April 3 [Day 3]: Distortion

7am: Remember how I described oatmeal as a blank canvas that I can dress up with all the colors and textures I desire? Today, it is like a piece of loose leaf, served up with a gnawed no.2 pencil and an assignment to write the same sentence seventy-seven times: "My breakfast is an off-white bowl of drudgery."

An hour later, I'm headed home on the train. I take the opportunity to put my calories for yesterday into MyFitnessPal and see where I netted out. Normally, I need ~2500 to sustain my daily lifestyle. Yesterday's run burned an extra 1700, greatly increasing my caloric needs, especially in the form of high-quality carbs and protein to aid muscle recovery. 

So, with a target of 4200 in mind, I enter my final food item for the day (an extra half tablespoon of PB just before bed), and the app displays my result: 1635. 

I blink. 1635? Meaning, my calorie intake was 60% below my needs?

But I felt fine on the run itself. Heck, I was even cheery, carrying on conversation while climbing 3000 feet! I was confident I could carry on my training with minimal hitches, confident I could scrounge enough calories to refill the tank. 

6:30pm: As part of the Challenge rules, we agreed to allow for food obtained at religious events to not count against the daily budget. So when I found out my church was hosting a dinner event, I made absolutely sure to block off the time, even arriving early to help cook (and discreetly direct a few scraps to my mouth). When dinner is served, I want to dance as I heap my plate embarrassingly full of chicken and mashed potatoes. Someone had brought homemade cookies, and I take two from the plate, an obvious choice over the apple slices displayed next to it. 

Wait - how did I overlook the apple to quickly? I enjoy a good cookie every now and then, but downing two at once (we'll overlook the third I stashed in my bag for later) was out of character. That after I'd gone up for seconds on the dinner plate, equally rare among my measured intake habits. 

But I don't know if I'll have this kind of opportunity again before the Challenge ends. The only logical conclusion, then, is to feed myself until it's uncomfortable, with the highest-calorie foods I can reach. Right? 

And so it is that just three days in, I see my levees of healthful discipline have caved to a surge of desperation. The scariest part is, I don't even feel guilty for the amount I ate. I feel relieved. My relationship with food has been distorted from one of conscious enjoyment to one of hoarding for survival's sake, and I can't help but wonder if this is how metabolic diseases begin.