Not to brag, but I've had probably dozens of ice cream cones and hundreds of creamy scoops during my 30 years on this Earth. Still, the cone that I remember the most is one I didn’t eat.
My parents practically airlifted themselves in to the wilderness camp where I broke my nose during the summer of 2004. While we drove away from a doctors office in the nearest city, Sacramento, the aggressively tan landscape seemed particularly morose to me because of the news that I had just received: My broken nose needed immediate medical attention. I was to return to Los Angeles, so that a Beverly Hills doctor could reset my nose before the damage really set in. To me, a previously chubby tween, this meant leaving the summer camp where what I thought of as my newly hot bod and I were getting the most attention we’d ever had, and going home. Read more...
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