Prunes
Carolyn Jiang
I am old. I eat prunes.
But once upon a time, I did not. Once, when I was still young and snappy enough to edit a whole day’s reporting on a single glass of orange juice, I had vowed to avoid prunes. I still remember the day I broke my vow. My first thought was: These prunes do not belong in my apartment. How could they, after all? Any glamour shot of a Manhattan penthouse would be ruined by the sight of prunes on the table. Did I spend years publishing anti-aging remedies just to have prunes on my table? Of course not! No, the very reason I moved to NYC was to absorb the vibrancy of the city, to race through its streets and hear the familiar click-clack of high heels going places. I was not here to slow down and wither away into unimportance.
My body had always been my triumph. I still remember reading my first magazine and seeing a pair of skinny jeans that were so stylish I desperately wanted to fit into them. That feeling of victory I felt when I lost that last pound and slipped them on–it was exactly as I had dreamed. All those interviews, all those exercise regimens and new diets–they were all for this, the feeling of overcoming limitations and becoming beautiful through sheer willpower.
But now, I can no longer fit into those jeans. After all these years of striving, have I finally succumbed and become weak? No–I was only 61. I refuse to insult myself by accepting this fate. I can still keep up with the other young women in morning yoga, plus I’m much better dressed. My style remains mature yet sharp, cultivated by years of experience, but never old!
Oldness would be succumbing to a shriveled, dried fruit. A prune. Only one letter away from a prude, something I will never become. No, I will not ensconce myself in powdery pills and desiccated fruits. The prunes cannot win. Will not win. I will find a way–to what, I don’t know. But I know I will not have prunes.
I glare at the prunes marring my sleek, postmodern table and decide to declare war. With a great, decisive jab, I sweep up a single prune and inspect it at arm’s length. Gingerly, I hold it by its sagging skin, noticing how it droops under its own plump weight. The folds glisten between my lacquered red nails, as out of place in my grasp as it was laid on my table. It’s a great spectacle of a thing, this prune. Rotund and baroque, content in its own incredible prune-ness. Nevermind the wrinkles that lace its skin, for they only add to its stately feel. Nay, this prune has nothing to hide. It flaunts its wrinkles like a moist, rippling thing, unashamed of its own age and shriveled status. Eat me, it whispers, for I am still worthy.
I can’t stand it. How can a prune, of all things, be my undoing? I do not need prunes. I am perfectly fine without them. I look away, avoiding the prune’s withering aura, and my eyes fall on the magazine lying on the table. I feel the eyes of the young, chic, model silently judging me… How can I, the editor-in-chief of a magazine about young life, succumb to the creaky panacea of prunes? How could anyone have recommend them to me? The arrogance! Were they implying that I needed prunes? Just because I had complained a little about my digestion? Was that my undoing? Oh god – had I succumbed to that too? The endless complaining, the withering, the ossification of old age? Never!
I am not old. I do not need prunes.
I whisper this to myself, but I do not believe it like before. Damn it–it was all the prunes’ fault. I cannot feel like myself, sitting next to these odious black lumps. There is only one way to disprove the idea that I need prunes–I will have to eat one. Yes, that is it. I will eat one merely to show that they do not work, that I do not need them at all. Not for my indigestion, not for my age, not for me. And once I eat one, I will have the right to declare to everyone who ever recommended me prunes that they were not for me, not at all. I will have achieved victory once more, just as I always do.
I will acquiesce, but only this once. I roll the prune in my fingers, feel it leaving a sticky residue. I give it a sniff–it’s darkly fragrant, like chocolate. It does not smell like a fresh plum, it has matured into something deeper. Carefully, cautiously, I bite into it, feel the skin pull taut for a moment before giving way to smooth flesh. It is rich and jammy. The flavor, sour-sweet, spreads out into my mouth. It is… not bad. I eat another. Then another. Two, three, five, ten.
I can’t stop. They are delicious. How can something that looks so unassuming, so wrinkled and rotund, be so delicious? It’s pure decadence. I feel alive, devouring those prunes. Sexy, even. They are my private delight. My own secret, that of the prunes: delicious at the center, worth savoring. Even given their appearances–even given what I believed about them–the prunes defied. Behind their wrinkled skin, they are lovely and proud.
I will pay the price for my overindulgence later, but it’s karma. I underestimated the prunes. They help my digestion, but more than that, they are something to be enjoyed. They are health and indulgence in the same bite, a thrilling contrast. Now, when someone asks me about prunes, I sidle up to them with a wry smile, then whisper as if I am sharing a juicy secret:
Yes, I am old. I eat prunes.
And they are delicious.
Carolyn Jiang is a senior majoring in cognitive science and minoring in psychology, which offers lots of juicy opportunities to confuse unfortunate people and professors. Her first hobby is learning about other people’s hobbies, and her second hobby is confusing people. If she’s not writing grand and dramatic conclusions about humanity, you’ll find her writing bean poems with her friends.
Carolyn wrote this piece in a course taught by Paul Blaney, who selected this piece for inclusion in the WHR.