I watch struggling women all the time, spending their lives obsessed with their weight.
I see them when I’m running, smothered in Spandex, a fabric that doesn’t breathe hoping they look thinner, when all it does it accentuate their girth…their skin looking like consommé when they get home.
I often say…thank God, with all my problems, weight isn’t one of them. If anything, I could gain a few pounds.
But my heart still goes out to those who think thin makes them who they are, because I know what it must be like, the all consuming end of it.
OMG…I SHOULDN’T HAVE HAD THAT PIE OR EXTRA GLASS OF WINE. IF I DON’T EAT TILL THURSDAY, THEN IT WILL BE OKAY. RIGHT? as she shoves another cookie, cigarette or cell phone in her mouth to tell a friend for the umpteen time.
It’s sad, really, to live your life this way, chronically on a scale, hysterical if it goes up an ounce. Diets are fruitless since they’re so temporary. The moment you stop eating only grapefruit or that low fat soy shake, the pounds return like unwanted houseguests.
That’s why Weight Watchers is so successful. They teach you how to eat proportionately without starving.
Recently I met a girl I often see running, twenty-one if she’s a day. “I’m depressed,” she told me, so I said, “Why don’t you go for a run…that always helps me.”
“YOU THINK I’M FAT!” she said, bursting into tears.
“No I don’t. I just know you like the park.”
Twenty-one and she’s obsessed, and thin as a rail I might add.
Eating disorders, irrational ways of looking at ourselves still run rampant in our society.
Who should we blame it on? Kate Moss, Vogue…our mothers who chided us into skipping dessert calling us fatties if we ordered that dish of ice cream?
Apparently even Jackie did that to Caroline when she, at one point, started to fill out, like it was the worse thing in the world to gain a pound or two.
I don’t know.
I’m just eternally grateful I don’t spend my life looking in the mirror anymore.
I yam what I yam, after all.
And boy, is it a grace.