Food. I likes it.

I love food.

I could say there isn’t much more to it than that. I mean, what else is there to say? I love going out to eat with friends and family. I love trying new things. I love finding out that I love something that I didn’t even think I would like. I love a really good hamburger. I love cooking for my vegan friend. I love salad and fried chicken and white rice and stinky cheese. I don’t love sandwiches.



I love food, but even I wouldn't eat this.

But there is a lot more to it than that. You see, like many {way too many} young girls, I once struggled with food. I was a statistic. A thirteen year old, anorexic, skinny, statistic.

I love food. I’ve always loved food. It’s the eating part that gets you sometimes.

This post isn’t to wallow in self-pity about my poor self-image, and it’s not to tell you my story. Mainly because my story isn’t very interesting, but also because that’s not who I am anymore.

Earlier today, I thought about writing a post about when I knew that I was an adult. A few things came to mind. When I wrote my first rent check. When I graduated from college. When I walked down the aisle. I could have written about a number of things, but one stuck out in my mind.

One time, maybe about a year ago, I stepped on the scale and started to cry.

I don’t struggle with my weight. I’m not overweight and I’m not underweight. I don’t want to say that I’m “normal,” because really, what is normal?

Anyway, I stepped on the scale and I started to cry. You see, I weighed almost the same amount for nearly ten years of my life {minus the month that I spent in Paris, when I gorged myself on chocolate pastries and crepes, but I digress}. To see that number on the scale, almost twenty digits higher than what I remembered, was a shock. And I didn’t know how to handle it.

I argued with myself for months after that. Part of me wanted to diet, to try and get back to where I used to be. Another part of me didn’t care. And then it hit me.

I’m no longer the sixteen year old girl that weighs 110 pounds. I’m never going to be that girl again. I’m an adult. And I’m finally starting to look like it.

Coming to that realization was one of the most amazing epiphanies of my life. While my boyfriend may have found me attractive when we were in high school and I was as flat as a piece of cardboard, my husband doesn’t want to be married to someone who looks like they are still sixteen {he’s the same person, by the way}. The fact that I can actually fill out a Victoria’s Secret bra is kind of awesome to me. I don’t have to pretend that I’m a woman anymore, because I really am.

But, back to food {it relates, I promise}. I think there is a spectrum of how people look at food. On one end, there are the people who eat at McDonalds for every meal. On the other are those who count every calorie, who will only eat raw or organic or any number of things.

I don’t understand either end of this spectrum that I’ve created in my head. Why can’t we just enjoy what we eat. The person who eats chicken nuggets and French fries everyday isn’t going to enjoy their food just as much as the person who eats only grilled chicken breasts and salad with no dressing for lunch.

There is a happy medium somewhere along that spectrum; where it’s okay to go out for ice cream once a week, after a dinner of grilled salmon and green beans. I’ve constantly tried to find this balance, and realizing that I don’t have to hate my body, or manipulate it into something that it isn’t, has gotten me even closer to that happy medium. Because I love food. And that’s okay.

Now, this is turning into be a lengthy post, but I have just a little more to say. I went to the doctor yesterday, because of some stomach problems I’ve been having. We’ve ruled out an Inflammatory Bowel Disease and any type of infection that could be cured with antibiotics. And he mentioned something that I’m kind of scared of.

Celiac disease.

Because again, I love food. I love bread. I love pasta. I love bagels and muffins and cinnamon rolls and cupcakes. I don’t love sandwiches.

I’ve actually been trying a gluten free diet for the past week now, just to see if it helps at all. I feel good, but I couldn’t tell you at this point if it’s because I haven’t been eating gluten. It hasn’t been as difficult as I thought it would be. I’ve found that Trader Joe’s has really good wheat-free pasta and waffles. I found some white bread that satisfied my craving for toast this morning. And I have a new appreciation for Chipotle, who has almost an entirely gluten free menu, minus their flour tortillas.

Even if this isn’t what’s wrong with me, I’ve definitely learned a lot from this experience. And if it weren’t gluten, if I were trying to eat only organic or vegan or raw, I would learn many of the same things. Eating gluten-free has made me much more conscious of what I eat. It has forced me to look at the labels, to think about what I am putting into my body. And it’s brought me even closer to that happy medium.

If you get anything from this novel of a post {I apologize for that}, I would just encourage you to find your own happy medium. To find what works for your body. To be happy with who you are. To be healthy.

That’s all. Thanks for listening.

Love you.