My best friend is thin. (Sometimes too thin — she struggles with anxiety that wrecks her appetite.) For fifteen years, I envied her ability to buy bikini swimsuits in the Old Navy kids’ section. But what I envied more was her relationship to food. She was a mystical creature who only ate when she was hungry and could never finish her fries (I’d finish them for her.) She’d order two tacos and put one in her bag for later (we dubbed it the “purse taco.”) Occasionally, she’d overeat a bit and would feel slightly nauseous and need to unzip her skinny jeans. (I could put down an entire frozen pizza and not feel a thing.) Over the course of decades, I’d become so out-of-touch with my body’s internal cues that I didn’t even know what hunger felt like unless I was starving, or what satiety felt like unless I was completely sick. My reliance on external forces to know how and when and how much to eat meant I thought about food — and all its myriad, shitty subcategories (“bad” food, “good” food, calories, gluten, BLAH BLAH BLAH) — every waking minute of every day. My thin friends thought about other things: social justice, cats, Father John Misty … and sometimes food, usually when they were hungry or figuring out where to have dinner.