My diet is not a decision I made lightly. Consequently it’s hurtful to regularly have my food choices called into question (or worse, dismissed outright as being silly) by people who supposedly care about me.
If eliminating gluten and processed foods from your world makes you poop better and your skin all glowy, go nuts. May neither a bagel nor a cupcake darken your gaping maw again. But let's not use evolution as an a reason to not eat a baguette with some brie.
With apps that help users track calories, so that you can literally record every single calorie by searching nutritional info for foods at supermarkets and restaurants, it's even easier for calorie counting to spiral out of control.
Just a few weeks ago, I had a conversation with my partner in which I'd announced that I had decided that I was going to accept my body at this larger size if it meant that I could just live my life eating normally and he was fucking elated. Now I'm all like, "Uh, nevermindsies."
No one ever said to me, "Hey, I’m sorry I contributed to the development of a powerful self-loathing for basically all of your most formative years, which you would then have to spend the next decade unpacking!" No one ever acknowledged that this was a bad idea.
Weeks ago, the folks at Unique Vintage sent me this year's plus-size bikini. I had planned to wear it this weekend, imagining, in my crash diet mentality, that I would have dropped most of the 20 pounds I've gained since last year's bikini by then.
I could sit here, burping, with my stretched stomach pressing against my waistband, hating myself for a few hours. Or I could just stick my finger down my throat -- so easy, like nothing ever happened!