On eating, or, blogging on my lunch hour with no lunch

I seem to be going through the motions with food this week. Coffee and half croissant/muffin for breakfast, coffee and club sandwich for lunch, plain sour cream donut at 3 when my arms get a bit numb, glass of wine for dinner (sure that’s a serving of fruit), midnight munchies - last night it was spelt lavash with cheese and red pepper dip (grains, dairy, veg). I can’t write when I’m full. Must be hungry and not sober.

I just stubbed out a smoke on the bench in front of work, took two steps towards food and then turned back and came inside. I wonder if I’ll ever look back on my life and realize that it wasn’t a fast metabolism but that I was a raging anorexic. Nah, you can’t see my bones. Except that it’s more complicated than that, it always is, nourishment being the promotion of life, and then the opposite. When I was 18 and told I was anaemic I stopped eating meat, turned away from health. I was bulimic for two weeks at 20 (starving would have been a waste of food, I had a meal card), astounded by the addictive power of it. Letting people I hated feed me and then throwing up fried eggs afterwards. Don’t you dare nourish me, see? I told Jen and she told me to stop and I did.

Sometimes the eating seems like too much of a commitment. Shopping, preparing, chewing, digesting, washing. Better to just stay still and conserve the energy, take the escalators, chain-smoke.

Don’t you dare read this and then try to feed me the next time I see you, it will make me feel shameful.

Ok, I’ll go out again and this time make it all the way to Tim’s. Cigarette first though.