Greta dips her pinkie into the bourbon whipped cream and tastes it. God.

Everyone around her is diving into the dessert. In her mind, she wills it away, but it just sits there, tempting her, calling her to its deliciousness.

Ian, one of the invited strays sitting across from Greta, eyes her with amusement. “Are you really not going to eat that?”

As she licks the slight residue of whipped cream from her lips, she shakes her head. Greta remembers Savannah Slim’s prediction that she could be challenged.

“Even on Thanksgiving?” he persists. 

Greta sits up straighter. “No, I don’t think I will.”

“You’re not one of those vegan gluten-free fanatics, are you?” he asks.

“Don’t worry Greta, I made the pie with oat milk and gluten-free flour,” says Annie, her brother’s second wife’s daughter. “No dairy or gluten! Isn’t it amazing?” 

Ian’s tongue slides across the back of his spoon. “No sugar either, I take it.”

“You can’t eliminate all vices,” Annie says. “Not at Thanksgiving!”

He plays defensive. “Don’t look at me. I’m enjoying it.”

Later, a nephew plays jazz on the Yamaha grand while everyone lounges on DeDe’s pillow strewn sofas, after-dinner drinks in hand. On the side table next to Greta is a silver candy dish holding slick dark chocolate almonds. Will it never end?

Ian plops down. “I think I’ll sit next to Garbo.”

Her smile is tight. All night, it’ s been an effort to remind people she goes by Greta now. She appreciates that Ian remembers. He’s not bad looking. But his eyes are sly. 

“I’m curious,” he says. “Why would you ditch a perfectly nice name like Margaret?”

“I needed a change.”

Ian’s arm slips casually across the back of the sofa. “So, that’s why you hopped over to jolly old England? To join the sixpence of crows, Jack Sprats, and Bo Peeps?”

He thinks he’s cute. And she thinks he is, slightly.

“I’m more into the Brontes. And Anthony Hopkins lives just outside my town. I spy him at the farmer’s market occasionally.” Her tone is playful, maybe a little flirty. She misses flirting.

“What else do you do in your little town besides buy vegetables?”

“Well, I’m an independent, self-employed editor. I mostly collaborate with writers on their manuscripts for submission and—”

“No, no, I know all that. I mean what do you do?” 

Greta starts to say, “What do you mean—” but stops herself. She knows what he means. Her eyes drop to her lap. She avoids his stare. That’s it, she thinks.  I avoid. That’s what I do. I avoid temptation. But it’s been worth it. Hasn’t it?

“It takes a long time to lose an elephant,” she says finally.

Ian sips his glass of port. “I think elephants are really cute.”

Through the open neck of his buttoned down, Greta sees his deeply tanned neck. Tennis player? Golfer? Safari guide? 

She folds one arm across her middle. “Elephants are cute but also big and clumsy and not easily accommodated in the world of humans.”

“Humans can be so cruel,” he says. “Elephants are people too.”

She laughs.

“And I don’t think elephants mind being elephants,” he adds. 

“But other people mind that they are elephants.”

“Who cares about them?”

Ian notices her eyes straying to the dish of chocolate almonds. “Take some. I dare you.”

“I don’t like dares.” 

Savannhah Slim’s voice whispers in her ear, but Ian’s comment is louder.

“You’ll never be free.”

She raises her eyebrows. “But I’ll always be skinny.”

Greta sets down her still full glass of Chianti. It was only an adornment after all.  She makes an excuse to vacate the sofa but feels Ian’s eyes on her small, tight rear as she leaves the room. With her black purse in hand, she thanks Aunt DeDe and slips out the front door. 

On the way home, she nibbles the in-flight meal but doesn’t open the butter packet or put sugar in her coffee. Catching her reflection in the window, she doesn’t see Greta. She sees a façade, hiding Margaret. 

On the drive to the Cotswolds from London, she stops at the famous bakery everyone always talks about. She stands for a long time at the counter before deciding on one iced shortbread cookie in the shape of a sheep. She eats it in the car while driving. Crumbs drop into her lap. She doesn’t know if she’s biting the sheep’s head or its butt because her eyes are focused on the road. 

When she gets home, darkness is falling. Collecting her mail from her box next to the lane, she spots Mrs. Tweedleton gathering a delivery from her front porch. 

“Greta! Oh, you’re back!” She holds up the box. “I think this package is addressed to you.” 

Greta opens Mrs. Tweedleton’s short wooden gate, traverses the tidy bricked sidewalk, and steps up to the porch. She’s never been on Mrs. Tweedleton’s porch. The older woman reads the name on the package. 

“Your real name,” she says, “must be Margaret.” She gives Greta a bittersweet smile. “I’ve always admired Princess Margaret of all the royals. She quietly suffered so much but lived with such grace.”

“I don’t know anything about Princess Margaret.” 

“Well, I can tell you everything. Do come in, Greta. My son is visiting, and I’ve made tea. You mustn’t say no. Won’t you join us? Please.”

Holding her mail in one hand, Greta feels herself resisting the warm light of Mrs. Tweedleton’s open door. Ian's words repeat in her head.

You’ll never be free.

“Yes, I’d love to,” she says and steps inside.