She had a suitcase with her and put it in the luggage rack above my head, then sat down next to me. She looked normal: she had sleek hair, wore a winter coat, checked out her iPod Touch like any other human being would. She was a bit pale, but hey, I look like a ghost myself during the winter, so who am I to judge her for that? But the thing I couldn’t ignore, was the feeding tube in her nose. It was an earmark of the disease we cannot see.
Women have tried everything. Cutting out carbs, cutting out fat — heck, even cutting out calories entirely. Yet to their despair, nothing works. Nothing, except posting pictures of yourself on a public Facebook page — yes, in your underwear, and yes, including fat, wobbly tummies and whatnot. This is the new diet. This is why I think you shouldn’t try it.
Everyone needs a safe haven. A house that is a home, someone close to you that you can always rely on, or some hobby or activity that makes you forget all your worries for a moment. It makes you feel comfortable and, of course, safe. Then there is the mental safe haven, where you just feel comfortable with everything in your life. But this is actually the most dangerous place for me to be.
The television screen flickers from the film we are watching. We have no idea of what is showing; we have been talking all night. He puts his arm around me, and I feel comfortable. A bit nervous, too: am I fun enough, pretty enough, skinny enough? We are talking like we always do. About personal things — experiences, family. Things said to know each other deeper.
Everyone at the table was staring at me as if I had just been assigned as the new Pope, while I popped another green bean in my mouth. I was just chewing on it like every other person would do, but they acted as if a miracle had just happened. Maybe four years ago, it would have been a miracle. But these days, eating is as much part of my everyday routine as any other woman’s make-up ritual.