What is it that leads me, in one moment, shaking my head at the shocking size of my pants and dismay at my ability to make a clapping sound with my thighs, to the next moment of finding myself ordering a quarter pounder dinner? I know what corn syrup in coke and that fat in the fries and burger, not too mention the chemicals that give each bite that uniform flavor experience, will do to my body. I don't just mean increasing the size of my already generously proportioned fat cells. I mean the inflammation. The damage. And the perpetuation of a cycle. Yet there I was.

How does this disconnect happen? I shook my head at the woman in front of me, obviously getting a very large takeout order including sundaes. But it's really only a matter of degrees.

This morning I walked into my husband's little office room and looked longingly at the last donut in the box. He now keeps them in his office to keep them out of my sight range. But I know they are there. In fact, I bought this box to replace the prior box that I ate. From his office. I ate most of this box too. Yet that last donut is bewitched. Taking the last one seems like a violation. Or a confession of guilt. Husband, I would eat your last donut. When you go looking, expecting a donut, wanting a donut, you will find none and your disappointment will be my fault. Somehow, if I leave that last donut, it makes the fact that I ate the other donuts less bad. Yes, I ate 11 donuts, but at least you can have one! Right?

But today, I ate it. Somehow I thought maybe I would be taking responsibility for my past actions if I ate the last one and confessed to him. It was stale. He wouldn't have liked it anyway. I dipped it in my coffee and before I knew it, it was gone. He took my confession well enough. Shrug of the shoulders. He'd already given up on it, I think.

He's mentioned a donut safe. I encourage him to consider it. I don't really want to eat those donuts. But I'm restless. And sometimes I think I take them as payment -- or acknowledgement of my deeds and of my goodness. I'll take your donuts in lieu of your appreciation of my sacrifice.

This has been a pattern before my husband entered the picture with his donuts, chips, pizza, peanut butter, and ice cream. I cleaned out the cupboards of the family I nannied for. They mentioned it a few times - do you think you could leave us a little peanut butter for the weekend? And babysitting was a binge-a-thon. So was my friend Dennis's apartment. We used to joke that I was his Kramer (minus the newly discovered racism of Michael Richards). I've been known to dispose of more than half of a freshly baked pie. Once I disposed of the final half of a severely aged pie and only noted the slightly chewy peaches and a tinge of nausea upon completion.

Yet when I lost the weight before, it wasn't like that. I would have a taste of the thing-- or nothing at all -- with no desire to binge; no desire to have it; no desire to fill the restless void lacking payment. Why? Was I less self sacrifing? Was I more confident and less in need of acknowledgement? I just don't know. But I'm aware of it now, the return of this behavior and the loss of it once; and I am working on thinking it through. Am I really eating their appreciation or is it something else?

My thighs applaud my thoughtful entry tonight. Clap, clap! (shhhh!)

Yours,
Holly