My self-care obsession has room to completely take over after Henry has left. There is an app-based diet-betting platform where I put $120 on the line in a bet to lose ten percent of my body weight in three months. It’s like a social media app for competitive dieters. I squeeze my hip bones at stop lights while I wait to cross the street on my training runs. Aside from stepping on the scale everyday, this is how I judge my progress. If my index finger sinks down into a fluffy layer of tissue, there is more work to do. There is a better way to eat, a harder workout to fit into my routine, and further to run. If it doesn’t give, it means I’m nearly at goal. No one is waking up next to me to witness my weigh-ins. It’s all an embarrassing 90s thing to do, and this is the golden age of body positivity where not loving your curves is anti-woman. It still feels like something magic will be revealed when I get to my ultimate goal weight.
This is one of my cycles. As sure as the binge-drinking …