We Pause for this Important Message

Today, I'm tired of writing about eating disorders, (aren't you sick of reading about them?), so I'll focus on another issue, our nation's health care system, my diatribe inspired and fueled by my recent viewing of Sicko, Michael Moore's new flick. If you have any interest in health care, check it out--if nothing else, Moore's acerbic wit is sure to entertain. I actually found myself laughing out loud at a scene in which a woman, who had been in an accident, reported that the payment for her emergency transportation to the hospital was denied because she had failed to have the ambulance ride pre-authorized. It's funny. But it's not.

As both a patient and a provider, I've struggled with managed care. I've found myself wondering what universal health care would look like in the States, why we can't seem to get it right. Applying for Medicaid, which is supposed to insure even the most economically disadvantaged, isn't the easiest process to navigate. And, once you have Medicaid coverage, you don't get much besides the card. Most providers, at least in mental health, don't even accept Medicaid, and at horrendous reimbursement rates, that make a mockery of their advanced degrees, why would they?

Several years ago, I did a brief stint at a city hospital, where most of the patients were covered by Medicaid. My stint was brief because on my first day on the job, I was assigned 103 patients--any idea what a typical therapist's case load is like? Not 103 patients.

The objective was to meet with 10 patients a day, for 30 minutes each. Now, in the managed care and private pay worlds, patients are entitled to a bit more time. Not these folks. And, the frequency of therapy? Because of my 40-hour work week and various administrative demands, I was instructed to see each patient once every three to four weeks. Not the most ethical or medically sound care, given that many of the patients had major mood and/or psychotic disorders. Each patient in my case load required volumes of paperwork--I took to, and I'm embarrassed to say this, completing the paperwork in session, because it was the only way to get it done. For many, I was their third or fourth therapist in the last few months, due to incredibly high turnover rates.

In addition to the clinical overload, the work environment was, to put it mildly, sub-par. It took way too long to get my office up and running. My phone didn't work--not even a dial tone. So, I went downstairs to the telecom department, which was conveniently located next to the morgue, and spoke to Ms. Telecom about the problem. "My phone doesn't work. No dial tone, " I said. She handed me a slip of paper. "Here, call this number."

My computer, as luck would have it, didn't work, either. I went to I.T. They also gave me a number to call. Or, if I'd rather, they mentioned, I could log on to their trouble-shooting site. Every exchange, every moment at this hosptial, felt just like this.

Pretty soon into my stay, knowing that I would leave shortly, I visited the H.R. department to inquire about health insurance coverage. "I'm curious how long you have to work here in order for you to qualify for COBRA?", I asked. And, the director of benefits, housed in the hospital's H.R. department responded, "What's COBRA?" He also engaged me in a casual conversation regarding his recent vacation and his concern that there had been some Arab travelers aboard his flight. "You should be suspicious of the Arabs," he said. I quickly thought, "You should be suspicious of those who tell you to be suspicious of the Arabs."

So, who would work at facility with dysfunctional technology (and office clerks), dusty, likely asbestos-rich walls, and racist, incompetent H.R. staff? Let me tell you about my colleagues, each caricatures of a sort: One of the psychiatrists seemed to have some trouble reading social cues. Whenever he spoke to me, he never made eye contact, and I was always left wondering if he was talking to me or himself. One day, he said something to me in passing in the hallway. I had thought we were done, so I continued walking, but he kept talking, unfazed by my departure.

A social worker down the hall wore a white coat to work each day, as if he were an M.D. I asked him about it once, and he reported that many social workers wear white coats. No they don't. That's great, I thought to myself, there's a therapist with a delusional disorder working down the hall.

And our fearless leader? The clinic director, a psychiatrist, stood up at a staff meeting one day and stated how difficult it was for him to be the most intelligent person in the room. I'm not kidding. He's also the person who told me my first week, "If you and I get along, you should have no problems here," who referred to our clerical staff as "stupid" (yes, to their faces!), and encouraged his providers to commit Medicaid fraud. According to information gleaned after my departure, a thick enough H.R. file eventually resulted in the discipline of said psychiatrist. He was only kept on board with the provision that he must always have a third person present for his one-on-one conversations. He was castrated, but still allowed to screw.

