Mary Beth Barone Has Sworn Off Hot Coffee
After coming off of the press tour for Benito Skinner’s comedy series Overcompensating, comedian and patron saint of gay guys Mary Beth Barone has been back to working on stand-up. The break from the stage was nice, but it was time to return. “Once I haven’t done stand-up for a certain amount of time, I’ll start having dreams — well, I guess nightmares — where I’m onstage and I can’t remember any of my jokes,” she says. “That’s usually when I know it’s time to get back out there.” Amid the highs of running her new hour and testing out a variety talk show at Cherry Lane, she’s also been pushing against the lows of eating-disorder recovery. “I don’t mind being honest. It is a really hard time right now,” she says. Still, she’s finding the humor where she can when detailing what the inside of her brain looks like. And it helps that she and her nutritionist get along: “If I didn’t like her, it would be a lot easier to be like, ‘Well, I have no one to do this for.’”
Monday August 4
It’s the busiest week I’ve had all summer. I am doing my new live show, Mary Beth’s New York, at Cherry Lane Theatre tonight, running my hour at Union Hall tomorrow, headlining Irving Plaza on Thursday, and then running my hour at Union Hall again on Saturday before I leave for a week in L.A.
Shows give me an excuse to skip dinner. My eating disorder loves that. My nutritionist hates it. Somewhere between my relationship ending, having a television show come out, and my dad dying, I lost control of my control issues. My specific “complicated relationship with food” began in college and has gone through different phases. This is by far the worst it’s ever been. I don’t have food rules. I don’t weigh myself obsessively. I don’t study my body in the mirror. I take the more simple approach by creating a reward system in my mind. Limiting food as much as possible means I am in control. So much is out of my control, but not this. To publicly chronicle a week of my food consumption under these circumstances feels moderately psychotic.
I pull myself out of bed at 8:30 a.m. for my morning walk with my dog, Pinky. Today, we travel to Paloma, the further of my two favorite coffee shops, in Greenpoint. This is a risk-filled journey as the neighborhood is crawling with people I slept with in my 20s. I dread seeing them all except for one. Luckily, he is the one I see the most; I’ve known him since elementary school. We bump into each other about once per week — not limited to this walk. We were actually in the security line next to each other at La Guardia last month. If this were a rom-com, we’d end up together. This particular Monday I make it to Paloma with zero run-ins.
My order is always an iced oat-milk latte, even in the winter. I can never wait long enough for hot drinks to cool off. My mouth is an important element of what I do professionally, and I need to keep it safe.
I want to start the week off strong and make my nutritionist, Kristy, proud. I think a bagel from Leon’s will do just that. Kristy loves carbs. We text throughout the day, every day, about what I am planning to eat or have eaten. She says with my lack of appetite, in addition to grieving on top of the performance schedule, we have to be hypervigilant this week so we don’t undo the progress we’ve made.
Leon’s is a hole in the wall on Bedford with really delicious bagels and excellent branding. The branding is so good, in fact, I did some research when it first opened to make sure it wasn’t owned by a hedge fund or Monsanto or something else evil. (It’s not.) I get my usual: a gluten-free everything bagel toasted with egg, bacon, and capers. I am able to eat half and I text Kristy about it.
Around 2 p.m., I decide it’s probably time to eat again. That’s coming from my logical mind rather than a physiological desire. I’m feeling ambitious while Pinky and I walk to Jack’s Wife Freda. The original Jack’s Wife Freda was near my old office in the Puck Building. When I was 20, I dropped out of college, moved to New York, and got an email job. I don’t miss being 20, but I definitely ate more when I was 20. I get a Greek salad with chicken and fries, which I pick at until I accept defeat, box it up, and go home.
While I’m getting ready for my show in the early evening, I promise my nutritionist that I am going to have someone at the venue order me a full meal for dinner, but then I don’t do that. I’m distracted in the greenroom, chatting and laughing with the guests who we’ve invited to perform on the show: Brian Derrick, Liza Treyger, Sydnee Washington, Aaron Jackson, and George Civeris (who also helped me write the show).
Mary Beth’s New York is chaotic and funny, and I feel joy for almost a full 20 minutes after it’s over. Having other comedians onstage that you trust creates a space where you can really have fun and say anything. When I started comedy, there were a lot of places for comedians to do ensemble shows like this and I would watch in awe from the audience. There have been a lot of theater closures since then, and it seems like most of those shows went away with them.
When I get home, I eat the second half of the Leon’s bagel before I walk to the bodega for a lemon La Croix and a Liquid Death. The gorgeous summer air fills me up. Unfortunately, that doesn’t count as a meal.
Tuesday August 5
I allow myself to sleep in a little today before getting coffee at my other spot, Honeybird, around 10 a.m. I love the baristas in both of my regular coffee shops equally. Deciding which one to go to in the morning is based on a mix of weather and vibes.
Latte in hand, I take Pinky to one of my favorite breakfast spots in the neighborhood, Egg Shop. The door at Egg Shop is the heaviest I’ve ever encountered, to the point where I sometimes order delivery just to avoid the humiliation of struggling to open it. Lately, the Carnitas Chilaquiles has been my go-to. While I move food around in the bowl, I get a DM from a friend who asks if I would want to go on a date with his brother who has perfect bone structure. I say yes. The brother texts me and we realize we will both be in Park Slope later.
