It was July 1992, and I had just finished my freshman year of college. I was working part-time in the handbags section of a department store, and my coworkers and I were using the lull in the summer shopping season to discuss the important matters of hair, clothes, and makeup. The talk inevitably turned to weight, and the others started lamenting about how bad they looked in their swimsuits that year. My issues were a bit bigger than beachwear: I had recently gained back a little of the weight I’d lost my senior year of high school—a weight increase I chalked up to being in love with a great guy (finally) and not paying enough attention to what went into my mouth. I admitted to these girlfriends that I was back at my old standby weight of 165—a number on the scale I’d spent most of my teen years trying to permanently ditch. “But at least I know one thing,” I proclaimed with certainty. “I eat and eat and eat, and I never go past 165.” If I could reach back in time and yank that stupid girl by the hair, shaking her into reality, I would most assuredly do so.