Clinical care was substandard, morale was atrocious, and the building was falling apart. Can you see why I left? But, the thing is, this is the care that countless of Americans get. They wait hours and hours for appointments (one patient arrived for his scheduled 11 a.m. appointment at 8:30 am. because he was so accustomed to having to wait) to see providers who are overworked, mistreated, and not provided with the appropriate resources and administrative support they need to do their jobs. . . who then leave, despite their best intentions to make the world, or at least Manhattan, a better place, after just three whirlwind months. I wonder how, if we were to insure every American (and without extraordinary tax hikes), this scenario could be different, where folks who needed medical care could actually get it and not just instigate a paperwork trail that made it look as if they did.

(Apologies for the non-eating-disorder rant. Regularly scheduled programming will resume next week.)

Day at the Beach

Thesuperficial.com recently posted a bit on Kelly Clarkson's six-month battle with bulimia in high school. Accompanying the text was a newer photo of Clarkson, snapped at the beach.

As of this writing, 249 comments poured in, and I had the chance to scroll through some of the them. I sometimes forget, writing a body-friendly blog, about the angry, hateful voices that surround us. True, the domain name should have warned me, but some of these (original writing preserved) were still quite alarming:

"Beached whale!!!"

"From the looks of that picture, she should think about starting up again."

"She looks like a very thin and unattractive woman that was stretched fat. There is no shape to her such as an hourglass figure and she definitely is fat. It is quite remarkable that she is so tubby yet not at all curvaceous. That body does nothing for a man. Sex with her would be a fitting punishment for minor crimes."

"I think this pic was snapped just as she started to hurl. Way to go Kelly! There is a thin you trapped somewhere in there."

"Wow! Kelly Clarkson bullimic? yeah right! if she was ever skinny, then i was a girl in my previous life. which i still am...only i have no boobs, an extremely large penis and...well, Long Story Short, im a guy. but in other words...i'd still do her. with a bag over her head of course."

One commented. . .

"She is NOT FAT at all. I dont see cellulite, rolls or a belly. she's just not super skinny. Part of the reason people become bulimic is because of comments like this."

. . . but was quickly rebuffed:

"I don't think so, celia. the reason people become bulimic is because they take extreme pleasure in overpowering and torturing people, namely, themselves."

Inaccurate.
Hurtful.
Angry.
Violent.
Misogynistic.

It's a dangerous world out there.

Or, as one commenter noted:

"Wow. Do most of you peeps have lives of your own? I'd love to see how you measure up against an incredibly normal-looking human being having fun at the beach. I love this website, but man, so many of the commenters have really fucked up views of what is good/beautiful/acceptable/normal. You're all so brainwashed to think that women who are so Hollywood thin are normal. They ain't. Kelly looks incredibly normal and healthy there. If she wants more in the boobage area, there are nice padded bras to wear. When you're having fun at the beach, who gives a fuck? And who should, frankly?"

Well put.

Is the Tortoise Catching Up?

Yesterday, out and about in New York, I happened across not one, but two body positive t-shirts. The first, by the designer Joie, stated boldy across a woman's chest, "Diets Stink." The other, pictured above, reads, "If the definition of beautiful gets any thinner no one will fit." Cleverly, the word "fit" falls just outside the box. This shirt and others can be purchased at New Moon, an EWHAED-endorsed, grass-roots, advocacy organization that publishes an advertisement-free magazine for "girls and their dreams." Another t-shirt in their catalog? "I Can Be My Dream." I kinda like that one, too.

Big Girls

23-year-old, Lebanese-born Mica Penniman (aka Mika) hands us this latest pearl in the size acceptance movement. A celebration of the (larger) female form, catchy lyrics, a campy beat--check it!

Alli

Back in February, the FDA approved Alli, an over-the-counter version of the weight-loss drug, Xenical. Alli, which cleverly sounds like a comrade in war or a girlfriend you'd meet for brunch (depending on how you pronounce it, though the correct pronunciation is the first), hit store shelves last week to an uproar, as expected.

The $50-something Alli starter pack sold out in hours in many pharmacies, in a furor typically reserved for a life-saving remedy. The Los Angeles Times interviewed Santa Monica pharmacist, Roe Love, who equated the Alli sellout with the post-9/11 anthrax-induced Cipro dash, reporting that the bulk of Alli purchasers at her store have been women, adding, "And they're not fat."

Love's store is in Santa Monica. Did we really think they would be?

If you haven't heard, Alli, which results in weight loss due to blocked fat absorption, comes with some minor side effects, of the gastro-intestinal sort. The manufacturer's (GlaxoSmithKline) website euphemistically refers to these as "treatment effects": 1) gas with oily spotting
2) loose stools 3) more frequent stools that may be hard to control.

