Binge Eating: Jaws and a Treadmill
Jaws and a Treadmill
Jaws & a Treadmill
I just sprained my ankle in the kitchen doing nothing but roasting red peppers, which ruins my plans of making up with my treadmill which I very definitely was going to do tomorrow. For real.
After eating my way through the holiday season (which for me started on July 4th) and after seeing the number on that (probably totally faulty) doctor’s office scale today, I really need to NOT have a torn ligament or whatever it is I just did to myself. Because I’m getting on that treadmill. Tomorrow!
I’ve managed to gain a ton of weight since July. In part due to some health issues keeping my energy down and my lungs incapable of working right during exercise. But also because I’m a super successful binge eater. And I’m OUT of control. Again.
I’ve been a binge girl since forever. I try. Everyday. Really hard. But the fat kid inside me who can’t handle a day WITHOUT a binge always wins. The same kid who used to empty out the arcade vending machines and feed her face in secret in the woods and whose one and only shoplifting attempt involved a giant York Peppermint Patty at the Food Lane. Who to this day stashes bags of chocolate in her closet and hits a feeding frenzy every day around 2:00. THAT kid.
Sometimes a good diet or exercise spurt can keep her at bay. But she always resurfaces. She’s like my inner Jaws.
Like when he chomps up that girl (in the opening shot) who’s too stupid not to go swimming in the ocean in the dark; I attack my kitchen with wild and ravenous take-no-prisoners flair. I devour probably close to 1500 calories in a matter of minutes, but who’s counting?
The Wake Up Call
And then I come to, and I realize what just happened and it’s like I wasn’t even there. But I was. Like always. Like yesterday and the day before that. And then I feel like crap and hate myself. And then the next day comes and I hit repeat even though I swear each morning that today will be different.
I got all the issues. Blah, blah, blah. Weight. Food. Body image. It’s so old. Exhausting.
And it’s the end of January and I’m right where I always find myself this time of year: fat and miserable. I need the treadmill. Tomorrow.
And I should probably ice this ankle. It’s not feeling so bad now. Definitely not a torn anything. I can certainly exercise tomorrow.
Pretty sure there’s an ice pack. In the freezer.
Right next to the Klondike bars...
© 2018 Gretchen Klinedinst Furst