I miss some aspects of life when I was big. 135lbs ago.
I miss the reckless abandon.
I miss the volume of food, the horizon of eats that lay before me on a table, knowing full well that the only thing stopping me was my fist-sized stomach. And even then there was always stretch.
I miss the way the fourth slice of pizza tastes. The fifth even more.
I miss bricks of brownie + ice cream + caramel + whipped cream + the crumblies of a Reese’s twosome. For a snack after lunch.
I miss when menus at restaurants were just lists of delicious dinners. And nothing more nutritionally threatening.
I miss not thinking for more than four seconds before deciding that, why yes, I’d absolutely adore donuts for breakfast.
I miss plunging my forearm into a bucket of thrice buttered pop corn at the movie theater. Shoveling mouthfuls of salted and soggy kernels into my gullet. Then Snow Caps. Then Sprite.
I miss brunching with sausage, egg, and cheese on greased and griddled everything bagels in the dining hall at college. With hash browns and a mind on lunch.
I miss all ten inches of that buffalo chicken pizza I called for when the party music stopped playing. And Kelis’ Milkshake.
I miss not caring when or how my next meal came, only that it came. And stayed. And never left.
I miss the way Cap’n Crunch-ed so loudly I couldn’t hear my dad hollering.
I miss that feeling I had when every fiber of my anatomy believed food to be the kindest, most loving spirit a girl could know.