I’m going to have to be careful talking about matters like this. Just ask Jezebel, where the shit always hits the fan when this type of thing comes up.
Is there any way to lose weight without hating yourself constantly with every calorie you count? Without berating yourself everytime you think of chocolate? Without turning into Cathy from the comic strip?
See, the dress I was ostensibly going to wear to the wedding came in yesterday. $60 with shipping, and I thought it would look nice and be a good deal. It was not and did not. It didn’t really fit in the bodice, and I doubt it would have looked that great even if it had fit.
I wanted to throw myself off my balcony. I wanted to eliminate food from my diet. I wanted to just stop craving food, to stop obsessing about how it looks if I order a combo instead of a salad. I wanted to not care about food at all, and therefore not care if I eat lettuce for dinner everyday. I wanted the voice in my head that called me a failure for what the scale says to just shut up already.
Unfortunately, I can’t do any of that. And neither, I suspect, do many of the woman I walk past everyday. The ideal presented in Vogue is rail-thin. Yet two thirds of Americans are fatty McFatfaces who all deserve to die for not looking like Vogue. Men are the exception, because fat men are funny. Fat women are just pathetic, apparently.