54.

Rumination Syndrome

From the Latin word ruminare : to chew the cud.

One bite can last hours. Ruminators swallow food, then regurgitate it back into the mouth. Sometimes it’s conscious, sometimes not. No invasive methods are required. No fingers down the throat. No gagging, no heaving. There’s no unpleasant taste, no sourness, no bitterness. A gentle burp is all the ruminator needs to re-visit the morsel. It’s virtually effortless. So easy, so natural.

But how do they do it? How do they swallow food and barf it back into their mouths?

No one knows for sure. Some research suggests that the lower esophageal sphincter must be relaxed—through learned, voluntary methods or otherwise—and that the abdomen must be compressed in order for stomach contents to be returned into the mouth. Others speculate that ruminators have altered their belching reflex to such a degree that it creates enough gastric distention to relax the lower esophageal sphincter.

So a few mysteries remain. While graduate students with no social lives will continue to investigate how and why the ruminator does her ruminating, the most important point is this:

The ruminator doesn’t bother anyone.

Every epiglottal teasing is private. Every ride up the pipes, every re-mastication, goes unnoticed. Ruminators aren’t out for attention. They aren’t vain. They don’t need to check the mirror or step onto the scale for an affirmation of their human value. They aren’t haunted by a fantasy image that they can never become. They aren’t jealous of waif-like magazine models, or even of their own more feminine, curvaceous sisters.

Ruminators want nothing. Except to savor. Again and again. In this way, they are exemplary human beings; they crave enjoyment of the world they inhabit.

Sure, their ranks have been infiltrated by anorexics and bulimics who use the method for ill-advised, egocentric purposes. But these are a minority, and they normally don’t remain ruminators for long. The pure ruminator has a healthy self-esteem. She is an equal-opportunity regurgitator. She’ll ruminate a meal she hates just as often—and for just as long—as a meal she loves. It’s not the taste of the food that she cares about. It’s the dwelling, the oral loitering.

It’s the flex of the throat muscle that the ruminator enjoys, the ability to bring it all back into play. Encore, encore!

It’s the tickle she feels as the remnant returns, altered.

It’s the reshaping. It’s the melding of her saliva with the food.

Her body wants to break down this food, make it disappear, but her mind won’t allow it, not without a fight.

The ruminator hates saying good-bye. The ruminator hates to lose things forever. The ruminator can’t even imagine forever. Forever is not a palatable concept. Forever cannot be pondered.

There are drawbacks. There’s the halitosis. Even though it doesn’t taste bad to the ruminator, the vomit leaves a distinct odor that has been described by boys as “like a sewer” and “like a dog’s ass.” The ruminator may develop a complex about this, may stop kissing boys altogether, may have to reprioritize. The rumi-nator suffers chronically raw, chapped lips. Indigestion raises its gassy, burny head. The ruminator’s tooth enamel may erode, to a degree. The ruminator will lose weight. She will question her arms and legs, question their ability to perform basic functions. She will wonder when and if her thinness will be noticed by her friends, her family. She will stare in fascination at her sunken eyes, puffy skin, angular body. She will draw in her stomach just to gasp at the teeth of her ribs. Her breasts will stop growing. Now and then, vomitus will appear on her lips, chin, and shirt. She will be teased by her classmates but will be too tired to respond. She will find it difficult to concentrate on things like schoolwork, dating, and personal relationships.

The ruminator expects each upchuck, each fresh tango with that bite, whether it’s the fourth or the fortieth, to yield something new and surprising. Another layer. Something she missed the first thirty-nine times. The ruminator believes that the “true” flavor has eluded her. That if she can just give it one more try, one more swish around the mouth, then she’ll know it, know this thing, really know what she is about to swallow.

The ruminator may want to believe in God. The ruminator may try to pray.