Sharing photos of meals on social media is one of the jokes people make about people my age. Isn’t it hilarious? Imagine! The audacity! Young people wanting to talk about their days with their friends! Preposterous.
Even though shaming my generation for sharing photos that make them happy has become a gentle national pastime, I’ve been sharing photos of my meals on Instagram every day for more than a year now. This isn’t because I’m jonesing for likes or that I want to boost my ego. (Though, please, any like on my photos is always a welcome gift.)
Last October, I started seeking help for a health problem. I was at my lowest weight. I was convinced that my diet was to blame. Certainly, my rotating bouts of bloating, constipation and diarrhea were because of the foods I was eating. So I attempted to control my diet; I tried eliminating whole groups of food to see if that made me feel better.
Goodbye, gluten. Goodbye, dairy. Goodbye, apples or other fruits that had the “wrong” kind of sugar.
I would hardly “feel” like eating, and then when I finally did eat, I would feel equally horrible. A regular dinner for me was most of a clementine and some pieces of candied ginger. It was all I could stomach.