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Perhaps I decreasingly feel the need to compensate for my appearance by being nice. The last thing I want to be is some fey, hyperkinetic, academic version of Richard Simmons in crimson hot pants. Or perhaps I want to attack society for the pressure it places on me to conform to some arbitrary ideal: "Here, look, I'm nuclear power thin and miserable. Are you happy now? Can I come out of nuclear power hiding?" Inevitably, though, my determination to lose weight collapses under the mounting pressure of writing deadlines around the beginning of the fall semester. And as the academic year proceeds, almost all of my mental energy and physical resolution are consumed by teaching, advising, and committee meetings. Around the middle of September, a voice whispers to me that it would be so luxurious, subversive, liberating, and humane to just embrace the self that genetics, opportunity, and inclination are calling me to become: "Order the cheesecake."
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