Issues. April 19, 2007

I will never be able to eat whatever I want.  
 
It’s a fact, just like it’s a fact that I have brown hair and green eyes. Or that I am right handed. Or that I was born in New Jersey. 
 
It’s a fact I have finally accepted, after having resisted it for a very long time. 
 
All that resistance played itself out with some major yo-yo dieting: I’d practically starve myself in order to whittle down to a smaller size. Once my goal was reached, I’d reward myself by eating whatever I wanted, the nights of going to sleep hungry and the lunches made up entirely of coffee long since forgotten. Eating whatever I wanted soon meant I could no longer fit into my ideal size, which led to more starving myself in order to get back down. 
 
Fucking. Exhausting. 
 
It took me approximately 12 years to come to terms with my body. To come to terms with the fact that in order to maintain a size six, I must accept that I am not entitled to dessert every night and I must stay active. Sounds simple enough, but I want the best of both worlds. I want to be a size six (okay, four) and still be able to wash down some pizza with a chocolate milkshake. In turns out that, unfortunately for me, the two are very mutually exclusive.  
 
And, while I certainly love pizza and chocolate milkshakes and everything else that is bad for me, I love being thin even more.  
 
It frustrates me that my body’s natural tendency isn’t toward a smaller size. I’ve been a size two and a size four a few times in my life and while I was miserable and hungry and irritable, I have never been more confident. I’d waltz into a dressing room with a size six and feel a rush at asking a staff member to please fetch me a smaller size. Everything fit right. Everything felt right. My body felt right. 
 
Except it didn’t. Because I wasn’t nurturing my body, I was starving it. I was subsisting on a little bit of nothing with a heaping side of nothing. A few bites of an apple. Some slices of turkey. Lots and lots of coffee, because coffee makes hunger magically disappear.  
 
I was at war with myself: the part of me that loved being tall and stick thin versus the part of me that loved to, you know, EAT IN ORDER TO SURVIVE. It didn’t take too long until survival won out, until I was back hovering between a six and an eight, as I always am.  
 
I met M when I was a four. He likes me better as a six. He’s never outright said, “I like you better when you have more curves” but he has hinted. And he’s right - at almost 5’8”, I don’t look particularly healthy when I’m too thin. A six is right for me, which is why my body naturally gravitates toward that number. 
 
Ugh, number. My life–in respect to what I eat and what I wear–is all about numbers. It’s amazing how one number (8! A snowman! A fat snowman!) has the power to ruin my day. I know that an 8 is not fat. I know I should not grumble because there are people out there fighting for their lives against 300/400/500 pound bodies that threaten to kill them. I mean, duh. An 8 is not the end of the world. And yet to me, someone with what I like to call “an eating disorder, sort of” it matters. My size 8 jeans are my “fat jeans” and when I’m wearing them (and I don’t have my period), I feel guilty about every single thing that I put in my mouth.  
 
If I had a few wishes, one (after, you know, world peace and health benefits) would be to be able to eat whatever I want without gaining an ounce. I love food. I love restaurants. I love eating. I love watching cooking shows. I love all of it. But the love is tainted by my dysfunctional relationship with food. I can allow myself to enjoy food in the moment but if I eat something “bad” then I will inevitably punish myself for it later, which–obviously–takes a lot of the joy out of eating the food in the first place. 
 
I’m happy to finally have clawed my way–fighting tooth and nail–to a better, happier, healthier place. My newfound love of all things gym! And exercise! has made such a difference. I can allow myself a bit more leeway with what I eat because my body feels so good. And, in a stunning turn of events, since my body feels so good, I only want to feed it nutritional things. Okay, not only, but the other day I found myself reaching for an apple in lieu of a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies. As in, THE COOKIES WERE RIGHT THERE AND THEY WERE WARM AND THEY LOOKED DELICIOUS AND I CHOSE A DAMN APPLE.  
 
It’s an ongoing process, but I’m proud of myself at the moment. I’m proud of the realization that I don’t have to be a size four; a size six is acceptable. I’m also proud that I’ve accepted the fact that I will never be someone who can eat like a trucker without the negative, fat-ass side effects. Acceptance means I will no longer get caught in that vicious cycle of dieting and gaining ever again. Acceptance means I will strive, instead, to maintain. Consistency and moderation (I hate the word moderation! And yet, it makes so much sense!) are key. 
 
I’ve never been all that good at dieting, as my range of jeans (size 2 all the way up to size 10) proves. I’m sick of the numbers. Just as I’m ready to commit to one man for the rest of my life, I’m also ready to commit to one number. And the (healthier) lifestyle that will allow me to be loyal to that number. 
 
So, six, you lucky bastard you. I’m finally ready to be exclusive.