The fridge is bursting. There’s too much food in the house.

Definitely a problem of privilege.

I’m aware of that, yet my problems are my problems, real and difficult for me; other people’s different problems don’t negate my reality.

I’ve had this issue before. I don’t do it to myself – I’m careful about the quantities I maintain – so the stress-inducing over-capacity isn’t my fault. Except for the part where I didn’t speak up because I’m tired of repeating myself. But I didn’t make a mistake shopping.

I pay attention to my recovery.

But it not being my fault doesn’t change the reality of the situation.

It was my birthday and it was a pretty good one, turning fifty-one notwithstanding.

One problem I’m having with aging is deciding what kind of fifty-something to be. Do I continue to try and channel JLo or do I evolve in a more Golden Girls direction?

Life is full of difficult dilemmas.

Like the refrigerator. The one that’s bursting at the seams. What to do?

I can’t tell you how much I hate over-capacity. Even capacity is problematic, depending on the makeup of the contents.

Thanks to my eating disorder, I have complicated relationships with food and my body. For instance, it takes effort to deal with the discomfort that comes from not being emaciated. Learning to live in an altered and still mostly undesired body is hard. It’s on my mind a lot.

I continually push myself to lean into the discomfort rather than fleeing back to the safety of old behaviours.

I have little energy left for icebox issues.

I wanted a low-key birthday this year. At home with just the family, I thought we could order pizza and play some games. In lieu of cake, I wanted an overpriced fruit plate. I know I can make my own quite cheaply but it’s a mistake to underestimate my tendency towards laziness.

I kind of got what I wanted.

My family loves me and I appreciate that. Because of that love, they decided the suggested effort wasn’t enough. They decided I was worth more.

There were appetizers. There were bowls of chips and plates of cookies. There was a platter. It was foodapalooza.

I get it. Food is how we show love.

I wish they’d remember that even though I’m in recovery, the food relationship is somewhat different for me.

I love stroganoff; it’s what I usually eat for birthday dinner. Mom acquiesced to the menu change this year. She also brought me a batch of stroganoff “for later” to keep the tradition alive.

I love that she’s the kind of person who would do that. I think it was the sweetest of gestures. But now there’s a container of stroganoff in my fridge. And a loaf of bread on the counter because they also brought me some jalapeño cheese bread.

There are containers of leftover chips and cookies. The platter is precariously balanced on the yogurt.

There are also two cakes. My family wasn’t down with my “no cake” request. I’ve made it before; it’s always a no-sale. Nobody seems willing to believe me when I mention I don’t really like cake.

They also weren’t sure whether the chocolate cake they selected was appropriate, considering I usually have angel food. So, they bought one of those too.

Very thoughtful and in complete opposition to my request. I smushed them together into one box so they’d take up less space.

There’s also leftover pizza and the leftover half-sub from lunch and the leftover dinner from the night before. I don’t know what to eat or how much or when. And I worry about all this food going to waste and I don’t know the portion size for the focaccia bread and is it caving to my eating disorder if I only eat the chocolate icing?

I wish I had a nice fruit platter kicking around.  

I appreciate the love. I understand they were trying to be thoughtful. I appreciate it can be hard to understand my recovery quirks and food neuroses.

But there is too much food in the fridge and it is freaking me out.