“Am I anorexic right now?” I thought to myself as I rested on my bed, my body heavy against my ripped, floral duvet that I told myself I would replace once I got a boyfriend.
It was May and I had been growing in size for roughly three months now. I really don’t know how much weight I had gained–maybe five or ten tops–but the struggle to lose it and return to a size zero occupied my mind so much that I couldn’t help but wonder if refusing to get up to eat was a form of anorexia or laziness–which was normal for me; me a lazy idiot.
My stomach rumbled, begging for a fucking snack. It was mid-afternoon and I wanted to hold off on food for another hour or two. It was hard. I considered taking a nap to stop feeling.
This was definitely anorexia. Maybe I wasn’t a full-time anorexic, but I was clocking in a good thirty hours a week of part-time anorexia and totally not getting paid for it.
Whether I was genetically born with body dysmorphia (it felt like it appeared out of nowhere in my early adolescence) I had always taken pride in the fact that I never had an eating disorder. I loved food–buying, cooking, consuming it, pooping it out could even be fun sometimes–so much that I never felt fat enough to trade in eating for a slimmer figure. Even when I felt like I *could* be thinner, nothing could stop me from eating a Chipotle burrito and a giant smoothie from Jamba Juice simultaneously, because FUCK, both are tasty as heck.
But now I didn’t even have that anymore.
I had a gym membership at a cycling and Pilates studio on Sunset and Vine that I forced myself to go to at 7am every morning before work. My membership went over my budget and I really hated the studio, but I remembered being really thin while I attended classes there years ago so this HAD to be the answer to my weight problems. I was also working at a barre studio and sneaking into a class for free so that I could fit in my second workout of the day after work. That’s probably why I was on my bed so much these days. I worked out twice a day, ran around with kids and starved myself.
I was getting slimmer but I wasn’t feeling any better about myself physically. But you know what? Being heavier didn’t make guys (or girls, heck I don’t know) any less attracted to me. The kids I babysat never told me I had a baby in my belly, which is totally a thing that kids do to overweight people. Weighing more didn’t make me less funny or successful. In fact, I found that I was enjoying life more. I was sharing laughs with friends over a late-night dinner at the diner and celebrating the release of my web series with milkshakes and just plain enjoying my fucking life with the people that I loved.
Please, people. By all means: gain a couple of pounds. Maybe you’ll learn to appreciate who you are in the present rather than always waiting until you’re something else, whether it’s thinner, prettier, bilingual or richer. Whatever.
Speaking of which, I’m in a lot of debt. Because I’m not going back to that pilates studio tomorrow. 7am: never again.