Time to stop being crazy about food

I had an epiphany a couple weeks ago.

That's nothing strange. Trouble is, they don't change my life in any lasting fashion.

Except this time. Really.

And it's only fair that I share this epiphany with the rest of the world, or at least anyone bored enough to listen. Ready?

Every female in this nation, at least those anywhere near my age, has either a food issue, a body image issue or both.

It came to me the other day as I considered what one of the Missouri Department of Health and Senior Services' top dietitians told me last month. She was discussing how warped our nation's views about food have become.

We associate overeating with fun, maybe visiting with relatives at a family reunion or dining at a fine restaurant. We eat out as much as we eat in, and typically that means having a teen-ager toss a couple bags into the car as we circle a fast-food restaurant.

But she didn't even discuss the whole segment of society that goes the other way, analyzing every bite and its possible effect on the buttocks. Since we were talking about obesity, she ignored those who exercise fanatically, tan their taut bodies to the color of a nice briefcase and still hate themselves just a little when they look in the mirror.

And if you don't believe me about this obsession, just look at the magazines in the grocery checkout line for a few minutes.

The dietitian left me longing to be one of those mythical people who just don't think about food. They eat when they're hungry, drink when they're thirsty and let nature take its course.

But who are these people? And where do they live?

I realized that, in my 32 years of life, I've never known well even one woman who hadn't dieted, had cosmetic surgery or at least complained about her body a couple of times. The slim ones aren't staying that way with a common-sense diet and brisk after-dinner walks or morning bicycle jaunts. They're riding StairMasters like the devil is behind them.

The whole thing is a little sad. There's not a day of my life that I don't think about what I'd really like to eat, what I'm actually going to eat, what I'm eating at the moment and what food is in my future. It takes a lot of energy and seems more than a little nuts.

By the same token, I've got to give my food some thought. The whole plan of stuffing things that cross my path into my mouth hasn't worked too well so far.

Take, for instance, the little incident involving my pants last week. They're great for summer -- or at least they were -- a comfortable polyester blend in an aesthetically pleasing pattern, falling about mid-calf.

But then, last week, I accepted a ride to dinner with a male co-worker. As I flopped into the passenger side of his car, my pants suddenly felt much more roomy and comfortable. Also, there was the loud sound of fabric tearing.

For the first time in my life, I had split my pants. Red pants, teal underwear. There was no hiding it.

My co-worker stopped in front of the restaurant. I sat there a moment, sighed deeply and blurted, "You're going to have to take me home and then look the other way as I get out and then drive off, because I've split my pants."

He burst out laughing and took me home.

It's funny that the pants split after I'd lost 12 pounds -- about one a week for 12 weeks -- and not at my biggest. I guess they just couldn't wait any longer.

But, even so, I've decided to be happy with my pound a week. I'm not going to obsess about every chicken nugget that makes its way into my mouth anymore.

And, if I split more pants, so be it. I wear good underpants at all times, just like Momma taught me.

Heidi Hall is managing editor of the Southeast Missourian.