Not terrible, but the site goes on to say: "You may feel an urgent need to go to the bathroom. Until you have a sense of any treatment effects, it's probably a smart idea to wear dark pants, and bring a change of clothes with you to work." That bad, huh? And, manufacturers warn that the product won't work without the adoption of a low-fat, low-calorie diet and commitment to an exercise plan. Seems like what we've been told for years. . . without the need to change our oily, loose-stooled pants.

Mortality

Last week's cover of In Touch Weekly featured photos of Nicole Richie and Angelina Jolie, tagged: "Scary Skinny! Alarming new photos of Nicole and Angelina spark more fears for their health."

But, are we really worried about their health? Sure, they look unhealthy, and perhaps we pontificate about the consequences of their being too thin, but are we really concerned about their lives? What needs to happen in order for there to be bona fide concern, in order for us to stop trying to look like them? Richie and Jolie are just the latest faces of celebrity emaciation. Their predecessors (Kate Bosworth, Keira Knightley, Kate Moss, etc.) either gained weight or somehow escaped the too-thin radar. For now.

Somehow, we've learned that the consequences of being too thin aren't that serious. Somehow, we've ignored the passing of South American models. And, somehow, we've denied the fact that anorexia has hightest mortality rate of all mental illnesses.

This weekend's New York Times featured an article on cocaine, New York's party favor du jour. The substance, as common at bars, parties, and clubs as vodka tonics, has proliferated recently, in part, because of a recent absence of publicized drug-induced casualties. As Herbert Kleber, of the New York State Psychiatric Institute, is quoted as saying, "'Drug use tends to be cyclic. . . . As some of my colleagues said, John Belushi had to die before people believed that these drugs were really dangerous.'"

Is that what it will take in order for us to wake up to the dangers of anorexia? Do we need, at least on American soil, a star to lose her life? Do we really need another Karen Carpenter?

Drug of Choice

This weekend's New York Times "Style" section featured an article tracing the cupcake craze, the proliferation of bake shops across the country specializing in the fourth-grade birthday party signature treat, cupcakes. The article suggests our interest in cupcakes represents a return to comfort food (others find a similar path toward mac and cheese) and discusses how far from comfort, a la our diet culture, we've strayed. Lesley Balla, blogging food writer comments on the advent of cupcake stores in L.A.: "Do we really need another bakery? Probably not. But Angelenos have been starving for sugar and carbs for so long that the bakeries seem like a breath of fresh air."

Balla's wise words capture the principle of psychological reactance, defined in the APA Dictionary of Psychology :

. . . a motivational state characterized by distress, anxiety, resistance, and the desire to restore that freedom. According to this model, when people feel coerced or forced into a certain behavior, they will react against the coercion, often by demonstrating and increased preference for the behavior that is restrained, and may perform the opposite behavior to that desired.

The beauty of reactance theory is that it, despite its psychobabble, succinctly captures why diets fail (or at least the psychological reasons they fail). The more we're told we can't have, the more we want. Proponents of reactance theory might even argue for legalization of marijuana, gambling, and prostitution.

And so, since Atkins/South Beach/other diet of the moment has expressly forbidden sugar and, gasp, white flour, we begin to crave these ingredients to such an extent that we find ourselves secretly bingeing on them, or patiently, but urgently, lined up outside a cupcake bakery, waiting for our fix.

When I first visited Magnolia Bakery (a cupcake shop with its own wikipedia entry) in New York City*, I wasn't yet living here, but a friend thought I'd enjoy the experience. On a cold winter day, a line wrapped around the West Village block, and we were ushered in in two's and three's, allowed to box our own cupcakes, but warned of the cupcake limit (12). My friend apyly commented, "There's really no difference between this and a crack house." It's just a different drug of choice.

*for the record, now a permanent New York City resident, I prefer Crumbs, which offers 1) more flavors 2) a moister cake portion 3) frosting that isn't too sweet 4) an indoor line

What Size Is that Number?

(from little m. . . or "big m," as I like to call her and now feel incredibly righteous in doing so after reading this post) ; )

Irene is a family friend, surrogate mom crossed with fairy godmom.

When I was 10 or 11, with what I felt was a cereal box for a figure, no one in my family wanted to take me shopping for school clothes because they could gamble and win on the odds I would come home howling, in tears, with nothing to wear.

Somehow Irene could take me out and we would find something that not only would my family not die of shame to see me in, but that I actually liked! and could wear to school without fear of violating a public decency law.

