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Hildegard

Hildegard

“Kat, I didn’t know you were pregnant!”

She said it with such joy and enthusiasm, you could tell she was genuinely happy for me. She admired me and thought I was fabulous; having kids would be fabulous, too.

I stole a glance at the 40-year-old woman sitting next to her, a new friend I’d made in the last few days as we were carted around the Dominican Republic to view resorts and excursions where we could send tourists. She had an understanding look in her eyes, wondering what I would do next.

“I’m not,” I replied. “It’s old age. And I’m embracing it.”

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My meal plan

I had my first meeting with a nutritionist on Wednesday. She specializes in eating disorders and was recommended by the eating disorder treatment center that originally gave me my diagnosis. I had never been to a nutritionist before, although I’d worked with personal trainers and had done dieting apps. I wasn’t really sure what to expect, even though I’d done tons and tons of research into my eating disorder.

I basically gushed for the first 45 minutes to an hour, telling her everything about my history with food and how I had come to this diagnosis. It was just like going to a therapist, except we were talking about food. We discussed my history with antidepressants, my current medications, my eating habits, how food was offered in my childhood, and what I’d come to believe about food.

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A complete change of perspective

I have worn an A-cup bra since I started wearing bras. That is, if I wear a bra at all. I am a card-holding member of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee, and by card-holding member, I mean I have small breasts. I have never had a man look at my chest instead of my eyes when speaking to me. Not even in one of those push-up bras that adds two cup sizes. I have been proud to brag about the fact that if I don’t have a sports bra, I can go for a run — a long run — without being smacked in the face by my boobs, or even experiencing any mild discomfort.

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