I’m conscientiously objecting to Thanksgiving dinner with my family this year, in favor of sleeping in, not driving, and avoiding small talk, and now having an irresponsible quantity of Indian food delivered and getting ready to scare myself shitless by watching Ma in the dark.
It is easily one of my top 5 best mental health choices of the year.
I hope you’re all having an equally wondrous and self-determined holiday, and if you’re not, I hope there’s alcohol and pie.
It seems silly to be single with no kids and only one job and say, “I don’t have the time or energy to deal with starting a relationship.” But I’ve just gotten home at 7 p.m. after an unexpectedly late evening at work, which isn’t unusual. I don’t feel like talking to anyone, and the only thing I want in me is tater tots and a glass of wine. And then I want to go to sleep like the fat, tranquilized bear that I am.
I’m having one of those weeks where I can’t understand how anyone has time to do anything, ever. You people are fucking wizards, I swear.
Therapist: “But you get regular checkups and your health is fine? Heart, cholesterol, blood pressure?”
Me: “Yes, but I’m MUCH heavier than the recommended highest weight for my height. And I’m not looking at, like, Jamie Lee Jo Bob’s Anorexia Enthusiast Forum — these are weight charts from real medical organizations.”
Therapist: “Those charts are based on the same BMI criteria you just told me was ‘horseshit.’ Have you heard of the Health at Every Size movement? That you can weigh more than you ‘should’ but still be perfectly healthy?”
Me: “Of course. And I totally believe that.”
Therapist: “OK, so…you JUST said your health is fine.”
Me: “But it’s NOT. I have a gut like a 55-year-old man with a lifelong Budweiser habit.”
Therapist: “I agree you should exercise more often, but if you do, and you eat a balanced diet, what if this is genetically just the way your body is supposed to be?”
Me: “It’s not.”
Therapist: “So you’re saying you support the idea of ‘health at every size’ for everyone except yourself?”
Me: “…Yes, that’s correct.”
She doesn’t want me to do Whole30, because apparently you, like, need carbs to live or something? But I’m doing it, so… we’ve reached an impasse. And by “impasse,” I mean, “thing I’m not telling my therapist.”