The "F" Word

That's "F" as in Food. Why women continue to struggle with their relationship with food

by Annabelle Robertson

June 1, 2006

I remember the first time I got high on Coke. Oh, not the drug - although some might call it that. I was far too interested in athletics to consider illegal substances. I'm talking about that syrupy, caffeinated concoction which begs for attention at every Southern occasion, right next to the sweet tea.

I was 13 and had just climbed out of the swimming pool, fresh from one of the grueling two-hour workouts that dominated my childhood. Spotting the snack bar, I wandered over and ordered an iced Coke, then flopped onto a lounge chair. The drink wasn't new to me, of course. My grandmother, who called it "Co-cola," served it whenever I came to visit, in those little green bottles I still love. But on that afternoon, something changed. I was tired. I needed a boost.

Boy, did I get one.

Sugar high. Caffeine buzz. I didn't know the terms, but that day nearly 30 years ago, I become intimate with the concepts and for months thereafter, I ordered a Coke after every single swim practice. I joked about my "addiction" - about how I couldn't live without a daily ration of Coke. Of course, what kid wouldn't need a little jolt to make it through days that began at 5 a.m. and packed in double workouts along with school?

I don't know whether it was my comments, the sudden onslaught of puberty or sheer coincidence, but soon, my coach was asking me how much I weighed.

"Between 105 and 110," I said, straightening my lanky 5'4" frame.

"Huh," he said, before returning to his older swimmers - names that would eventually make Olympic headlines. "Don't let it get higher than 115."

One-fifteen. One-fifteen. One-fifteen. The number that spilled so randomly from his lips soon became my mantra -a muse that greeted me every morning and hovered over every meal, every holiday, every outing. Try though I might, however, I eventually passed that number. I was growing, after all. And while it took two decades (and several pregnancies) to gain the kind of weight that made me officially "overweight," from the day I passed that benchmark, I knew I was fat. Not only that, but food had become my enemy.

"Women have a lot of guilt surrounding something that is inherently pleasurable," says Maryrose Acerra Gerardi, PhD, an assistant professor in the Department of Psychiatry and Behavioral Sciences at Emory University School of Medicine. "Eating is seen as giving in, giving up control and not being as disciplined as one should be - as opposed to something that nurtures our bodies. It's an enemy, and that's sad."

It doesn't start off that way, of course. From the time we're born, food is seen as something wondrous.

"The sweetness of milk means goodness and pleasure not simply because of its taste, but because of all the pleasurable associations with it," writes Deborah Lupton, an Australian sociologist, in her book, Food, the Body and the Self. "The experience of satisfying hunger, thus, comes to mean much more than the physical sensation of tasting the milk or enjoying filling the stomach, but is bound up in the infant's emotional and sensual responses to the person who provided the food."

Yet somehow, our perception of food as inherently "good" often goes awry as we age. Gerardi blames the media, particularly for the ubiquitous images of perfect bodies. But she is just as concerned about the way we eat.

"Years ago, people sat down to multi-course meals," she explains. "Meals were balanced and it was not a focus. Now, we eat on the run and everything we put into our mouths is a focus."

It is perhaps not surprising, therefore, that according to the Centers for Disease Control, almost 70 percent of adult Americans are overweight. More than 30 percent are obese and an estimated 5 million to 10 million women suffer from eating disorders, not including compulsive overeaters - or distorted eating habits. Clearly, our society has a tremendous problem with food.

If you're like most people, you probably separate food into two categories: "good" and "bad." Good food, like vegetables and fruit, is necessary but boring. Bad food, on the other hand, knows our name: hamburgers, chilidogs and fries from The Varsity; pizza from Mellow Mushroom and Fellini's; chinese from P.F. Chang's, italian from Olive Garden, Macaroni Grill, Carrabbas. Oh, and Maggiano's. Don't forget Cold Stone Creamery. And I haven't even started on the food court. Can you say Cinnabon? With a holiday drink from Starbucks, perhaps?

"Nothing says lovin' like something from the oven," sings Pillsbury, in one of the incessant ads that lures us toward the dark side. We have to stay on that diet, though, and lose that weight. So we tell ourselves that the loving feeling is fleeting - and really is a trap. But it feels so good, especially during the bad times, which makes us give in. Then we're filled with shame, and it starts all over again.

It's a vicious cycle of desire and dread, comfort and guilt that I understand well. Years after my coach sounded my alarm bell about food, I became bulimic, in a quest to reach that nebulous goal of the perfect weight. I suffered in silence until I got help, which made me realize that, at the core, food issues are about much more than someone's words, however thoughtless those words may be.

Today, postpartum, I'm fighting to lose some baby weight. It's slow and challenging, but I'm doing it the healthy way. The only way, actually, with a balanced diet and exercise -- and the occasional Coke. I drink one several times a week, in fact. But I'm not worried about that, anymore. Because, as I educate myself, and gradually make changes to my thinking and my diet, food is finally becoming a friend.

It's a new relationship, and therefore somewhat precarious - and it's been a long time coming. But this is one friendship I will happily pass on to my daughters.