Sorry I was late…

You’d have thought after a few weeks that the novelty of the London commute would’ve worn off by now and it’s only upon reflection do I question why it hasn’t yet. Apart from the people that insist waiting an extra minute for the next Victoria line train is far too long, so decide to squeeze in to the already rammed carriage and ignore all warning of the closing doors, or the passengers that lack a serious concept of urgency (or general lack of fitness), that can’t move any faster for people like me that insist I WILL make it to the overground with 3 seconds to spare, I really actually don’t mind the commute. So much so, that I was still planning to have my birthday on an actual tube… except it’s not really a tube, it’s called Cahoots and it’s a restaurant and it’s just designed like a tube.

Embarking on the commute comes with having started a new internship in recent weeks. Commute aside, I’ve had to take on several other new challenges: the hardest being to try and overcome the anxiety that has aroused when eating lunch around new people followed by the awkward explanation to the mass of confused expressions of why I’m not indulging in the mouth-watering pizza that everyone else is eating in the office. I’m fooling no one when I say that my banana is more appetizing.

Food aside, I’ve also faced the almighty challenge that has come with deciding what outfit to wear each morning. Though I could undoubtedly rock up in just a pair of jeans and a baggy sweatshirt due to the nature of my office, if I’m going to blend in with the general persona of Knightsbridge, you bet I’m going to strut my stuff in Primark’s latest office wear collection.

Where I’ve been so used to wearing a uniform that is as unflattering as ever, having worked in a leisure centre before this internship, I’ve long forgotten what it’s like to have to ensure you’re looking at your clothing best every day. This hit me at its worse last week, where the eating disorder desire to constantly hit perfection and not have a shred of evidence that I have any fat anywhere on my body and I was late for work.

Though I blamed it on train delays – which if you’re travelling on the London Overground, it pretty much guarantees you aren’t lying anyway – I was in fact rushing around the nearest clothing retailer looking for clothes. I felt so fat and so hideous in what I’d chosen to wear that day, that I’d almost considered turning around and going home after almost breaking down in tears on the train.

Perhaps I looked fine in what I was wearing, perhaps there wasn’t really that much excess back fat hanging over the side of my bra and perhaps my arms didn’t look like someone had attached a hammock to my tricep and was swinging merrily in the wind.

The point being that an eating disorder can still creep up on you at times where you still just don’t expect it. When I thought my confidence was on an up-turn, you’re taken 100 steps back because anorexia says you’ve gotten too fat. Sod you!

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