Or Why I Will Never Ever Be Part Of The Diet Industry Ever Again
One of my colleagues was ill over Christmas and new year, bad enough to have been hospitalised and still unable to return to work two weeks later. Which led to the following conversation.
Colleague 1: She can’t even eat; she’s lost about a stone
Colleague 2: Oh well that’s alright then!
Colleague 1: I know, she must be so happy
Colleague 3: Every cloud and all that
Colleague 4: I’m so jealous
Colleague 1: Aye, me too. I might go for a visit – see if I can catch something!
Me: *silently screaming into my hands*
I’ve heard of people with cancer who lost weight because they were unable to eat without throwing up or their gums were too sore for food, who were then told “cancer really suits you!”. But I didn’t really believe that could have happened, that people could be so phenomenally superficial. That anyone could ever say to another human being, “Yes, you might die, but at least you’ll go out skinny!”.
I believe it now.
This is what our beauty ideal and the diet industry have created. Thin is good, praiseworthy, to be envied, no matter how it’s achieved. Anything that makes us lose weight is automatically good, even if it will kill us.
How did we let this become a thing? How did we get to a point where people can have a conversation like that and not be utterly, utterly horrified? I know I am.