I realize how vain and conceited I sound and that’s fair enough. I spend too much time worrying about my looks, comparing myself (negatively) with other girls or models in magazines. If anorexia or bulimia had been a “thing”, I probably would’ve been first to sign up. In 1973 (and before), I bought every wacky diet book– Twiggy was the ideal, remember – and obsessed about my weight. Who knows what I might’ve accomplished, if I’d turned my mind to something meaningful instead of making endless diet plans (“If I lose two pounds a week, on January 7th I’ll finally be skinny!”).
I suspect I suffer from body dysmorphia alhough I haven’t been formally diagnosed (because I never told a therapist how much time I waste obsessing about weight. They’d think less of me.) Basically, that means no matter what I look like in the mirror, I see a fat person. Anorexic thinking without the starvation.
That glimpse – on November 4, 1973 – was the first and only time anything like this happened. I’ve never forgotten the sheer shock – the burst of euphoric self-confidence – I experienced. I might’ve been dangerous if I’d been able to hang onto it. Alas, I can’t remember what I looked like – only how I felt.
I wish we lived in a world where everybody felt like that all the time but maybe we’d turn into narcissists. Our insecurities keep us humble. Still – enough is enough.
