Yet another moment of distress. I pull on a t-shirt to wear to bed. My size M which I've worn so proudly for the last several years, for the first time since—when? Junior high? It clings to my middle, refusing to fall down smoothly over my rear-end. I feel exposed.
The day was filled with these moments, as was the week, the weekend, the month. Putting on my jeans this morning, fresh from the wash, and having that initial moment of dismay before they finally relaxed slightly around my enlarged frame. The reminder, each time I stood up or walked, that I have gained weight because of the way they cling stubbornly to my thighs. How many times to today did my heart sink at that rub-rub-rub?
I cannot stop. I cannot start. Eating. Exercising. I can't get past this place of spinning my wheels.
Am I going to stop eating everything in sight? I ask my husband, in bed.
Yes, he replies.
When, I ask.
When you want something else more than food.
I don't like his answer. He wonders why I won't let him put his arm around my thick, bulging waist. Why I pull away. Why I shut down. Again.
WHEN I want something more? As if I don't already? As if I don't long, achingly, every day of my life for something more?
The problem, of course, if that he is right. And wrong. I want both nothing and everything more than food.