A story I intend to tell my little people when it’s bedtime and they’re entirely too in love with me to go to sleep just yet: I read books. It’s what I do. The end.
Intriguing, right? I particularly love the unexpected plot twist there in the middle; it’s one of my finer pieces, I think. And there’s the personal element in there as well, so that makes it special. Plus I’m pretty sure it’ll do the trick of launching the munchkins into unconsciousness. Short and sweet, to the point, happy ending; everything the cutest children on the planet could ever want in a bedtime story. I’m thinking of getting published.
Anyway. Recent kick: eating disorders. As previously mentioned, Portia de Rossi is freaking the bomb. Also Brave Girl Eating, courtesy of Harriet Brown, is my new favorite book on the subject ever. Like seriously. If this were a food blog I’d be so all over educating the populace about the stuff she wrote about (which I am even as we speak becoming more informed about because I got some more diet-weight-history books based on her references; and by even now I mean I write a sentence, then read a sentence out of the book I’m on. This gets a little confusing, so forgive me if my writing is somewhat choppy and incoherent). I’ve had Biting the Hand That Starves You recommended to me but my library is boycotting me and refuses to have it no matter how many times I check it every day (the library works like the rat button based on frequency of pushes, not time elapsed, right?). But I’m counting my blessings because my public library here is 42,376,891 times better than the so-called library on that campus of mine. Not that I’m bitter or anything; look how I’m restraining myself and not taking off on some elaborate tirade. I think I’m making real progress in this area. My shrink would be so proud.
So anyway. Not that this is new information, but it’s what’s been in my head, so that’s the metaphor we’re going with this week. The DSM-IV lists, under eating disorders, anorexia; bulimia; binge eating disorder; and eating disorder, not otherwise specified, or EDNOS, and that encompasses any other form of disordered eating that doesn’t fit the criteria for the three defined ones. And thus an apt analogy is born in my silly little skull.
I’ve said before and I’ll say again, I don’t like the whole labels-and-boxes thing. Unless we’re talking FedEx. Then I’m in favor. I mean, how else am I supposed to ship nifty packages of anthrax brownies to the missionary whom I’ve Dear Johned no less than three times on behalf of myself and others, none of whom were ever actually dating the kid? He’d be heartbroken, and last time I just wrote “To my best good friend missionary” on the envelope I didn’t get a response, which I’m not sure to take as a snub for having forgotten his name or as a sign that he wants more brownies. But the empty mailbox stands, and I just can’t argue with that. Believe me, I’ve tried. That thing has a will of steel.
The point is, sometimes I want so badly—more than anything—to just freaking be a dude. Or something. But other times I’m okay with just being me, if I don’t think about it. Or sometimes even if I do. But whatever. So I don’t know if that makes me sometimes-transgender, or transgender but with inconsistent conviction, or just regular ol’ run-of-the-mill gay (depending on what aspect of character we’re looking at). Maybe I’m just too something to figure things out right now. Whatever.
So, full circle, there you have it folks, a happy blending of gender identity and eating problems: LGBT-NOS. And I am all about the blending.