Message to Lady Georgiana, on my FAT ass, on the new diet, and on life after bulimia but ALWAYS with an eating ‘disorder’…

Bonjour, mademoiselle skinny mini magnifique!

First off, I love you!  🙂  It’s been such a wonderful, over-the-moon-with-happiness kind of weekend.  Being enamoured with my work is an understatement; and I have been going non-stop.

You are so far away, yet your presence in my weekend was so very integral to its happiness and success.  I shall forever think of you as my only ever Valentine’s Day present.  I literally do not know what I’d do without you, as you are a permanent piece of my heart, something that is very limited in space.

But now to business…

I shall not skirt around the fat comment because I know that you have thoughts on it; but I also shall not invite dialogue about it.  Rather, I shall divulge my thoughts to you, asking that you not offer feedback about my aesthetics, whether or not you think that I am skinny, fat, or whatever.  I know that you will comply with my request, respecting my decision on what I’m about to announce.

After reading that ‘arrow-to-the-heart’ yet very realistic and appreciated (and since deleted) fat comment of subject, I’ve decided to get serious about expeditiously returning to my ultra lean like a piece of prime rib yoga body, that which has been in a slow decline since November.

Scientifically speaking, the prime rib aesthetic absolutely says adios when a girl stops manically practicing her yoga.  The resistance of the body is the best weight lifting program known to fashionable girls.  Not only does yoga make one long and lean, but it makes one strong.  Strong in the mind.  Strong in the body.

I’m skinny, or else I would not fit into size zero jeans (patting myself on the back slightly even though they are j.crew and j.crew zeros are to me, the ‘Fat Girl Zeros’).  And I would NOT have posted Fat pictures to the article of subject either.

But regular slim is not good enough for me.

When posting those pictures, I was fully aware that my midsection has puffed; that my “I exercise a ton but have a healthy to the regular standards blowfish ugly fucking looking face” would be revealed, and that my arms are unfashionably softer, albeit having maintained their gorgeous strength.  Yes, I can still perfectly execute the most difficult of arm balances, thank you very much.

But the funny thing is, despite my terrible self hatred about this, there is something more important:  my work.  I delightfully have more love for my work than I do hatred for my body, thus I’m not entirely troubled or driven to be harmful to myself.  And, of course, I have my promise to Gwendolyn, the little girl who saved me from bulimia.

So how to resolve this Fat?

I could restrict.

I could get liposuction.

But I shan’t.

French Girl Leek Soups may pop their little, fashionable heads into the upcoming weeks, as might my old No-Dinner-Thursday-Rule which I canceled in November…

I’ll keep it healthy, yet EXTREME.


As you know, last Saturday, I began my “Clean Eating Diet Plan.”  Unfortunately, that title gives just a little too much la la la fluffy bunnies to a very serious matter.  Complying with it all week, I’ve noticed a significant difference in my aesthetics and mindset due to healthy restrictive eating, yoga practicing, and bicycle riding.

But that’s not good enough for me.  If I am a regular skinny girl, I am nothing.  I must be what is acceptable to me.  I must be Vogue.  I must concurrently be the best and healthiest.  And that means looking like an Orange County housewife, not a regular girl who isn’t envied for her body.

Welcome, “Project Lollipop.” 

By calling this plan something new, something more liberal, I shall have more motivation to bicycle those extra three miles, to execute those extra 33 chaturangas, to be a tad bit more restrictive, albeit healthy.  My healthy.  And I shall have my lollipop head back in 45 days, the second anniversary of my escape from bulimia.

And this, mademoiselle, is why there is no such thing as recovery from an eating disorder.  What I have just written is not ‘healthy’, yet it is ‘healthy’ to me.  If my body is not supreme Vogue stature, then I am nothing.  If I am nothing, then I am not healthy.  This is not ‘disordered’ to me, yet it is certainly ‘disordered’ to others.  Who sets the bar for ‘recovery’ and ‘healthy’ anyway?  We do as individuals.  The DSM is shit.

You emailed me about your fat day… do not wallow in the sorrows of your fat day.  Do not stress about it.  Maintain your fabulousness, whilst doing something about the fat day.  Prevent it from happening again.  You’ll never get that time back.  When a person is stuck in a fat day, they are not the most productive that they can be.  They are not Dagny Taggart.

Take charge NOW before fat overtakes you, making you want to hide in Betsy Johnson puff coats during the wintertime (secretly longing for the Kate Spade red peacoat) then being a tad sad when summertime arrives and puff coats aren’t appropriate.

What will you call your plan?

Readers: What will you call yours?

© Nicole Marie Story and, 2011, 2012.