So, I have this eating problem. Well, maybe “problem” is too strong a word; let’s just call it an “issue.”
Up until about 7th grade, I ate what I wanted, when I wanted, and as much as I wanted. Then I started playing tennis and swimming and noticing Calvin Klein’s new breed of overtly sexualized male models, and things changed. I noticed that, unlike such models, my stomach was kinda flabby. In fact, when I put on my shorts, little ridges of skin rolled over the waistband. My chest and arms were nothing to write home about, either. So I started dieting.
Unfortunately, I didn’t really understand the basics of nutrition. Hell, where I grew up, no one did–least of all my mother, whose idea of fixing dinner was ordering pizza and cracking open a tub of ice cream. Not surprisingly, my version of dieting became the classic Tab-and-a-Snickers-bar routine. I’d starve myself half to death, then play tennis for four or five hours under the brutal Mississippi sun; afterward, if I hadn’t passed out, I’d gorge myself on whatever was in the fridge when I got home (usually leftover pizza and more ice cream). I was a mess.
Decades later, my eating habits are still awful. Most irritating–especially to the boyfriend–is my tendency to gorge before parties so that I won’t look like a total pig in public. Jonno says it’s unforgivably rude and really unhealthy, but I can’t help myself. I’m turning into one of those little old society ladies that John Currin used to paint: neurotic and obsessive, with a stash of Twinkies in the butler’s pantry. Only difference is, I’m rounder and not as wealthy.
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