To prep for my 10 p.m. show at Union Hall, I run the set out loud for Pinky in my apartment. Whenever I don’t run it at home, I wish I had. This can take a while because it’s a 20-page Google Doc. I also hydrate, a delicate practice on show day: enough to avoid a dry throat, but not so much that I feel I have to pee while on stage.
I snack briefly on some chocolate-covered gluten-free pretzels from Brooklyn Harvest before I have to leave for soundcheck. Again, I tell my nutritionist I am going to eat a real meal and again, I don’t. I feel pathetic. Having an eating disorder while fully aware of all the reasons I shouldn’t have one can be incredibly frustrating. It feels like I’m arm wrestling with myself. Either way, I lose.
The show goes well but I avoid texting Kristy because I didn’t eat. And instead of grabbing a late bite after, I meet up with my friend’s brother at High Dive around the corner from Union Hall. He’s visiting from L.A., where the average lead time for a date is three-to-six weeks, so I do this in part to prove New York’s superiority. If two people went on a same-day date in L.A., it would be written about in the papers. I get a ginger ale, which I convince myself is actually progress? Because sugar? I almost finish the whole glass while we sit in a booth chatting until 2:30 a.m.
Wednesday August 6
I’m groggy for my morning walk to Paloma. I have to hurry home because on Wednesdays, I have therapy on Zoom and I need to eat something, especially in light of the day prior. Ten minutes before therapy starts, I cook scrambled eggs, gluten-free toast, and ham. One good thing about having an eating disorder is your therapist can never make you feel bad about eating during a session.
Knowing I have dinner plans that night with my friends Kyra and Elana, I perform the mental gymnastics required to not eat much for the rest of the day. No pressure, you’ll be having a full meal later! Sometime in the afternoon, I walk to Doughnut Plant on Bedford and eat half a gluten-free Marcona almond donut. The other half goes in the fridge for safekeeping.
I meet Kyra and Elana at DOC Wine Bar, where it feels like Europe because it’s an Italian restaurant and they are playing bizarre acoustic and techno covers of Top 40 songs. Kyra and Elana just got back from their honeymoon in Ibiza, so this is a familiar soundtrack. We all get pasta. I get the one with shrimp, Kyra gets the lasagna, and Elana gets the Malloreddus. We talk about losing parents, losing friends, and losing weight. We laugh a lot, too. I feel like a little kid when I report to Kristy that I ate all of my pasta. Tonight, instead of arm wrestling, I give that little kid a hug.
Thursday August 7
From the second I wake up, nerves course through me as my body prepares to headline Irving Plaza tonight. I have a brief panic attack before I walk to meet my friend Meg Stalter for brunch at Le Crocodile. I miss my Dad and I feel alone. Meg is in town for work and seeing her instantly calms me.
Meg makes me laugh so much. We have a lot to catch up on, so despite the fact that this restaurant is amazing, the food is secondary. The waitress comes up to our table four times before we are able to stop talking long enough to actually look at the menu. I order the omelette au fromage — spinach instead of cheese — with petite salade, and we get some fries to share. Sharing fries with an old friend while you gossip is bliss.
I am too anxious about the show later to eat anything else. I know I am prepared because I’ve been running my hour at Union Hall frequently, but it’s the biggest audience I’ve ever done the set for. People have paid to come and see me perform, and I take that very seriously.
I send a voice note to Kristy about how I’m feeling like I cannot get ahead of my recovery. She sends me one back, saying exactly what I need to hear. “It’s okay. Just do the best you can and be easy on yourself. I know this is a stressful time.”
I arrive at Irving Plaza for sound check. My best friend, Jake, is with me. Sydnee Washington and Nico Carney, my close friends and dream openers, are there soon after. The nerves have almost completely taken over at that point, and I go nonverbal. I force down six tortilla chips and a bottle of Poland Spring. Sydnee and Nico Carney always kill, and tonight is no exception.
As soon as I step foot onstage, the nerves are gone. The roar of the crowd gives me full-body chills, and the show goes so well that I can’t even put my usual pessimistic spin on it. In the cab home, Jake asks me if I’m hungry. Of course I am. We lament the closure of our favorite neighborhood taco spot, Border Burrito, earlier this year as we look at the abysmal delivery options. We carefully calculate the risks and rewards of getting tacos from the truck on the corner of Bedford and 7th. The risk, as with any greasy food truck, would be getting sick. The reward: delicious tacos. Very compelling. We ultimately decide to get them.
Jake and I walk back to our building. Jake carries both bouquets of flowers I was given at the show (one sent by my friend’s brother [classy], one hand delivered by a gay guy at the show [as God intended]). We sit on my floor and gab while I successfully finish four al pastor tacos from the truck. I feel full from the nourishment of the food, the show, and seeing my friend. I proudly share this update with Kristy. We’ll take the win, even if it’s just for one night.
In the U.S., the National Alliance for Eating Disorders helpline can be reached at 866-662-1235.