eat me

One of the greatest pleasures in life is, without a doubt, eating. If you can afford to do it, you should probably enjoy it, or something, I don’t know, I’m not a food eating expert*. Some examples of strange eating behaviour from the female, and sometimes male, species, if you will:

1. ‘I better not try that chocolate fudge tart, I’m watching what I eat’.

I’m sorry did someone just say the words ‘better not’ in the same sentence as ‘chocolate fudge tart’? Did someone just use the verb ‘watching’ right next to the sacred ‘eat’ verb? WHY ON EARTH. Okay sorry, I’ll calm down. Why on earth is someone watching what they eat and not devouring it with the gravitational force of the earth aiding them? The tart (heh) is saying to you ‘there’s nothing to see here folks, keep moving, please make way for the genuine humans who eat’. And then when someone like me arrives the choc tart proceeds to sing Al Green: ‘here I am baby…come and take me, take me by the hand, show me, here I am baby’.

2. ‘I better go home now so I can sleep early and wake at an ungodly hour in order to exercise because I really enjoy that’.

Nobody enjoys that.


If you enjoy that, I don’t want to know about you.

I am informed that insecurities to look a certain way empower this guilt. That’s the worst reason I’ve ever heard for not eating. Sometimes I skip a meal because I take my lunch breaks to write these blog posts or write article pitches or work on my novel. I’ll starve doing something I love, I’ll starve for my craft, but ask me to starve so I can fit into a dress? Meh. The dress can fit into me. Shut up Dress.

Truth be told I rarely see myself in my natural state of nakedness – in all the fleshy glory (or gory?) that this may entail. Why do I need to see it when clothing does a perfectly good job of covering it? This is especially true during winter, a time reserved for dressing myself by way of not leaving the bed, a process that involves a few manoeuvres from underneath the sanctity of my blanket until the jeans are on; proceed with t-shirt, exit bed fully clothed and nobody has to get hurt.

But on the odd occasion that I do look at myself in the mirror, I often stare at my body and wonder how it came to be the way that it is. I think to myself, ‘those bits weren’t there before…’ or ‘oh, I’m not really the same size I was when I was 13. Man, didn’t see that one coming!’

Then I go and eat a burrito like it’s nobody’s business.

Because what is that whole thing re: guilt tripping over what we eat? Why can’t we damn well enjoy the food in life if it’s enjoyed in moderation and with a side serving of discipline?

Nothing makes me happier than seeing women content with the way they look, eating a burger or a steak while their boyfriend orders a salad and they laugh when the waitress gets the order mixed up because the waitress is a sexist bitch who can’t pick up a chocolate bar without checking the calories first.

Calorie checkers. Why do you exist? For what purpose exactly does your existence serve?

I have a wedding this Saturday and I am on the bridal party, so I have to be the same size I was when I first tried on the dress AND then somehow manage to look good at the same time. It’s like a juggling circus act out there. Admittedly I ate an unexpected package of Krispy Kreme donuts last week with the rationale that I couldn’t possibly let them go to waste. One fellow colleague suggested I put them out in the kitchen for people to take. I stared at her like she had just suggested I put my first born out on the kitchen table too and wait for someone to collect him or her. I then ate all my donut babies so no one could make any more crazy suggestions. Problem solved.

I appear to have no understanding of watching my weight, unless this means actually staring at it in the mirror and making it do funny things like jiggle around. My understanding of eating healthy includes forcing my legs to walk to the pitiful tiny health food section and giving myself a pep talk that I am invisibly barricaded within this aisle and cannot leave because the world is ending and I have to buy all my food from this aisle right this instance, GO! Five minutes later I am cruising the junk food aisle while wearing sunnies. I don’t buy anything. I just like to have options.

I have no self control either. Only this morning I was too lazy to take my sandwich to the fridge at work and I didn’t want it to go bad. So I ate it. At 10.30am in the morning. I then spent the next two hours thinking about how conflicted and angry my stomach was going to be at lunchtime.

But yesterday, in a proud moment for everyone involved, I didn’t eat that complimentary marshmallow with my coffee. That’s my idea of healthy good times! I don’t know about carbs or being healthy or diets or waking up at 7am to run in the freezing cold and I don’t plan on finding out about them either.

Let’s just enjoy these minutes doing what we love. If you have to say no to the occasional marshmallow, you can. But if you don’t want to, fuck it, eat the god damn ball of sugar.


*not currently a food eating expert but if the role ever exists in the near future, I would like to apply for it, thank you and good night.

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