It’s a little ironic for a recovering anorexic/bulimic to title a post “purging”, but that’s just how I roll.  If I can’t make fun of my ridiculous and bizarre mental problems, who can?  Certainly not my mother - that’s for sure! 

Anyway, this weekend I was putting clean laundry away - possibly number 1 on my top 10 list of “Things Over Which I Procrastinate”.  As I gazed around, I realized I was actually looking at a doll-sized suede jacket my parents bought for me when I went off to school in Ann Arbor.  Next to it was the Ann Taylor suit I wore to my interview at Chrysler. Size 2.  And then there were the 10 suits I wore right after I got married, during my fling as marketing director of Witt, Mares.  Yeah, they ranged from size 6 to size 10.  And the shoes, oh, the shoes.  So many work shoes - fun heels, funky sandals, shoes I couldn’t bear to part with.  I started piling stuff into a trash bag.  That became another. And another. Finally I gave up on the trash bags and moved to contractor bags.  When I was done, I had 2 HUGE bags I couldn’t lift full of shoes, diaper bags, purses, and suits my wide, post-pregnancy ass will never again fit into.

The Ann Taylor suit was the hardest.  It was purchased at my tiniest, after 2 years of starvation.  I weighed 98 pounds for a couple of years in college.  If you look closely, you can probably see the hair that regularly fell out of my head entwined in the fabric.  I remember wearing it when I went to meet Keith at his office, after my interview at Chrysler, and feeling super-powerful and wickedly smart.  It’s one of those few times I know I looked good.  I was never beautiful - cute was about as good as it got - but damn, I looked good in that suit.  Put on enough foundation, and the yellow pallor of my skin wasn’t all that noticeable. 

I remember that moment so clearly - standing in his office, and thinking, “He’s proud that he’s with me.”  It was a feeling that only lasted about 10 minutes, but it was momentous for me.  I wasn’t insecure around the hot receptionist and I wasn’t insecure knowing that his ex was probably lurking somewhere nearby, ready to show up unannounced with a boiled rabbit in a pot. 

Yeah, the suit was that good. 

And now, as I continue to punish myself with the SuperModel Y WorkOut, I knew I had to let go of that suit.  It often taunted me in my closet.  I kept hanging onto it.  “Who knows?” thought I. “I could end up accidentally ingesting a tapeworm and fit back into it someday.”  As I sat in TNT class today, thinking about the suit wadded up in a trashbag in the trunk of my car, I stared around me.  Blond Barbie in super-tight exclusive workout wear to my right.  In front, a Marissa Tomei lookalike in a cropped top settling nicely around her six pack.  Did I mention she had twins 2 years ago?  Behind me, some tall, stork-like figurine with poufy hair and full make up.  At 7.45 AM.  And me - smack in the middle of the class, cursing Elke for making us lift weights while standing on ONE LEG on a Bosu Ball.  At least I had a new workout shirt on instead of a ratty t-shirt stolen from Mike’s drawer (like his Grateful Dead 1994 Tour T-Shirt - did I mention I am not a fan of the GD???).

It’s almost become normal now for me to feel like a bumbling dork in my neighborhood and at the gym.  I live in the land of money, plastic surgery, and very thin women.  I used to console myself by saying, “Yeah, but they are wacky out here.  I’m really not THAT bad.”

Until I got the Wii Fit.

And this tiny, chipmunky voice screamed out at me:  “Your BMI is ____.  You’re OBESE!!!” 

I think I shouted the F word at it.  I KNOW I flipped it off.  It even changed my Mii to a big fat version of the regular one.  There’s nothing like starting up the Wii Fit, and seeing Mike, Arden and Lily in normal cartoon form, while my big fat avatar waddles out from the side of the screen.  Lily even shouted, “Mommy, why are you fat on the tv???”  I loved her for not saying, “Mommy, why are you fat in real life?”

There are times, like now, when I think all the damage I’ve done to my body over the years is insurmountable.  I will NEVER lose this weight without the help of amphetamines, a tapeworm, or an addiction to Ex-Lax (which, by the way, I could never bring myself to do - but it sounds cool).  It might even take a lethal combination of all three.  Or that I will forever be this person I barely recognize in the mirror. 

Yet I continue to go to the gym.  I’m trying to watch what I eat more closely without going overboard and getting freaky with calorie counting and starving.  I continue to let the Wii Fit chipmunk weigh and tell me how obese I am.  Sometimes it even says, “You seem really shaky today.  Do you find yourself tripping a lot?”  At which I generally curse at it and considering throwing the balance board out the window. 

So this weekend, I faced reality.  I am never going to be a size 2 again.  I shouldn’t have been in the first place, and I certainly won’t be that way again.  In order to get back into the suit, I need to be sick again.  And I think I’d rather be fat than sick.  I’m seriously almost to the point in my recovery where I can almost believe that.  Hopefully somewhere out in Richmond, a very tiny woman can march around in a well-preserved tweed suit and feel ultra powerful in it.  My closet sure wasn’t getting any wear out of it.