it’s around nine in the morning and i’m sitting on my cousin’s couch with him, watching jack hanna play with adorable and fluffy bengal tiger cubs. my cousin, his wife, and their two kids are some of my favorite people in the world. i got here yesterday at around noon; i’ve been able to eat normally and haven’t purged, or even thought about it. it’s been a great break from the sudden bout of insanity i was feeling at home.
“can i tell you something a little personal,” he asks. as he does he pokes my arm with his index finger.
“oh my god my arm just jiggled. how revolting,”
“you need to put some weight on.”
what ensues is a conversation about the repercussions of surgery, the loss of my runner’s appetite (he’s a runner as well), and runner’s bodies in general.
“he’s delusional. i’ve gained so much weight since coming home. i don’t need to gain any more.”
i go upstairs and shower, put on my bathing suit because it’s going to be 90 degrees and humid all day. over my suit i throw on a top and a denim skirt. the skirt that i have kept for ten years even though i usually have to make a deal with the devil to zip it up.
it skims over my hips without the slightest protest and then drops toward my hipbones once it’s zipped.
“can what i see and how i feel really be that far from the truth?”
very possibly so.