There was this time when I wanted to die when I was like 11 years old because I ate every last morsel of the tortilla chips at a Mexican restaurant with my family. And then I somehow managed to consume every last bit of my chicken quesadilla AND save room for a big fat cone of strawberry ice cream. I couldn't say no...we were on vacation and this ice cream joint was part of our Cape Cod tradition.
Just the black and white striped cup on Google Images sparks excitement sixteen years later.
I remember being full to the point of immobilization; the very act of buckling my seatbelt across my bloated torso was painful. From the backseat of my family's Ford station wagon, I vowed never to eat again. This prompted an immediate lesson from my fit parents, who insisted on exercising (usually in the form of running) every single day, rain or shine (I have a vivid memory of my father going for a run during the famous Hurricane Bob of 1991).
Dad?
"It's all about moderation and exercise," Mom or dad (probably mom) lectured. I've always been an extreme person. Either elated or despondent, riveted or detached; and redesigning a whole lifestyle and mindset about carefully thinking about what I ingested would be impossible for me at age 11 (it still is impossible now). So instead, I pledged I would never eat again. This is where you think I'm going to transition into a horror story perfect for one of those xoJane "It Happened To Me- I weighed 95 lbs. after developing an eating disorder". Nope.
Within 24 hours, I'm sure I was gleefully chomping into a s'more.
That's the thing: I was never anorexic nor bulimic. I never had to be hospitalized. I never had to have an "intervention" with loved ones. I never lost a "shocking amount of weight" to cause concern or rumors. I just was a normal fat teenager, eventually bowling my way into the "technically" obese chart in my pediatrician's office. Then, when I was 14, I spent two weeks of the summer only eating Freeze Pops and every so often, working out to my mom's trippy Reebok Step video. I think my mom was concerned about my eating habits, but she was probably proud that I was finally getting my heart rate over 80 BPM without her harassment.
Normal 14 year olds swim at the pool in summer. Abnormal 14 year olds exercise to this.
A month or so later, I had to run a mile around a field next to my high school as part of a gym fitness test. A class clown with mainly self-deprecative themed material, I told my friends who agreed to run alongside me that they should encourage me by repeating the mantra, "Keep running, fat ass," should I try to stop to catch my breath. They had to say it like, five times. But I finally ran a mile! In the gym classes of junior high, I had "pretended" to "run" the mile. I never actually made it around the track four times in the allotted 15 minutes. Like, I needed 20 minutes to walk a mile.
Anyway, this was a major physical breakthrough for me. And so then I started to run, albeit slowly and not far. As time went by (cue the movie montage of running clips over the years: stuffing my inhaler in my sports bra, twisting my ankle after losing my balance on a teen-angsty run, the kind neighbor at the end of three miles who gave me a cup of water on a 100 degree summer day), I dropped a lot of weight, and soon I became like, in limbo between "athletic" and "still kinda fat." I also was a heavy dancer at this time and I fell in love/hate with Bikram hot yoga.
Whatever. The point is, I exercised and worked out, but continued my carpe diem eating habits.
Thirty fucking pounds of me has yo-yo'ed back and forth for the past ten years. I lost a good amount of weight during a college breakup, and then put it all back on within four months of
So here I am now, at age 27, a seventh grade writing teacher, on the heavier side of my typical twenties' fluctuation, stumbling upon a BuzzFeed "Clean Eating" diet that a random girl like three years below me in high school posted to her friend on Facebook. "Absolutely not, LOL," this girl has written above the link. It's a snow day, there's no school, I'm bored and therefore hungry, so I click to look at some pretty pictures of food.
It's a clean eating detox. Click and scroll. Lots of kale and almonds. Click and scroll. No bread or rice or pasta or red meat of any kind are featured in the Instagrammy photos.
Impressive spread. But doesn't really get my blood flowing like the Peaceful Meadows cup.
Maybe it's the aerial photos of perfectly arranged plates and whisks and the chic cooking ware. Maybe it's that I've always wondered if a kale smoothie tastes like shit. Maybe it's because I've already emailed the link to my best friends, boyfriend, and mom, which is like making a public declaration that I'm going on a diet/ detox and I've put myself in a position to somehow be held accountable. Or maybe, I'm finally experiencing a reverse form of my carpe diem eating habits.
I decide I'm gonna do this.
