We used to be about the same size. When you dropped 70 pounds, I was worried. A guy we lived with asked me why every morning after breakfast you would throw up. I felt like I had to say something, but my feeble attempts to ask whether you were really getting enough protein to be exercising four hours a day were laughingly rebuffed. To rub it in, you gifted me your old "fat clothes." I remember hugging you one time and being able to feel all of your bones.

After you were accused by your mother of starving yourself, you started eating again, had more energy, and gained a little of the weight back. I felt I could relax and thought maybe you now meant your "healthy" talk. I even put up with you telling me (I, who am actually overweight) what a "hungry hippo" you were being every time you ate a cup of yogurt, because I was so relieved.

But apparently your still smaller-than-average figure is facing another "too fat" emergency. I heard you puking up your dinner last night. (BTW, puking is loud and turning on the bathroom fan does not cover it.) I should feel sorry about your relapse, but I feel angry. I am tired of hearing about how great you look from other people, and I am often tempted to out you. At the very least, I am going to make a play for the boy we both like. He's too good for someone whose primary interest in life is her weight.