I wasn’t supposed to be at my friend’s apartment that day, but she asked for a last-minute favor: Could I watch her unruly foster dog while she ran errands? Of course.
Her home felt like an extension of my own. We had recently lived together there (she let me move in after I lost my job and had to sublet my own place to make rent), my cat stayed over whenever I traveled, and she often referred to her office as my bedroom. So I didn’t think twice about opening her fridge.
When I saw the box of Wegovy, my first thought was: It’s for the dog. I slammed the fridge door shut as if I’d seen a ghost or a picture of my ex with someone prettier than me. I opened it again, leaning forward: wegovy™ (semaglutide) injection. All lowercase, as if to say, “i’m friendly and approachable!” Seeing a weight-loss drug in my dear friend’s fridge felt like being cheated on, a confounding betrayal.
I’m not oblivious; I know GLP-1s are everywhere. But as prevalent as semaglutides have become, I’ve been equally vigilant about avoiding them. I avert my eyes from Ro ads on the subway and fast-forward podcast promos. What scares me most about their accepted ubiquity is the underlying belief that we cannot be trusted with our own appetites. That our bodies — working tirelessly on our behalf — warrant control. I’m scared because I used to believe this, too.
