A friend and I like to joke that we are obese people in slim bodies. Of course, mine wasn’t always very slim and the possibility that I could get fat again is very real. The mindset about food hasn’t changed, but I’m working on managing it and my behaviour.
In my support group the other week we talked about our struggles with maintaining a healthy weight. Many of us articulated this idea of freedom—we want to be able to live without being afraid of food, afraid of ourselves around food. For me, freedom would be choosing the healthy option on the menu and not feeling like I’m missing out on something better. Freedom would also involve being able to eat a bit of something I love and not being tempted to devour the lot.
I fetishise food. My equivalent of porn is reading cookbooks and restaurant menus. Today I was browsing the menu of Marcus Wareing’s restaurant at the Berkeley and practically had an orgasm when I reached suckling pig. Right now I’m fantasizing about a champagne dinner at Kettner’s.
One of the main reasons I fetishise feed is because, for some reason, I think food is scarce. I’m not one to blame my parents for my issues, but I do wonder if it is in part because I’ve been on some diet or other since I was a small child. Anyways, this mindset has a whole host of repercussions. I can’t stand the idea of food going bad. It’s very hard for me to throw food away. I’d rather eat even if I’m not hungry than see something spoil. And above all else, I DO NOT SHARE FOOD. If I’m in a food-sharing situation, like tapas, I’m greedily watching how much other people eat while at the same time berating myself if I think I’ve taken more than my fair share. It’s not a pleasant situation.
I’ve been trying to work on this crooked thinking—this all or nothing mentality that if I don’t eat something, it’ll never be available to me ever again. It’s tough work. I get fixated on the thought of eating something, and it’s very hard to get it out of my head. The past few weeks have been especially tough. I’m currently working a contract job and it’s ending at the end of the month. It can’t come too soon. I’m so incredibly bored with what I’m doing. I dread going in to work every day, wondering how I’m possibly going to fill the time. Because if I’m not busy, guess what I’m thinking about. I’m not going to lie—the boredom has definitely led to some snacking. I’m trying not to have any cash to prevent myself from buying treats. It’s exhausting.
My fantasy is that, after I’ve lead a full life, I’m going to let myself get fat. In fact, I’m going to enjoy my golden years by growing morbidly obese. The plan is that eventually I will develop a fatal case of sleep apnea. What a way to go. Then I’ll be cut out of my house and ejected into space where worms and flames can’t get me. I have the funny image in my head of the obese 90-year-old me crashing into the window of a space shuttle, the astronauts trying to get me off by flipping the windshield wipers.
