I work in a heart-attack prevention program. My job involves counseling middle-aged male participants to stop smoking, eat less fat and cholesterol, lose weight, drink less alcohol, and change other “health-related behaviors.” I wear a white lab coat and a plastic badge that says “Gretchen Newmark, M.A., R.D., Nutritionist.”
After work I stop at a grocery store or a fast-food place. I buy a half-gallon of ice cream, a package of cookies, and a bag of chips, sometimes more. Then I drive home. My roommate usually isn’t there, so I come into a dark, cold house. I change my clothes, sit on the bed, and begin to eat. Mindlessly. Quickly. I can taste the food at first, but after a while I don’t taste much at all. Still, it’s exciting. I get to do something that’s wrong, I get to eat food I shouldn’t be eating. I read a magazine so I don’t have to pay attention to what I am doing. I always worry that my roommate will come in and discover me. She never does.
