strike that

hunger

Since Friday afternoon I have eaten a few tablespoons of yogurt, a poached egg, a bowl of popcorn, a bagel (one half with grape jelly), two popsicles, and a cup of oatmeal. This is the sort of menu that I would typically consume during, say, the course of a DVD viewing. But though my stomach bug passed quickly, my stomach itself seems reluctant to let go of the memory. I am not hungry. Eating makes me feel, if anything, uneasy.

I don’t have a scale but I’m pretty sure I’ve lost some weight. My rings are rattling around on my fingers and my skirts are falling even farther down on my hips than usual. This irks me. I don’t like feeling slight. Yoga bodies are beautiful but I do not find them enviable, I do not aspire to one. I prefer a body that would get me up a mountain, and then survive a few days there if I couldn’t get down. I like my body not to break when I drop it. I like it to be warm on May nights in short sleeves.

On the plus side the lack of calories has filled me with increased and unpredictably aimed intensity. Yesterday at work, after recovering from the bike ride in that nearly caused me to pass out, I raced through a long list of tasks. And then, just as suddenly, midday, I left without telling anyone, biked home (wobbly), and painted for three hours. I was so angry. It was fabulous. I love best of all the things I make when I’ve lost it. They always leave me feeling so redeemed.

Unfortunately I miss the casual, un-dizzy mobility of full nutrition, so I’m easing back in. By Thursday I’ll probably be back to sneaking bacon, and I probably won’t be dreaming so vividly or crying in the middle of pop songs or writing long letters full of what I mean but don’t say. It’s such a balance, this life, between wondrous things. I think I know that even when I’m fed.

posted by tortaluga @ 9:48 AM