Dad and I have gone out to dinner twice this week. Oddly enough, both outings were to the same place – a tapas joint just blocks from our humble dwelling (humble meaning about the same size as the average dorm room). Since it’s a “small plate bistro” the idea is that you order a few things and share them. We certainly did that – we shared chicken stuffed with feta and spinach and mini bison burgers with pesto mayo; we finished our gluten-free and delicious dining experience with chocolate mousse (my family never orders dessert, I really don’t know what compelled us to indulge). Now I’m back in the apartment and doing my best not to hate myself for eating and, what’s more, enjoying our dinner. As I was eating I explained again to my Dad (who has never really “gotten” just how gripping and inescapable anorexic-thinking is) how hard it is to let myself eat, especially in public. Of course I needed to exchange miles for meals, per se (this is how far I ran, therefore I can eat this much). In the past 24 hours I’ve run between 11.5 and 12 miles, plus I walked around Bloomington yesterday and wandered about Columbus today. To a rational person this constitutes an active lifestyle, a lifestyle that demands fuel. Yet, now that I’m having a moment of quietude to think about my evening, and my stomach, and my fat arms, and what I’ve eaten while I’ve been away from home, I’m having a tough time calming myself down again. Wish me luck – I’ve had a very positive week, I can’t let ED get the better of me now.