“You are demented. You are sick in the head, do you know that?” My co-worker tells me this in all seriousness as I run into the ballet studio from the gym. I am unpacking my rice cakes and cottage cheese and laughing at her. “Did you work out for another hour and a half today?”
I nod and grin (dementedly).
“Food is not some chemical experiment that you do on your body. You’re supposed to eat for pleasure.” She carries on her tirade, gesturing to my rice cakes and I laugh some more. The only time I eat for pleasure is when I know I can purge it straight back up.
She is a skinny b**tch and I tell her that (lovingly). “You will never understand,” I insist as I change out of sweaty gym clothes into ballet teaching clothes. She is changing too and I send envious daggers at her skinny thighs that do not touch.
“Well you have a problem with food,” she says. I do not disagree with her.
“You’ve only just figured that out?” my other co-worker (the one who used to count my ribs when they were visible) interjects. “This girls got big issues. Big, big shoes.”
We affectionately call issues “shoes” and refer to the amount of issues in one’s life as the “shoe collection”. Mine is quite magnificent.