Breaking Up with Food

“I don’t think I could ever get tired of this body,” he said, as we stood beside his bed, groping each other, clothes still on, shoes kicked off. Kissing.

“I don’t think I could ever get tired of this body,” he said.

I kissed him hard as tears came to my eyes, and the tears disappeared as he pushed me gently onto the mattress.

No man had ever said something so complimentary about my body before. My tits, yes. My eyes, my blow job lips. Even my ass at the right angle. But the whole thing in one shot, one great uber-compliment. I was thrown. It was at once one of the most erotic and sweetest things anyone has ever said to me.

So wanting my body to look a certain way for him isn’t the problem. It’s not the issue. He likes me how I am.

God, this issue is so big, so to speak. I really don’t know where to start. Suppose we start at the beginning. And track my chubbiness from there.

Ever since the second grade, I’ve been chubby. I had a couple years there, up til about seven years old, when I was teeny. But chubbiness came quickly and with great determination. Before I knew it, I was nine years old, and the boys were chanting “Janie, Janie, has a lot in her belly.” I don’t say this to break your heart, dear reader. But that chant stuck with me. And I started to cry when I had to go clothes shopping. And I started eating more. And I started dreading going to the town pool though swimming had once been one of my favorite activities. My body self-consciousness happened really early as a result of being bullied, and so then came the defense mechanisms: the sense of humor, the overachieving in school, the making friends with everyone I could. I let boys touch me in inappropriate ways when I was very young. And to top it off, I matured early as well, getting breasts in the fourth grade, but being ashamed to ask my mother to go bra shopping with me until the sixth grade. I was sad, I had low self-esteem, I had no idea what my body was doing, and so I ate my feelings. Nachos with cheese and canned chili after school, a couple Snickers bars for lunch, extra big plates of pasta for dinner. My parents didn’t monitor my portions, and I didn’t think a meal was really a meal unless I had seconds. Junior high school came and went and I played sports and started starving myself every now and again. Then I’d eat a lot and make myself throw up. I eventually gave up the eating disorders—really, I did, just like that—because I just wasn’t feeling very good, didn’t like feeling sick. Feeling full was okay, though. Of course, overeating or emotional eating are sort of an eating disorders in themselves, and so they became my forte. I lost a good deal of weight during college from just being more physically active despite all the dining hall food and drinking. After I graduated from college, I moved to New York City and went to grad school, where I smoked a ton of pot in order to write and had the munchies 24 hours a day. I gained a lot of weight via that and the marijuana use was also contributing to a depression that also caused me to eat more. Eventually, I pretty much quit smoking pot (meaning that I no longer smoked it five times a day, and maybe once every few months), and got my first day job. Well, the office I work in has a vending machine. Down the street was one of my favorite pizza joints. Around the holidays, there’s food galore. When I get bored, I also eat, and my job is often boring, so I eat a lot there.

Basically, I have learned to eat when I’m bored, sad, happy. I eat to mourn, to celebrate. I eat to socialize, I eat because I really enjoy the different flavors of food, I eat when I’m hungry. I eat when I’m tired. I eat just to eat. Food has absolutely been, up until now, the love of my life. It has comforted me when I needed comforting, it has brought me together with family and friends and lovers, but what it has also done—is make me fat.

I don’t want to be fat anymore.

Let me just say, for the most part, I like the way I look. I like my boobs and I like my face and I like my legs. But I don’t like my belly. And what I don’t like about my belly the most is how it flops over jeans that would otherwise fit perfectly. I don’t like not being able to wear the cutest dress in the store simply because it does not fit. As I’ve said before, my belly has become an erogenous zone for me, a kinkified spot. If a man touches my stomach, twists it, gropes it, cums on it, I go nuts. I can’t help it. It’s so full of nerves and sensitivity. But I know it would still be that way if it were smaller.

Also, and very importantly, I want to be able to run. I want to be able to go hiking with my sister and climb mountains. I don’t want to get diabetes. I don’t want a heart condition. I don’t want to get sick. Right now, I’m healthy. I want to stay that way.

I haven’t really dieted in years. Or rather, changed the way I eat. I hate the word diet. In fact, I pretty much gave up the idea of ever being thin about a year ago. But in the last few months, however, I’ve started to watch what I eat. I’ve been thinking about every calorie that goes into my mouth, I’ve left plates at restaurants half full. Still, it hasn’t been enough. It hasn’t felt like I’ve been making a real change. I have been feeling like I need a complete overhaul at the way I look at food.

And for the first time ever, I’m not afraid to do that. I’m not afraid to change my relationship with food.

It doesn’t seem like if I take away the junk food, the big portions, the bad-for-me snacks that I’ll be giving up the thing I love the most.

Because, really, that’s what it’s alllllways felt like when I’ve dieted. That I’m giving up the thing I love most in the world.

But I’ve realized something. I love my self more than I love the food.

I love my self more than I love the fucking food!

That’s it. That’s allllll there is to it.

My life is filling up with other things now--writing, the boy, plans for my future, new ideas about my career. All these things are also more important the food I put in my mouth. And so I’ve joined Weight Watchers, because the women in my family have done it and been successful at it, because the way one is forced to monitor food makes me both accountable and excited about the nerdiness aspect. And also, I like the message boards. Hah.

I know it's not gonna all come off at once. And in fact, I'm doing this the grown-up way, with a grown-up attitude. I'm not expecting instant huge changes. But the weight will come off, bit by bit, and one day, months, or years from now, I will be at my goal weight. And I will maintain it. And it will be one of the most brilliant things I've ever done.

I officially started my new way of eating today. And I feel great. It’s only the first day. But it’s the most important day in my opinion. And I’m proud of myself.

So here we go.

I have something to say to you, Food.

I’m sorry, food. I love you. But I just don’t love that way any more. Like, I’m not in love with you. Food, God. Food, can we just be friends? Can I come to you when I need you, but not every time there’s a problem? Food, I can take care of myself now. I really can. I don’t need you always there to rely on. I’d love to party hard with you now and again, for margaritas, tacos, flan. That’d be fun, food, and I think pretty healthy if it’s just every once in a while. But not all the time. Not like it's been.

Cuz really, I think we should keep some distance between us. I don’t want to ignore you if I see you at work, or on the street, but I don’t think it’s really necessary that we hang out all the time like we did. I need my space, food. But I still love you. Listen, I do. And I know you’ll always be there for me. But it’s time I stopped taking advantage of you, and you stopped taking advantage of me. It’s just time. We don’t need to be that way anymore. It’s just time, food. Time I started seeing you as the friend I know you can be for me, and not the only thing in my life that matters. You feel me, food? Yeah? Okay, good. Come on. Give me a hug.

We’re gonna be okay, food. We’re gonna be okay.