Hello again, blogosphere. You may have never met me in person, so let me just tell you that I am not fat. I’ve always been on the thin side, blessed with a metabolism that has kept me about the same weight since high school. Sure, there have been slight fluctuations, but I’ve never had to diet or adhere to a super-strict exercise regimen to feel comfortable with my body. I know, I’m lucky.

Simultaneously, I really love to eat. I like large portions and sneaking bites while I’m cooking and stopping for a milkshake just because. In my house growing up it was acceptable to get snacks from the kitchen pretty much anytime we wanted, so I did. I still do.

But although my parents made no attempt to stop me from having a few crackers here, a handful of chocolate chips there, they often warned me that one day I’d balloon into an obese woman. My father cited several older women from his family, who I guess were quite overweight by the end of their lives. These were mostly great-aunts and such that I only met once or twice in my childhood, but that he clearly remembered for their fat genes. With these massive women in mind, he would tell me that I’d better watch out, because one day I’d wake up super-sized.

I always flatly rejected this prediction, though, because I could point to several other family members who weren’t overweight at all. My own parents could stand to lose a few pounds, I guess, but they’re in their sixties now—I can hardly blame them for being heavier than they were as teens. Mostly I objected to this idea because I believed myself to have more self-control than my snacking habits would indicate. Deep down, I believed, and still do, that I have the power to control my weight and make the lifestyle changes that would need to take place if my metabolism slowed down.

Well, it’s been over 10 years since my dad first started harassing me about getting fat one day, and I still think I look pretty darn good. But then the other day my husband busted out the same rhetoric on me, all because I had a piece of cold pizza for dessert, only a couple of hours after eating a hearty dinner. As I nibbled on my pizza, even sharing a few bites with him, my husband shook his head and told me, “You know, you’re going to get really fat someday.” Excuse me? I guess it hit a nerve because of having grown up hearing this a lot. I was ticked. Can’t a girl enjoy some cold pizza without being judged?

As I told him in our ensuing conversation, yes, I am aware that my body may not always look like this. In fact, I’m expecting it. I know metabolisms change as we get older, and pregnancy will alter my slender frame forever. By the time I’m my parents’ age, sure, I may well be carrying around 10-20 pounds of extra weight. But why assume that I can’t handle these changes and challenges? Why moan and groan about a future possibility, when you could just enjoy the cold pizza of the present? Yes, I eat a lot. Yes, there are many days when I eat more than my husband. Yes, if you leave me at home with a tray of brownies, I’m going to eat several. But here are some other facts—I’m much more dedicated about exercise than my husband is. In fact, on that very day I had gone for a three-mile run. I think that earns me a small slice of pizza, dammit! I also am capable of using self-control. There have been many times when I’ve chosen not to order dessert, not to make those tantalizing mini-cheesecakes I saw on Pinterest, not to add sugar or cream to my coffee, not to fry something when baking would do…I make plenty of healthy choices. I don’t need to be patronized. This lifestyle works for me right now, and when it stops working, I’ll figure out what to do. Until then, let me eat cake! And pizza. And ice cream. And bacon. I might as well enjoy this metabolism to the max while I still can, right?