Dear Super Skinny Chick who goes to my gym,
Yes, you. The one that my trainer and I gossip about being anorexic. The one who is always there, no matter what time of day I go, the one whose ribs I can count through her t-shirt if the angle is right. You. Cognitively, I know that you are super unhealthy. I know that you eat like, three pieces of lettuce a day. I know that it really isn't good to spend five or six hours working out every day. I know. Secretly, I wish I had your discipline. I do. I wish I could eat three pieces of lettuce and them shame my self into eating nothing the rest of the day. I wish I could push my body for five hours every day. I wish you could count my ribs. Because maybe then I would feel OK about my body. My perfectly healthy, perfectly good body. The body that will carry me through a marathon or yoga or wrestling in the living room. That body. It's just that every time I see you, you smile at me and so I think you must be happy and I think you are happy because you are skinny. I am happy, pretty happy, after all, I have really great life. But. I am exhausted with how I feel about my body and even though I know better, I wonder if you know the secret. I know that you don't, that it's not real and that this is not the most important thing in life, not even close, but, I wonder. I'm sorry, but I'm glad that you are not my friend because, then I would feel even more like a failure in this endeavor and I wouldn't have the heart to tell you that what you are doing is hurting you in the long run and that you should stop and that wouldn't be fair to you. A friend should tell you the truth, not encourage the self-destructive fantasy. Because I don't know you at all, I will say it here. What you are doing is self-destructive and dangerous and you should stop. But just so you know, I totally get it.