The wasband used to speak to his friends about the women they were dating. "Yeah, she’s great, but she may have an eating disorder."
"All the better," I remember him saying.
"Yeah, no kidding. Total bonus."
I remember self-consciously pulling at my shirt. I hated what they were getting at. I hated that "thin psycho" trumped "fat self-confidence" any day and twice on Sundays. I was thin at the time.
They say anorexics are capable of preparing meals for loved ones without actually sampling, or even enjoying, the food themselves. It’s the ultimate in control, being able to handle, squeeze, stir, even breathe its steam without a mere lick. I decided yesterday I was going to start eating healthier again. Moving more. Now that I’ve handed in the pilot, and it’s out of my control what happens from here, why not control what I can? My own body for starters. So what did I do first thing today? Get on the elliptical? Our treadmill? Phone it in with the Shred? No. I made smitten’s blueberry crumb bars. I diced two sticks of butter, and squeezed them with both hands into a cake flour splenda mixture. I love the feel of cold sifted flour, the idea of it rising in a cloud under the hands of a grandmother, on a wooden pastry board. I’m in love with kitchens and all they mother. I’ll dispel the rumors now. Nope. Not anorexic. Nor am I the type to follow that statement up with "I wish." Because I don’t.
I feel disconnected from my body. For the past few months, yes months! I’ve been sitting in my PJs writing and re-writing about thirty different versions (at least) of a script, and in doing so, I haven’t left the sofa, or this house. So I don’t feel my body, or anything, other than tired and worn out. From doing everything and nothing all at once. And it’s so easy to fix. I think it comes down to simple things: stretching, heart-pounding walks, drinking really cold water and feeling it go down. I haven’t been paying attention.
When I was going through my divorce, or even the agony of dating again, I remember thinking, "this is torture, but at least I’m thin." This time, I’ve put all my time and energy into a project that may or may not go anywhere, and I’m too fat for my fat pants. Seriously. I had to go out and buy new ones a few weeks ago, and now they’re tight. So it stops here. I’ll eat one crumb bar tonight after dinner, but the rest are going to my neighbors, to Norma, to the taters, and to the Phil. Or, I’ll just freeze them, wrapping each out individually in wax paper. This will lead to my eating frozen blueberry crumb bars. OR… I’ll become a food writer.