Always Order Dessert

My friend Moe once remarked that she thought it was pretty cool that unlike just about every other woman she knows, I never complain about my weight.

"I've never heard you say 'Does this make me look fat?' or 'I need to go on a diet' or anything like that. You just always seem so comfortable with yourself."

"It's intentional," I replied.

I made a conscious decision a long time ago that I would never be one of "those girls." The girls who constantly count calories and base their self-esteem on the size of their jeans. I've never wanted to be consumed by that.

A couple years ago, a friend asked me to join her and her roommate at a Weight Watchers meeting. I was bored and curious so I went along. It was spring and Easter and Passover were approaching. The moderator started talking about the difficulties of sticking to a dieting regiment over the holidays. She mentioned something about how much she loved jelly beans. The statement sent a murmur around the room. One by one, the women started shouting out the things they were going to miss most....Cadbury Cream Eggs, coconut macaroons, marshmallow Peeps, chocolate bunnies...

It was insane. They were practically salivating as they went into explicit detail about the things they wouldn't be able to eat. It was like listening to food porn and I'm pretty certain that at least 50 percent of those women headed straight for the candy aisle at CVS the second the meeting ended. I, on the other hand, left with the intention of writing a one-act play about the experience.

I don't diet. I love food far too much to force myself into some kind of suffocating dining regiment. I eat when I'm hungry and I don't when I'm not. It's as simple as that. I don't deny myself the things that I really want and I won't settle for bland low-whatever substitutes. I love bread and real sugar and creamy, garlicky things. I dip my french fries in mayonnaise and put cream in my coffee. I love dark chocolate and cheese, and I enthusiastically nod yes when offered a dessert menu.

I try to go to the gym as regularly I can, but not because I want to look good; I go because it makes me feel good. I love Pilates and yoga, and the occasional spinning class. It's how I kill my stress and the bucket load of neuroses I carry around. I may have grown up in New Jersey and come of age in DC, but as far as my anxieties are concerned, I'm like a Woody Allen film on continuous loop. I guess I just realized that with as many things as there are to worry about, the difference between being a size 8 or 10 or 12 is the least of them.

I realize that a lot of this is really a reaction to my mother's attitude towards food. Chubby when young, she was teased mercilessly by her cousins and brothers. In an effort to squelch their teasing she started dieting and has never stopped since. My whole life I've had to listen to the "oh I can't eat that" or "I just need to lose 10 more pounds by Christmas." This morning, as I rifled through the fridge in search of something to drink with breakfast I wondered out loud why there is never any juice in our house. "Juice is all sugar. Sugar makes you fat. Drink something else," my mom matter-of-factly replied as she grabbed a bottle of water. I was tempted to pour myself a glass of wine in protest, but resisted and made some tea instead.

She needled me all throughout high school. Expressing concern about my weight and making comments about the things I ate. A consummate baker, there was usually a tray of something that I'd made sitting in the kitchen. My dad and brother loved it, but she would come in and pick up the cookie or brownie the way one might pick up a dead mouse and shake her head disapprovingly. The comments lessened once I left for college. The first couple years she tried to monitor my weight and gym attendance until she realized that she really couldn't control much from afar.

I'd all but forgotten about it until last month when she came down to DC to help me pack up my apartment. After a day of working, we took a break to eat dinner. She had a cup of coffee. I had buffalo wings and a Greek salad. She watched me as I ate the wings, pulling the meat off with my teeth and licking my fingers.

"I always feel so carnal when I eat these," I told her with a laugh. Her all too familiar look sliced into my mirth like a knife.

"What?" I asked, barely able to mask the irritation in my voice. She hesitated for a moment and then said, "Do you ever think about what a bombshell you would be if you were to lose 20 pounds? You would be beautiful..."

"I'm already beautiful," I replied, cutting her off. "And I hope you don't think that just because I'm moving home you can start that again." I turned away from her and towards my laptop where I rather serendipitously found an e-mail from someone who clearly agreed with me.

This is not what I'd been planning on writing about today. [And no, it's not what I did last Wednesday.] But it's what came to my mind after stumbling across this incredible post on another blog. In poetic language, the writer tells the story of a girl she grew up with who died from anorexia. She I found this passage particularly moving:

I try not to comment on the way my friends look, their weight or their appearance. Not when they look good, not when they look thin. I try to tell them how happy I am to see them. I try to get them away, from the clubs and the gym and the pressured existence of Manhattan ambition. I try to laugh at their jokes, tell them how funny they are, engage their souls, connect. I don’t allow the gym clothes to hide the reality that my friend is becoming too thin. So thin that I need to reinforce through my actions that boys, and party dresses and the pursuit of glamour, adoration and the thinnes[s] reserved for the naturally petite is not what will make us feel full. I try not to read those magazines. I try not to stand in front of the mirror too long.

I know that I'm lucky because I was blessed with a proportionate figure and attractive features, but I know plenty of girls who have similar or better figures than mine and yet have twice the insecurities. I'm not going to lie and say that there are never days when I feel unsure or doubt myself. Days when I don't feel that attractive or can't seem to find something to wear, but fortunately, they are few and far between. Most of the time I'm very happy with myself and know that while I may not fit the "ideal" magazine cover image, the whole package is pretty darn spectacular.

And so I try to surround myself with the friends who also believe this. The ones who know that, as cliche as it may sound, it really is what's inside that counts. The ones who think of a decadent brunch as an experience to share with friends and not as something they're going to have to make up for with extra time at the gym. The ones who don't spend all their time scrutinizing themselves in the mirror or discussing diets. The ones who always order dessert...