Most people don’t believe me when I say I remember learning about mitosis in 5th grade, but I do.
And I’m not talking about the kind of remembering where I vaguely recollect learning *of* it. I was fascinated by the stages of prophase, metaphase, anaphase and telephase, and couldn’t believe that our chromosomes did such a beautiful dance every time a cell would divide.
I mean, have you seen it?
In high school, biology was always my favorite subject. I even took an extra class in physiology just for funsies.
And after dicking around as an English major for a few years at Berkeley I ultimately graduated with a degree in molecular and cell biology. (I won’t tell you the kinds of grades I got in my MCB classes, because you’d hate me.)
That’s how much I love biology.
As you can imagine, this kind of devotion to the microscopic secrets of our body added plenty of fuel to the fire of my dieting obsession.
Calories, carbs and fat counts? Couldn’t get enough of ’em. I had piles of notebooks filled with each sinful and virtuous molecule I consumed, and took an embarrassing number of nutritional supplements.
Had the Quantified Self movement been around back then, I would have been a disciple. (Soooooo glad it wasn’t).
I know the temptation to count and quantify what you eat. It feels good. It feels like control.
But it isn’t.