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Post-Alex Lara was born in tears, and sweat, but without fear.
I was my true, authentic self, and it felt great, even if it did not feel perfect.
I was into grunge, alternative, and indie music. Amy Winehouse-type beehive updo, smoking, and starving myself.
Yes, I was starving myself to reach an impossible Kate Moss thigh gap.
There were a few issues with my thigh gap plan (I mean, other than the fact that I was gleefully developing an eating disorder in the name of aesthetics and fashion). The pressing issue was the fact that genetically, my body rejected the idea of a thigh gap. My thighs very much enjoyed high-fiving each other every time I walked. Even at my skinniest, I always had what you’d call a full trunk.
But London Me was definitely the thinnest I’d ever been. At 113 pounds, I was flirting with medically malnourished. My ribs poked out of my cropped shirts, and my army boots were so heavy, every time I walked in them for a long period of time, it felt like I’d just gotten back from a leg workout.
But when I ate (rarely), you bet your ass I had grilled cheese.
London Me also completely excluded the whole punk rock scene from my life. I was still friends with Jadie (who broke up with Tom, again, just because she wanted to play the field), but I really didn’t want to hear about how bad I was for eating eggs and taking my coffee with milk. I also owned up to my shopping habit and got rid of my Summer Roberts wardrobe (RIP, the me who wanted to be wholesome and cute. That was a short phase).
One thing was for sure—I was starting to resemble the person I’d imagined when I was a kid and thought of my grown-up self.
Only much, much hungrier.
I landed at Heathrow on a bright, summer day. And by “bright, summer day” I mean, it was raining like hell in the middle of July. I was supposed to meet my Scottish friend, Dory, at the airport, since she was getting in from a Glasgow flight.
I burned the time by getting myself a latte at Costa and calling it my lunch. If nothing else, starving yourself in the hopes of one day waking up looking like Kate Moss was fiscally smart. I knew I would spend barely anything on food.
I should probably point out that my reason for coming to London—the official one, anyway—was so I could check out schools. So, let me get this out of the way right now: I did not, in fact, check out any schools.
Dory arrived from her flight, looking like a million bucks. She had the best smile (side note: we are still super close. She lives in London now, and has two beautiful children and a banker husband. But back then, we were both hellions and broke).
“Hey, asshole!” I hugged her tight.
“Hey, slut!” she greeted cheerfully.
We strode together to a bus. She did the talking throughout our journey to Piccadilly Backpackers hostel. Mainly because I was too tongue-tied to do more than drink in the view and fantasize about my new, exciting life in London without worrying about the technicalities, like the fact I couldn’t afford it.
Dory and I got a room with two bunk beds the size of my parents’ half bathroom. The restrooms and showers were communal, and we shared them with more backpackers from all over Europe.
I didn’t even have time to unpack when Dory slapped my bony back.
“Hey, let’s go eat in Chinatown.”
“Dory.” I gasped. “I don’t eat after six. Certainly not carbs. Can’t we just drink some gin and chew on ice cubes like civilized people?”
Dory looked horrified.
“Lara, carbs are good for you. They make you happy. And strong. They are energy. Not to mention, they are fucking tasty. You are not going to be on a diet when we’re in London. Come, now!”
And so, we went to a Vietnamese restaurant in Chinatown. Trouble was, I’d never been to a real Vietnamese restaurant before. Only the industrialized, fast food chains that served Western food with a side of fortune cookies. So I had no idea how to eat Mi Xao Gion. Basically, I ate the crunchy noodles without adding the main dish to them like an idiot.
“A little stale, isn’t it?” I commented to Dory, who poured her elaborate, juicy dish into her noodles.
“Yeah, if you are a world-class idiot.” She laughed and showed me how to do it.
Once I let myself eat the noodles, I decided to go balls out and also bought a dodgy hot dog from a street vendor. I say it was dodgy not because of the hot dog, God forbid, which did nothing to me (other than remind me that my vegetarianism was nonexistent at this point. This would be the third time since I went vegetarian years ago that I ate any type of meat). I call it dodgy because the vendor wasn’t licensed, and midway into making my hot dog, he spotted a police car, grabbed his cart, and bailed.