Irene is like Donna Karan or Elena Miro, or Chanel (I don’t mean the designs, awesome though they are. I mean the people themselves)--she will be hip to death forever.

She recently ordered this amazing leather coat in a size she no longer wears (her closets are full of suits in that size, and they haven’t fit in years).

So she had to go to all the trouble of dragging it to the post office, sending it back, and ordering it in the size she is now – which of course both fit and looked SMASHING.

I’ve done it. You know you’ve done it.

In the age of the vanity size--and as savvy and sharp as we are about other things in our lives--WHY do we still cling to the number? Why don’t we just cut the size tag number out and get on with the business of looking--and being--fabulous?

Spinning Biel

Jessica Biel graces the front page of the June issue of Elle magazine and, in between the covers, comments on her body : "This is the thinnest and the least muscular I’ve been in a long time."

Perhaps Biel intended neutrality with her words, having no emotional reaction to her body, but that's not how the gossips took it--one magazine interpreted her statement as a dissatisfaction with her current appearance, another recognized it as praise for the status quo. It's interesting the spin they spin, leaving me to propose:

Maybe
her body
just is.

If we could gain and lose weight with the same emotional valence; if we could buy a larger (or smalller) size with no more reaction than the one we bought before; if we could make observations about our bodies with no judgment, disdain, or critique; then, to paraphrase Biel, we'd be the healthiest and the least troubled we've "been in a long time."

We Say It So Often It's a Book Title

Another installment in the littlem series. . .


*does variation on Peanuts happy dance*

Would you believe there is a book called “Honey, Does This Make My Butt Look Big?” by a therapist named Lydia Hanich?

What I love is, as the Editorial Reviews blurb on the book says, that it helps couples to deal with issues such as “appearance, weight, food, exercise, sexuality, and eating disorders.”

That pretty much covers the spectrum, doesn’t it?

Because the thoughts in our own heads aren’t always the only problem. Sometimes our beloved S.O.'s say and do stuff, based on their own conditioning, that can be, absolutely, say it with me – "part of the problem."

What I also love is that it offers not only various scenarios, responses, and WHY they might or might not be the "right" or "wrong" thing to say when asked a question like that.

I think that really works for folks (seems like they’re generally men – it really does feel like we’re speaking two different languages some days, doesn’t it?) who want to assuage the distress that a significant other might be feeling over body image, but can’t answer without feeling – this time paraphrasing the author herself in the blurb on the back of the book -- just like that "animal caught in the headlights." Ha!

What I don’t love quite as much is that, as universal an issue as this seems to be, it took me two years to find this book – because, as you’ve probably figured out by now, I believe there are elements in our society that work directly against our being able to deal with these problems. But that’s a different subject for a different post.

Today is a happy post day. Woo-hoo!!!

I have politely demanded that all my local bookstores order it immediately, but if you just can’t wait, you can order it here from Amazon.

A Tongue of Weight

Hunger, in our world, is portrayed as a demon that must be slain. We are encouraged to “reduce,” “curb,” and “control” our hunger, without ever considering that it might serve a biological (and psychological) function. An advertisement for Slim-Fast Optima Shakes suggests the product “Controls hunger for up to four hours,” a substantial duration in our crusade. Imagine other products designed to help us gain control over physiological processes: an oxygenated air freshener that helps you avoid breathing for up to a minute, a specially formulated beverage that allows you to delay urination. Why aren’t these products on the market? True, there may be some interest in gaining control over other biological processes, but we would never think we could. We purchase products such as Slim-Fast because we learn from a very young age the falsehood that hunger is controllable and that we need an ally to help us wage the war against our hunger.

In keeping with our fight against hunger, bellicose metaphors abound. We join the ranks of the war on fat as we attempt to combat cravings, to fight the “battle of the bulge,” we enroll in boot camp classes and kick off a diet as if we’re being stationed overseas. Sorry, friends, I won’t be able to join you for pizza this week—I’m being shipped out on Monday. We soldier on, sticking to a diet or fitness regime as if it’s a plan of attack, avoiding the enemy shrapnel of a whiff of cinnamon sugar from a local bakery, the trace of buttered popcorn at the local Cineplex. The helpless frustration here, the irony, is that the enemy camp is forever expanding, a cease fire too distant to imagine, and the only casualties ourselves.

Chasing Slim

Part of the assumption underlying the idea that every woman has an eating disorder is that our culture reflects (and inspires) this truth, making it strikingly easy to derive these posts.

