I was the fat kid growing up.
Not that I was ever really fat. The Renaissance era would have considered my slightly curvy body to be quite the norm, if not even attractive. But alas, we’re living in a postmodern society that reveres stick-figures and gives the rest of us a chocolately chip frappuccino to drown our sadness in.
And even though my parents told me I was fearfully and wonderfully made, I still struggled with my weight, trying to fit into skinny jeans, suck in my belly and avoid skin-tight blouses that revealed my muffin top.
But when I continued to look like a tomboy instead of a fragile princess despite all my wishing and scheming, I turned to food for comfort.
It was hardly noticeable at first. Just an extra scoop of ice cream here, another serving of mashed potatoes there. But I realized I had a real problem the day I ate a quarter sheet of birthday cake in one sitting. And I didn’t even like the taste of it.
This is the beginning of a guest post I wrote for my good friend Holly Barett at Testimony Tuesday. To keep reading, click here.