“Did I have any signs of an eating disorder when we started dating?” I recently asked my husband, Marc.
“Nope, none,” he said confidently.
“I didn’t think so but sometimes I can’t remember life without it, you know? I said sadly, my eyes filling with tears.
“Yes, I know,” he replied reaching out to hug me. This disease hasn’t been easy on him either.
When Marc and I first met, I was happily settling in to my new life as a single woman. After buying my new house, I was in need of home insurance and called Marc, a referral from Polly. Marc pulled up to our initial meeting at a Starbucks driving a sensible Plymouth Acclaim, sporting a white dress shirt and red tie. Typical, boring insurance dude,
I thought to myself. I thought wrong. We spent the next hour talking less about insurance and more about his experience as the manager of a band, his gig as a local music radio show host, and our shared passion for working with kids. He was sweet and funny but I didn’t buy insurance from him (long story). Despite that, he proceeded to ask me out on a date.
“I think I’m just going to work on my house and hang with my dog,” I told him in response to his invitation to dinner. It’s not that I wasn’t attracted to Marc, it’s that I was. He was far more interesting than the men I had been going on dates with, and he was so nice. Too nice to be the rebound guy. Our connection was immediate but I wasn’t ready for another relationship yet, and Marc, I could tell was relationship material.
“I’ll call you when I’m ready to date,” I continued, as his eyes rolled and he gave me a yeah, right look. But I meant it. I would call when I was ready.
And a year later, I did.
After he got the wag of approval from my dog, Marc and I began spending a lot of time together. We enjoyed romantic meals of homemade pasta at a small Italian place in town. We took weekend getaways to the Oregon coast indulging long naps by the fire and warm berry turnovers from the local bakery. Marc introduced me to funky clubs with live music and I introduced him to the gym. Sure, I still wished for a flatter stomach or smaller hips but those thoughts were more like habitual whispers than obsessive screams. In reality I liked my curvy, strong, energetic body. Marc certainly wasn’t complaining either.
And three years from our fateful meeting at Starbucks, Marc and I married on a beautiful autumn day in a vineyard surrounded by our family and friends. I felt beautiful, happy, and loved.
I never dreamed a day would come when I would feel any other way.