I remember the simultaneous high and pain of being hungry and light-headed. One can of diet Pepsi, one loaf of bread on my better days. Peruse obsessively through foodie magazines, as if looking was eating—without the calories. Whenever my mother left the house to go shop or run an errand, I ran to my closet, dug out my backpack, filled it with gallons of spring water, and—when the pack was full—grasped the handle of a gallon in each hand and ran or lifted. I biked. I took 2 hour aerobic classes and returned home for 2 more hours of surreptitious stair-climbing as my parents watched television downstairs. I got up in the middle of the night to pace the bedroom or stand on tiptoe. I sat on the edge of the seat—determined not to relax and let my fat recline and absorb into my body. Before I knew it, the only thing I was doing in my life was starving and exercising.
