Eat the Damn Cake

I have been eating a lot. A lot. And it bothers me that I feel guilty because of it.

Bear read a book called Good Calories, Bad Calories not too long ago. And he’s pretty sure that refined carbohydrates will be the death of me. It sounds like kind of a smart book, actually, but I don’t want to read it. Because I like killing myself with muffins. Not killing myself. I like eating muffins.

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Bear doesn’t eat any carbs. Neither does my little brother Gabe, who is a diabetic, too, and who interns for Bear now, at Bear’s new job. Gabe comes and stays with us, and he and Bear talk about the world economy (it’s always depressing) and eat salad together. I am learning more about the world economy as a result.

My other brother, the middle one, put himself on a strict diet and workout schedule years ago, when he started college. He lost a lot of weight and gained a lot of muscle and he doesn’t eat any carbs. He also doesn’t drink diet soda, because of the artificial sweetener. He drinks water with lemon juice, which is actually quite good. His willpower is crazy. It’s more like a superpower. It can probably make him fly by now.

Neither of my parents eat carbs. My dad is a diabetic and my mom has cut them out of her diet (though she’ll have a piece of chocolate or a bite of my cake occasionally).

I’ve written about this before, but I need to write about it  again, because here I am, in my new apartment, eating carbs all day long, and feeling guilty. And writing about it on a blog called “Eat the Damn Cake.”

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This is kind of a rant. And it’s really judgmental. So stop reading now if you disapprove of ranting, judgmental people (I know I do).

We were at a little trendy restaurant in our little trendy neighborhood, and a family came in. The guy was wearing a cap and orange shorts and a plaid shirt with a neckerchief and pale blue loafers. He had a stylish beard. The woman looked displeased in her looping, soft dress with patches of fabric that only barely covered her breasts, no back, and enormous sunglasses.

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All of that was fine, of course. They were stylin’. But so was their tiny, toddling son.

He was dressed in tiny corduroy pants and a tiny plaid shirt with tiny suspenders and a tiny neckerchief and a tiny conductor’s cap. He was sweaty and unhappy. We were eating outside and it was humid. He was squirming in his hipster-chic outfit, pulling at the suspenders as though he wanted to escape.

And I felt a wave of judgmentalness sweep over me.

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I used to be a size 2. Once I got size zero pants, when I was maybe fifteen, and I was pretty proud. I would not be able to get into those pants now. Not even close. But sizing is confusing. For something so easy to place a lot of value on, it isn’t nearly straightforward enough.

I often get the sense that I am lopsided, when I’m buying something for my bottom and something for my top at the same time. A bikini bottom and top is the most striking example. The bottom has to be a lot bigger. To accommodate my butt (in case that wasn’t clear). The top has to be pretty small. Because of my breasts.

Because my sizes are all over the place, I wonder if my body is just disproportionate. It sometimes feels like all of my parts are making up their own minds, and none of them are interested in getting along with any of the others. Have my boobs ever even spoken to my butt? Has there ever even been an acknowledgement that they are in this together?

Can’t you guys just be friends?

I always think I’m bigger than I am. When I feel awkward, especially, I feel like I’m taking up too much space. Like I’m stealing it.

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We moved! It looked like this (old place):

And then, after I unpacked a million boxes,  this (new place):

Bear thought he would take all of the boxes out at once. I asked him why he’d even try to do that. He said because he was a man.

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