I have never been one of those girls who opted for only a salad and a diet coke at dinner. I grew up with a mother who loved to cook enough for an army and a father who’s after-dessert staple was a bowl of pretzel sticks and a glass of orange juice. We were a food-loving family. Granted, I have had my own hang-ups with weight and body-image, as would any teenage girl, but generally I feel pretty confident regarding food and myself.
Yet lately, calorie-counting has made it’s grand entrance into my household. I won’t disclose whose compulsion it is, but I will say that it came as quite a shock. Now, every conversation revolves around food: how healthy it is, how much of it is acceptable, fat content, grams of sugar, wheat bread, fiber. It’s enough to drive me crazy and make me want to cry all at once. I have never in my life felt like the spotlight was continuously on what I, and everyone else, ate. What’s more, I didn’t realize weight came with a judgement call: Thin equals good, and anything less than that equals bad.
Lesson: Food should be fun. Continue reading