Dangerous Thinking

"You’re at a healthy weight. Lower than it’s been in a while! But you’re not as low as you were after you had the flu. And then you changed your resume. And you also would look way better with those 5 pounds off. So maybe think about that?"

"I’m hungry. I’ll eat dinner. Then later I’ll have one of those blueberry bars I made for dessert. Oh, j/k, I’ll just have a nibble on one now. Oh, fuck it, I’ll eat one. Fuck it. Two more. Crackers!"

"This is not how you lose those last five pounds, you idiot. Use your fucking self-control. You are not even binging– you are just eating more than you NEED! Get over yourself! Start actually listening to yourself again! Jesus."

"Oh, I feel so good in rehearsal, sweating and running around and feeling like my body can do anything! Oh wait, I’m sitting on the floor and my thighs, oh lord, when did they get so huge and white and fat? When? How?!"

"You look so great, girl! Enjoy your body where it should be! Don’t stress too much! You didn’t lose the weight by stressing, you lost the weight by NOT stressing! (but if I don’t start stressing again how do I maintain this and/or lose the five pounds I lost from being sick and not eating for three days?)"

So basically… summer is fun. A and I are struggling (not in a major problem/breakup way, but in a "we’re stressed and living together" way). I am in rehearsal 11am – 4pm every day, and I come home sweaty and exhausted and starving (I bring lunch, but I never bring enough to hold me over till I get home at like 4:45pm). A works 5:45pm – 10:30pm every night at the theatre. So we have that hour, when all I want to be doing is veg-ging on the couch and watching Orange is the New Black, but he wants to like, chat! and be together! since he’s been home all day. So he feels like I’m ignoring him when I sit quietly on the couch. Which, naturally makes me feel like a big fucking asshole.

And then I have evenings alone, which is MAJOR DANGER TIME, especially because I come home hungry.

Now here’s the thing.

I’m not bingeing. At all.

If anything, I’m just not eating super balanced, well-proportioned meals. I have no idea how many calories I’m burning doing commedia dell’arte in rehearsal, but probably not enough to come home and eat (numbers coming) 380 calories of brown rice, 200 calories of crackers, and however many calories are in three blueberry crumb bars I made last night (at least 150 each), not counting all the other "healthy calories." Oof.


That’s what’s whirling around in my brain when I’m desperately trying NOT to learn my lines (and by that I mean I should be learning my lines but I really don’t want to).

It’s hot in New York.

I’m tired and I feel fat.

I am not fat. And fat is not a feeling. OKAY?!

But I am tired.

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