Thursday, September 17, 2015

Chapter 8: Weighing In

I understand that anorexia and bulimia are turning up in women over 30. Small shock there. We don't outgrow our problems, readers. We take them with us. They latch on for the ride, joining us as we "grow into ourselves" and "re-invent" what it means to be over 29. Being over the hill doesn't mean squat to our individual angsts anymore. The little buggers just buckle-up and hang on tighter.

We become more adept at hiding our problems, swallowing them instead of food. We are too busy to eat, we say, because we have so much to do -- sandwiched as we are between children and parents or between careers and home. No one notices anyway. It's “obvious” to everyone that we're stressed out and too busy, so if we drop a few pounds no one really says anything because we'll “put it back on when everything is over.”

No one notices the pills we quietly pop or the way our pants hang more than they should. Of course, if our breasts deflate from the lack of body fat, well, someone might start to note... but the good news is that it's nothing a push-up bra can't fix. Trust me.

I'm disgusted today, readers. Frustrated. I'm waging a war, thinking that maybe, just maybe, one little pill doesn't really hurt. I'm starting to justify it in my mind, to think of perfectly reasonable excuses.

Again.

A trip to a legit website on eating disorders resulted in my being labeled "healthy." I'm only guilty of popping pills.  Green tea ones, designed to help boost my metabolism "naturally." I don't fit the other criteria.

I didn't fit anywhere, actually. I don't obsess about calories, nor do I exercise compulsively. I don't binge and purge, nor do I starve.

Deep down, it's really not that. I think it's more about being seen. You know, I once left those damned pills out on the bathroom counter for the world to see. No one did. When I dropped to barely a size six, no one said a word because it was chalked up to stress.

You know it's all about control, of course. Whatever we women can't control gets channeled into – onto – our dinner plates.


C'est la via, readers. Eat up while you can.