Well, if it isn’t the MIA blogger. I know, I know. When I started this blog I made a commitment to post at least once a week but then, as per blogging dogma, I have abandoned my baby in order to pursue more interesting endeavours – or at least those that occupied my whole time. ‘Tis the weekend before Finals Week and I am taking a much-needed break between studying for Environmental Science (which I took for an easy A and ended up near-failing the midterm) and Philosophy (which is lovely but I spend half of my time in that class why people would bother thinking about these things in the first place). Needless to say, next week is going to be Hell – but necessary Hell, too, as on Saturday, December 21st, I am kissing Madrid goodbye and going home for three weeks. That is, if my country doesn’t enter into a state of civil war. Then that might be problematic. Honestly, between studying, reading the news about how much more my government can screw up on a daily basis and having found a job as a copy-writer, I have been keeping myself busy. Maybe a little too busy. Nevertheless, I am back in the game, so to speak.
Christmas is coming rapidly, and with it comes a plethora of luncheons, dinners, soirees and other food-involving events that might send me into hives. Yes, I am still sort of scared of food. But, oh well, at least I eat, right?
Wrong. I realised that even though I am now officially not starving myself, the variety of my diet is about as big as Thumbelina’s boobs. In all seriousness, I have been eating the same things every day for months now and the worst part is – I’m not even tired of it. I have been so bothered by other things that I don’t really care anymore about the flavour, or texture, or whatever else it is that people look for in food. It all tastes the same to me. So my ever-loving boyfriend and I have started a tradition of going for Italian and Japanese every weekend. Yet another routine? you might say. Well. We do try different things. And it’s helping me get over the working week mundanity of my menu. Not to mention going to restaurants requires me to dress up and look at least a little more presentable. While my boyfriend coaxes me into submitting to delicious fats, proteins and carbs, I have taken on the mission of teaching him to eat vegetables – because according to him they are evil. So far so good. I eat pizza, he agreed to eat a zucchini – and liked it. But we both still have a long way to go when it comes to getting over our prejudices about food.
Recently, I found a photo of myself taken in Malmö over lunch with my Dad. It was taken at a TGIF locale in the very city centre and I was… I don’t know, fifteen or sixteen, I guess. And I didn’t give a flying shit about the fact that I had just annihilated a plateful of deliciously juicy buffalo wings (because we remember how good those taste), nor was I bothered by the ginormous Oreo ice-cream that I was scooping from the plate and down my oesophagus. Ironically enough, I did not gain weight back then. It just wouldn’t stick. And once again I was caught up in a whirlwind of wishes, I want to be that girl again. I want to eat buffalo wings and not care.
And you will be, I keep telling myself, you will, just give it time.
Well, I don’t want it to take time.
Observe Exhibit B: a picture comparing myself wearing the same shirt in 2009 and last week.
Kind of weird that an eighteen-year-old would look less like an adult than her younger self. I turned to look at the mirror and realised that soon enough, if things go as they do, I will once again be asked for ID every time I go to a bar. And I had just gotten over that little kink. What is it, I thought, that makes me look older? The answer is simple, I guess. Having an actual body shape.
Yes, yes, I know.
Quit whining and do something about it. Try as I might, though, I can’t eat this much physically. I suppose the best thing for me in this case will be going home for Christmas and getting my old (-er) self back. Maybe being forced into uncomfortable food-driven situations will actually benefit my well-being. See, I cannot exactly throw a fit in a roomful of people. I am classier than that, and therefore I think I will be able to cope with the increased amounts of food if only to maintain some sense of decorum.
I am eating more. Fact.
I want to eat even more. Fact.
I still look like a biological sample from Mars. Fact.
I’m having pizza.