I'm a reasonably intelligent person. I have a responsible (albeit boring) job. I am someone's mother. Two someones, actually. I am a homeower. I read the newspaper every morning.
But when it comes to all things food/diet/fitness/health/weight related, I am quite possibly the most insane person on the planet. I lose all sense of reality. I forget that I have a closet full of size 4s and 6s and convince myself that my world will change if only I lose those last 8 pounds. Again. I am 100% incapable of enjoying a dessert without fretting audibly about the direct consequences to my thighs. I tear apart sandwhiches to remove the buttery parts, even at business lunches. I run out of a stores in tears, near-suicidal if I try something on and it is too tight. The only thing stopping me from joining Overeaters Anonymous is the fact that I'm afraid they'll laugh my size 4/6 butt right out of there.
And yes, my friend Di and I have had extensive discussions about whether or not removing ribs in pursuit of that elusive small waist is a viable option. OK, maybe not in 100% seriousness, but the topic comes up with alarming frequency for a couple of intelligent professional women. Usually one of us brings it up after a particularly horrifying encounter with a store mirror or a cruelly mis-labeled pair of jeans. Which is just as terrifying as surgery, really.
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