My entire adult life, I forced my body to stay the exact same size. My ideal was 120 pounds, and I clung to this magic number as if I had been flung into the sea and it were my life preserver.
Since shedding about 15 pounds of ?puppy fat? at age 18 (I?m 42 now) and landing at this arbitrary number, I?ve oscillated between periods of gobbling burgers and fries with abandon and then severely restricting what I ate. I?d bid adieu to bread, pasta and rice?all the food that puts a giddy smile on my face?and would nibble on salads and meat-centric, Atkins-style meals. I was often painfully hungry (and crabby and overly obsessed with my next meal), but that hunger scratching at my insides was, I believed, worth it. After a few weeks of this self-punishment, I?d re-attain my goal weight and bounce right back to the potatoes and penne. Wash, rinse, repeat. I only recently realized my on-again, off-again carb restriction was a dumpster-fire of a deal for my husband and son. Driving home from grocery shopping on an icy and grey morning, my husband, Niall, told me something that changed my eating habits forever. I was prattling on about some boring way I discovered to substitute delicious pasta for something stupid like zucchini. (My usual diet routine had stopped working, and seven pounds were stuck on me and I was getting desperate for something to work.) ?You know, if you were to die,? he said, ?I would definitely remember how caught up you were in your weight and with food.?
Diet...