Hey, guess what?  I’m kind of a perfectionist.  It’s a theme that has followed me throughout the years.  No matter how good I was at something, it wasn’t good enough. Even being really good at starving or withholding food wasn’t enough.  Someone was always doing it better than me.  One of my college roommates was anorexic.  It was like the battle of diseases - my bulimia versus her anorexia.  In retrospect it was so sick, it would have made for good reality tv.  “Watch her puke as her roommate starves!  Who can eat less than the other?  Tune in at 10 for the final showdown!”

Everytime I cycle through gaining weight, then losing it, the extremes are hard to temper.  At one extreme, I can’t imagine ever eating sensibly again.  My inner demon says, “You’ve denied for years.  You deserve whatever you want, whenever you want it.”  On the other extreme, my inner demon says, “You fat pig - you can never again eat like other people.  You aren’t like other people.  Barley and oats for the rest of your life.”

Doing Weight Watchers has been fairly enlightening.  Because no foods are verboten, I don’t get that panicky, “OH MY GOD THAT COOKIE WILL KILL ME” feeling like I did during the two years I went without flour or sugar.  And because I am “allowed” to eat whatever, I tend to want certain foods less.  In this respect, Weight Watchers - for now - has been successful.  I’ve struggled with food for too long to be able to proclaim that it’s the Perfect Diet. 

Part of growing older and looking back over all the years of the struggle has proven to me once again that there is no such thing as perfection.  I was reading an article today on “Phantom Fat” and unfortunately I can really relate to it.  Even at my thinnest, I only saw the fat girl lurking beneath the skin.  How could I be 102 pounds and think I was fat? Oh, the joy of a messed up head . . . and how annoying!  how irritating! that all these years later I still struggle with the image in the mirror.

I will say that I’m more able to accept the imperfections of my diet.  That occasionally I will order french fries with my grilled chicken, or get an ice cream cone with the kids.  That’s the joy of being “normal” and of eating “normally”.  Food isn’t good or bad - just because it’s a donut doesn’t mean it’s a convicted felon and should be in food jail.  Salad isn’t angelic, nor is broccoli.  I came face to face with that when I found myself eating a piece of cold pizza at 3 o’clock in the afternoon (!!!).  My first instinct was to freak out and feel like I’d ruined not only my day, but my entire life.  That combination of dough, tomatoes and cheese had the power to just crush my resolve and make me feel tiny (and huge, all at the same time).  Later, after the panic had subsided, I put it into perspective.  It was a piece of pizza.  A simple piece.

As the weight comes off, I’m hopeful my need to be perfect will come off along with it.  Hope is a very good thing.