You throw up after your second half-slice of cheesecake, and feel lucky to find an aged bottle of generic mint mouthwash under the bathroom sink. The whole act feels as illicit as having had sex in your host’s bed, and you exacerbate the situation by stripping off your winter boots and jean skirt to stand on the scale. It’s old, stuck on a figure you hope isn’t accurate, and you’re groaning as the needles might under the weight of so much Christmas dinner and regret. Footsteps creak past the door, and you shimmy quickly back into your clothes.
It’s only grandma, fortunately, who would never imagine you were doing anything other then usual business in there. Talks of weight loss only lead to her boasting that she doesn’t need to lose or gain, but only, at eighty years of age, get back into shape. Your bone thin massage therapist cousin promises yoga and a detox diet in the new year, your husband refuses dessert and any humoring of your mania, and the chubby children dig into thirds. God, how you hope you won't have chubby children, and hate yourself for hoping.
At least the posh aunts in their skinny jeans are going home soon, and you can feel guilty and cruel in relative peace. Your metabolism can’t be to blame when they’re around. It’s just you.
Eating disorders are not logical.
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