So apparently it is a thing in Osaka to “eat until you drop,” referred to as kuidaore. I don’t know if this should be taken literally. I can say that I didn’t see anyone passing out from gut-explosion firsthand. Yes, I did look for it.

Whether this is fact or hyperbole, it is still true that Osaka is a down home kind of city famous for good food, particularly street food. It is the birthplace of okonomiyaki, a takoyaki (fried octopus balls)-making machine, and the inventor of such high-class innovations as conveyer belt sushi. The best place to experience all of this is at night wandering around Dotombori, a Times Square-esque area lit up with billboards and concentrated with street food vendors. That’s basically the only thing I did in Osaka other than my other favorite activity. Lay in bed. Thousand-yard stare. Hours pass by. Eventually, I pass out.

While I was on the plane today leaving Osaka, the dissonance between this celebration of (ahem, unhealthy non-Dr. Atkins-approved) food in Japan on the one hand and the unforgiving obsession with appearance and body image on the other just struck me as odd. Or perhaps it’s fitting. Maybe it’s just that food is a focus, whether it’s in abundance or whether it’s being withheld. As I traveled around Japan and saw so many very thin, pale-faced, beautiful girls, it made me kind of call bullshit on the idea that Asian women can eat whatever they want and not gain weight. I think there’s a massive social coverup we’re all complicit in to make it seem natural and look easy.

The balance between consumption and self-denial is tricky, and we often misplace the ways we direct these urges. Or at least I do. Let’s do <20 grams of carbs Atkins induction for 2 weeks in San Francisco, literally counting the carbs in servings of kale, to IMMEDIATELY eating nothing but fried food and carbs in Japan. Huh? The only common thread between those two things is always having to be extreme about everything I do.

One of the reasons why I was feeling all moody-like and reflective on the plane about all of this is that I watched Amy Winehouse basically kill herself through patterns of overconsumption and bulimia in the documentary “Amy.” It was exceedingly sad and real. Perhaps there is a little Amy in all of us, or maybe it’s just damaged old me. I could relate to her struggles. It made me angry about the cycles we waste thinking about appearance, weight, judgment from others, and our own demons. It seemed she could never love herself enough to see her own beauty or appreciate her gifts. She almost seemed oblivious to the fact that she was so talented. So sad. Heart breaking into millions of pieces.

I certainly learned a lot about her. It gave me some perspective. Self-love is more important than anything else. It’s not about waist size or wallet size or shoe size or any of those things. I hope I can remember that more often and focus on what matters.