The Non Diet, Part Three

One of the brilliant books I have in my library is entitled When Women Stop Hating their Bodies. Gee, could that be a little more direct? I have gone up and down about my body image, and the distortions if it in my mind, ad nauseum, I know. I have just finished rereading the book, and had a bit of a breakthrough, which may be obvious to y’all who know me, but I was kind of amazed.

I spoke with my mother this morning, and asked her to meet me out, on this misty, rainy day, at a fancy department store, to keep me company while I shopped for black heels. I thought she wouldn’t possibly be gardening in a downpour, but, as usual, when it comes to Mumsie Dearest, I was wrong. I was turned down flat, scolded for asking her to come shopping, “when you know I hate the mall!” and summarily dismissed. Maybe she didn’t know the DH was back from doing his imitation of a guinea-pig , and was afraid she might have to hold a baby or something. It’s funny how she hates the mall now. My mother has every Wednesday, for four months in the winters, to spend on her own while my father goes to his continuing education classes. I remember, when I was a single girl, we would spend those Wednesdays together. I think we went to the mall about 15 out of the twenty evenings for two years in a row. But, sorry, I guess that does mean she hates the mall. What was I thinking? But I digress. My breakthrough.

I had just put the phone down, hands trembling, when I was struck by a desire for chocolate. Fortunately I had a lovely, rich, dark chocolate truffle from Nordstrom Habits on hand, so opened the yap, and inhaled it. Actually, I almost choked; it was a big truffle. I felt a little better immediately, but as usual, I also felt a twinge of guilt for eating when not really hungry. Then I thought, “Wow! My mother, the one person in this world who is supposed to love me and want to see me, would rather pull weeds in a downpour than be with me for an hour. So, I go for something sweet to erase the bitterness. Could this be more plain?”

So that’s my breakthrough; the realization that I feel rejected and I get “hungry”. I know it’s not just my mother, although she is a powerful part of my problem. It's simple: I feel hurt and then I stuff myself full of sweeties to dilute the bile in my throat. I wonder what a therapist would have to say about that? Did I tell you my mother is a therapist? Oh, the hell with my mother and her innumerable problems. She deserves my pity, poor woman. I must be kinder to myself, and not get so hurt by her. This breakthrough could be very good, since recognition of a problem is the first step to a cure.

Pass the candy.