Member-only story
Like a bird.
Half a pop tart. Maybe a packet of instant oatmeal. Mom more or less forced me to eat most mornings when I was little.
I was prone to motion sickness and that bus ride was long. I ate small meals out of self-preservation, knowing that nausea was always a possibility. But even on days when there was no school, on evenings when the house was filled with cooking smells, on weekends and holidays when Dad would take over the kitchen, even then I didn’t eat much. “She eats like a bird,” everyone said. “Skinny Minnie.” It seemed like there was something wrong with my appetite.
I hadn’t cared much about my body until other people remarked about it. Then I was told I should wish for a good metabolism and a clothes-hanger figure and pray that lasts for years. But then, I also had a few trips to the doctor to see if there was something wrong with me, like diabetes or hyperglycemia or whatever else I didn’t understand but knew had something to do with food. Turns out, I just didn’t like to eat.
During puberty, I found my hunger. Ravenous at strange times of day, I’d rummage through cabinets for handfuls of cereal. Still picky at meals, I’d later graze the fridge for slices of cheese and other odds and ends. There was no more bargaining over half a pop tart because I ate two at a time.