The latest candidate? A book, which I happened across this week, by fashion designer, Cynthia Rowley, entitled Slim. The subtitle, "A Fantasy Memoir," reflects the work's fictional component, which functions side by side with Rowley's life account. However, what struck me was the title as a whole, as it appears on the cover (Slim: A Fantasy Memoir), the idea, which doesn't meet much challenge, that "Slim" is a bona fide fantasy--that those who realize this goal indulge in the good life, while those who don't spend the better part of their lives chasing the ideal. To Rowley, the word "fantasy" might connote her fabled climb from small-town, Illinois youth to major player in the fashion world. To most women, slim is enough of a fantasy on its own.

Thin Is a Moving Target

Editor's note: The post below comes courtesy of little m (you may recognize the name from her periodic comments). lm has graciously agreed to guest post for me from time to time. Let us know what you think. . .

Lots of you all might have seen in the comments here that I’ve mused that my personal physique is such that whether I’m “too thin” or “too fat” depends on where I am in the country. What that finally told me – after much mulling – is that THIN and FAT are COMPARATIVE CONSTRUCTS, not absolutes, and that they depend a great deal on WHAT people think and WHY they think that.

In our culture, we have been conditioned to believe that, especially for women, THIN IS BETTER NO MATTER WHAT.

Another absolute. And it has potentially deadly consequences when taken to the extremes – as Dr. Stacey is showing us.

So one of the things I started to do when confronted with “THIN IS BETTER NO MATTER WHAT” is to shout back – if only in my head –

“WHY?” and

“WHO SAYS?”

Those questions and others like them -- critically deconstructing messages that their creators hope we’ll absorb without thinking about them -- work for me in counteracting that never-ending assault. It’s an assault that sets the concept up based on imagery so manufactured that the people used to manufacture the standard don’t even meet it.

Dr. Stacey thought it would be cool for me to share them, and other related stuff, for readers to create their own files of coping skills – since we all deal with this same issue, but it manifests in different ways in our lives.

This will probably be one of my most serious posts. Principally because I believe so much in what Dr. S is doing and want to show her and her subject material proper respect.

Additionally (and with her approval) because I believe that when a disempowering, unhealthy, tyrannical standard has its grip on your life and lifestyle, that poking relentless fun at it helps put it in its place.

Humor is a power tool.

There may be a lot of things that I say that are not going to help everybody.

For example, these days a lot of eating disorders start when girls are pre-teens and teenagers.

I’m neither one anymore, so even though I remember what it felt like to have being thinner matter more than anything – more than energy to make good grades, more than some adult telling me it wasn’t healthy not to eat all day (what did they know, anyway?), MORE THAN ANYTHING – I’m not actually in that space anymore. So those of you still in that space might feel like I don’t have much to say to you.

On a different level, a lot of the questions I ask (like “WHO SAYS?”) depend on challenging outside norms, on challenging the status quo. And for a lot of reasons, a lot of people don’t feel like they can do that. Or that they’re not ready to do it yet.

All I would say is, if you find something here that you think will help you deal, then use it. And then come back and tell us about it.

So to begin:

The “WHO SAYS?” position in my own head got a big boost when I read an article that helped me crystallize that thought that maybe – just maybe – something OTHER THAN my body size was the REAL problem.

So I love this article very much.

Thoughts?

Calling a Spade a Spade

Recently, at Bloomingdale's, I came across a relatively new brand of denim, called "Rich and Skinny" jeans. That's right, that's the brand name. Ever heard of them? Well, maybe not under this exact name, but, truth is, you've been hearing about these jeans for years. So many clothing lines these days cater to the "Rich and Skinny" crowd--this happens to be the only one that takes responsibility.

Rich and Skinny jeans are typically offered in waist sizes 24-31, and the price tag (roughly $200 a pop) suggests that in order to wear them, as their name suggests, you better be both.

One Little Pig

By now, you've probably heard about Alec Baldwin's telephone rant to his 11-year-old (or 12, as Baldwin mistakenly notes) daughter, Ireland.

What I find most disturbing about this leaked voice mail message, after his threats to "straighten [her] ass out" upon their next meeting, is his reference to Ireland as a "thoughtless little pig." True, he modifies "pig" with "little," but being labeled a pig is the last thing an adolescent girl needs to hear. Especially when your mom happens to be Kim Bassinger. . .

