Yesterday, yet another eating disorder challenge.

For most of America, receiving a thick chunk of roast beef or ham from a nice buffet place wouldn’t pose much of a challenge. The place even had battered fish, chicken chili, and various forms of pasta salad.  The desert table proclaimed ‘homemade’ oatmeal raisin cookies and banana nut bread – although I’m fairly certain it’s illegal to sell anything made from someone’s kitchen at a restaurant unless the kitchen (i.e. homemade) without the kitchen being state inspected and certified.

The key term – for most of America.  For those of us with Anorexia, a buffet surrounded by strangers and potentially descent and non-contaminated (but magically homemade) food is just another challenge – an potentially scary one at that.

It was that type of situation I voluntarily placed myself in yesterday.  The room was about half filled with Christians and family (related only by marriage) that I’ve never or only briefly met.  Names were tossed.  Hugs where taken.  Cross necklaces pressed into various parts of my face – although I’m sure by accident – not to see if they’d cause a vampire-like burn.

The plates where white, bowls off yellow, and glasses where that odd red plastic colour.  Taking my usual balls-to-the-walls approach, I was one of the first to the main buffet and picked up a little of everything – and by everything, I mean everything.  In short order, corn, carrots, and broccoli (safe foods) were granted residence.  Not-so-safe foods – potatoes, pasta salad, bean salad, gravy – joined the mix.  Then, the OMG what am I thinking foods of ham, chicken and dumplings, and a thick slice of roast beef (with noticeable fat) overlapped it all.  A small bowl of deep red chicken chili came along and, finally, a non-salad dressed salad.  This was my safety net.  Should I entirely freeze, the self-chosen tomato, broccoli, lettuce salad (over peppered) was a fall back.

I never really understood the anxiety some of the girls from the House expressed about eating out.  It was kind of novel to believe the main topic of thoughts and behind-napkin conversations was what disappeared off my plate.  Truthfully, I thought it was a little conceited and self-indulgent.  I never gave a flying whiz about what people said about me – ever.  If unknowns (or even knowns) had nothing better to do than to monitor the amount of food on my plate and belly, that was their problem – not mine.  I think those people are in serious need of an enema or a cerebral rota-a-ruler.

Rather, the Trump supporter, mostly overweight, Christians chatted about unsurprising topics ranging from Bible verses, end-of-days, politics, and children.  I picked up several hushed comments from unknowns who wished they where thin as I was or possessed my energy.  (Ha ha – if only they knew.)

Soon, groans of “I’m too full, but am going to try just a bit of…”  and “It’s bad luck not to have just a little birthday cake.  It only comes by once a year!” mixed into the better to have God appear than Hillary in office conversations.  The overall atmosphere promoted a companionable and stuffed feeling  –  one of which is fairly alien to me.

The one person who meant the most, my mom, was the only one I cared about.  So, items mysteriously vanished from the main plate – safe – corn – not so safe – potatoes, chicken chili – and damning – BBQ riblet and small amounts of fat rimmed beef disappeared via the mouth.  My entirely safe and undressed salad remained untouched as did the majority of the honey-glazed ham.     I ate quickly, downing the Diet Coke, while hoping to impress my mom.

Sure – a girl in her 20-something anniversary of her 19th birthday is — still — trying to win approval of her mother.  I probably always will – just as I attempt to satisfy expectation from a long-dead father.  As mom has reminded me over and over again, I will always be her child…  so, will I always be trying to win affection and approval – even if it “”is”” just my perception to do so?

Short order – Yes.

But there are worse things, right?

I survived.
Mom said she was proud of me.
Since I probably can’t avoid going to buffets my entire life, going to the first one after being diagnosed as anorexic with my mom was a (mostly) positive experience.

And, really, the chili didn’t taste that bad.