Watched the Secret Life of Bees last night.
It's a great movie, it really is, but when I kept catching myself being distracted by long-shots of the now-fourteen-year-old Dakota Fanning and thinking, 'She's so skinny', I thought I might be kind of missing the point.
This happens fairly often. My obsession with thin (although far from that holiest of holy descriptions myself) drives me to distraction quite often. I lose whole threads of what intelligent women are saying because I'm surreptitiously (at least I hope it's surreptitiously) checking out their thighs or arms and wondering what they eat for breakfast.
It's a fairly mainstream preoccupation I guess. I mean, at least I'm not wondering what underwear they're wearing. Or what it smells like. But still, I can feel people getting tired of me. I'm tired of me sometimes.
You see, the thing is, while I have this drive for a waif-like body, and religiously count my kJs and hit the gym for a few conscientious weeks, they're swiftly followed by days of endlessly shovelling food into my mouth, then whining about how I've gained the measly two kilos I managed to lose in the preceding starvation.
Case in point, last night. Dinner and a DVD at the uber-petite Bunny's house. Veggie pizza, followed by popcorn followed by tea and rusks as a nightcap (we're hardcore like that). Rolled outta there.
Woke up at about 3am with my stomach in knots, feeling violently nauseated – an actual physical sign from my body that it's time to stop feeding myself.
First thought: oh fuck not swine flu
Second thought: gosh gee maybe you should have rethought that fourth rusk, idiot
Third thought: get a hair elastic ... if dinner decides to make a reappearance, better to be prepared. There's just not always somebody around to hold your hair back...
Luckily (or perhaps not?) the veggie pizza decided it preferred my stomach after all. Probably because so many of its buddies are hanging out there...
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