The New No-Diet-No-Exercise Weight-Loss Plan

Last night's ten o'clock news beckoned with a diet trick sure to inspire--a weight-loss method that requires no exercise or food restriction.

Following several stories and commercial breaks, the plan was unveiled: chew gum. As the reporter informed us, chewing gum during the afternoon results in 36 fewer calories consumed per day.

36. So, in about 100 days, if you're to chew gum every day, you may (if you're the norm) lose about a pound. How, I wonder, did this make the news?

Scales of Measurement

I’ve never owned a scale. It seems that weighing becomes highly ritualistic, and as others have written in the past, a way to determine one’s worth and mood for the rest of the day. That’s probably why I’ve opted out. But, recently, I’ve been thinking about how, even if we shun the scale, we may compensate by using other self-worth metrics related to body image, namely frequent mirror checks and/or an over-reliance on the fit of our clothes.

“Oh, I don’t weigh myself; I just go by how my clothes fit.” Sound familiar? What exactly does “go by” mean? Why must we rate ourselves at all? Weighing. Mirror-glancing. Checking the fit of our clothes. The self-esteem trifecta.

So, I’m curious: How often do you weigh yourself? How about checking yourself in the mirror or the fit of your clothing? What types of thoughts and feelings precipitate these behaviors? How do you feel after each behavior? And, finally, what would it be like to stop?

Just a Thought

Gwen Stefani is interviewed in People magazine's online site today, sharing her lifelong struggle with weight and body image. She reports that she's been on a diet since the sixth grade and that she continues to restrict (especially post-baby) in order to wear the latest fashions.

People reports:

Still, Stefani admits that she struggled to keep her size 4 figure even before her pregnancy. "I hate talking about it, but it's true," she says. "I've always been on a diet, ever since I was in the sixth grade. It's an ongoing battle and it's a nightmare. But I like clothes too much, and I always wanted to wear the outfits I would make." She adds with a laugh: "And I'm very vain."

She wants to be able to wear her line? Can't she, um, make some of the clothing a little bigger? We're always looking to designers to size up, in order to reflect the average woman--wouldn't this be a perfect opportunity to start?

The Tall Tale of Fat and Thin

In Fat Is a Feminist Issue, Susie Orbach elucidates our collective drive toward thinness:

We know that every woman wants to be thin. Our images of womanhood are almost synonymous with thinness. If we are thin we shall feel healthier, lighter and less restricted. Our sex lives will be easier and more satisfying. We shall have more energy and vigor. We shall be able to buy nice clothes and decorate our bodies, winning approval from our lovers, families, and friends. We shall be the woman in the advertisements who lives the good life; we shall be able to project a variety of images—athletic, sexy or elegant. We shall set a good example to our children. No doctors will ever again yell at us to take off the excess weight. We shall be admired. We shall be beautiful. We shall never have to be ashamed about our bodies, at the beach, in a store trying to buy clothes or in a tightly packed automobile. We shall be light enough to sit on someone’s knee and lithe enough to dance. If we stand out in a crowd it will be because we are lovely, not “repulsive.” We shall sit down in any position comfortably, not worrying where the flab shows. We shall sweat less and smell nicer. We shall feel good going to parties. We shall be able to eat in public without courting disfavor. We shall not have to make excuses for liking food.

Who, given this, wouldn’t want to be thin? It’s not surprising that, barring those who are naturally thin, every woman does have an eating disorder. But, what Orbach conveys with sarcasm and what likely any thin woman can tell you, is how little of this is true. Thin women are still concerned with how they look and smell; the images they project; approval from friends, family, and strangers; still feel tired, sexually dissatisfied, and ashamed of their bodies. And, they certainly, as they are culturally instructed to do, make excuses for their eating.

Embrace the Greys

During the course of conversation with someone recently, I mentioned I was on my way to the gym.

"Oh, you're going to the gym? You're so good."

No, I'm not so good. I'm not even "being good." What I'm doing, at best, is something that will make me feel good (I knew my 160-page thesis on the psychological effects of exercise would come in useful somewhere!)

Way too often, we're confronted with "good" and "bad" in this area. "I had a good day." "I was bad." Good foods, bad foods, good behaviors, bad. There is no good and bad. These are arbitrary distinctions designed to make us feel "good" or "bad," while simultaneously allowing us to avoid what may really be helping or hurting us. Every action, every relationship, every morsel of food contains both good and bad. Considering both sides of the equation may help us eventually discontinue those which aren't ultimately that helpful and increase the frequency of those that are.