I’ve had ice cream the past five days out of six, and yet my
jeans – which I am afraid to wash – are marginally less frightening.
I’m in Provence, at my friend E’s. It wasn’t a convenient
(or cheap) time to come, but E has a book due and needs help, and I jokingly
justified the cost of the airline ticket as cheaper than therapy for me. In a
lot of ways, this is the most relaxing place in the world for me. Except for
breakfast, which I make for myself, I get served delicious food at regularly
timed intervals and do virtually nothing to make that happen.
E. says I am much calmer about food than she’s ever seen me.
It’s funny, since it’s been years since I’ve been so panicked about my size. It’s
been months of bingeing for me – which is to say, pretty much since Christmas.
I get a week here and there without, but nothing close to the sort of eating it
would take actually to lose some of the weight I’ve put on. I guess I’m calmer
about food here because I’m just relieved not to be bingeing – I can’t worry
about whether the olive oil or the ice cream or the cheese is too much.
