Figuring things out

25Oct06

I have never once given serious thought to the composition of the things I eat. In middle school and high school, I had requisite bouts of body dysmorphia, during which I’d obsess over fat grams or refuse to eat anything for several days straight. But I’d always come back around to eating pretty much whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. The way I saw it, I was so picky that it was a wonder I’d eat anything at all; why deprive myself of the foods I actually did like?

So my utter disconnect from the reality of what food is — body fuel — and what’s in it and how it works has left me in the peculiar position of having to relearn all that stuff we went over in sixth-grade health class that never really learned and have totally forgotten anyway. Things like why protein is so essential and where you can get protein. What kind of foods are low in fat and high in protein (the holy grail of weight loss journeys). Things like standard serving sizes and portions. Tiny little spoonfuls of nuts and dressing and cheese, and little hockey puck-shaped servings of meat.

It is so difficult to understand how or why there are things you can consume that are so bad for your body that they just can’t be processed harmoniously. Little renegade particles invade the bloodstream and stick to places where they don’t belong. All the while you’re fat and happy as a cow, munching on a Snickers bar, wondering why it’s so damn good. Meanwhile it’s wreaking havoc on your body.

It pisses me off that I have such a sweet tooth and such an insufferable dislike of vegetables. What happened in my childhood to make it so?

I have one bad memory involving vegetables, but the memory makes it seem as though my dislike of vegetables pre-dated the incident in question.

We were living at the old house in Hookers Bend. We were having dinner. I was probably six or seven, maybe younger, like four or five. There were Brussels sprouts on my plate. I refused to eat them. My parents insisted.  They forced me to choke one down. I cried and it make me sick and I puked. Then I got a whipping for puking. At least I think I got a whipping. I should really ask my parents; they’ve always told me I never had to be spanked.

So, perhaps in my little-kid mind, I cemented the notion that night that once I grew up and got to decide what I ate, I’d never touch green things.

Stupid fucking kid.

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