I remember watching my friend Alice eat on our weekend away. She weighed 130 lbs and didn’t gain an ounce of fat despite eating cake, chocolate, wine, lasagne or ice cream. So, I hated her a little bit that weekend. I hated watching her effortlessly glance at the menu without pulling out her calorie counter. I hated watching her select outfits and feeling comfortable in every pair of jeans she owned. Or how little she talked about food and her ability to enjoy her meals.

Real meals. With real bread. Real butter. And even real coke.

I hated her for cracking the code that I couldn’t; that she had found the key to living while all I thought about was dieting. I hated that she was naturally skinny and I was naturally exhausted from researching and trying and reading and crying.

I hated her. But…I envied her. If I was honest with myself and honest with Alice then I wanted to be her. I wanted the ease of her eating. The ease of her laugh and of her life.

I wanted her instincts.

“Instincts Leslie?” I can hear you ask. “What do you mean, instincts? Like how a bird knows to fly south for winter? Like an antelope knows a cheetah is in the woods? Those types of instincts?”