On a regular week I am at work Monday to Friday from 9-5.
I pack my breakfast, lunch and sensible snacks and eat like a lady. (Okay, my legs may be flailed open but it's not like I'm wearing a skirt and being all Belushi-like.)
When I have this strictly selected array of food to choose from, I eat it on auto-pilot and don't complain. Canned tuna, salad mix, Vega bars, celery and hummus, apples and almond butter, coffee, lemon water and an assortment of colourful vitamins. I am the picture of health and assholery – hey, at least I take the tuna can and its leftover juice to the bathroom garbage. It blends right in.
Last week Stella was sick with a cool combo of wet lungs, fiery temperature and no appetite. She wasn't sleeping well – I'd huddle next to her bed while she exhaled whimper moans that punched me square in the heart or mumbled a language that was half Latin and half Hobbit.
Since only the truly wretched parents of the world can conscience-free drop their sick kids off at daycare to chem trail their germs, I stayed home with her for two days.
Netflix took care of the parenting, so I was pretty much free to fuck around. I only needed to fetch juice, negotiate then force medicine down her throat, and adjust the breastfeeding pillow I dragged out for her because it has 17 different cozy ways to be used and it is pretty much King of All Pillows in our home now.
After scrolling Twitter and Facebook for hours, I got bored.
I could have read. I have Amy Poehler's new book shrieking at me from the shelf.
I could have started my Christmas Cards (the list always starts with just 10 people but suddenly I'm sending out 470 because I was left out of something once in Grade 4 and I'll be hot FUCKED if I ever leave someone out.)
I could have gone into the bedroom and put on a home workout.
Instead, I ate.
Oh, sweet mother of deep pantry, I ate.
I tapped into the head and stomach of the girl I was last year, 80 pounds heavier, and after poking around the kitchen, I remembered things. Things I had forced out of my head. Scary delicious things.
Things like how good and soul satisfying a tbsp of butter dredged through a pile of brown sugar tastes. Just straight fat and sugar, creamy and crunchy, bouncing around your mouth.
As an avid Food Channel devotee, it's known that you can't just have sweet without salty.
So, the epic and wicked circle of food fuckery commenced.
Two slices of Kraft singles, because there were just two left, and I forgot how good mayo is, so I squished both onto these new Breton gluten free crackers and ate them while wedged into the corner of the kitchen counter in the dark.
Half a plastic carton of Callebaut chopped chocolate that I had bought for baking, so I ate a fistful of sweet slivers for fun, and then got serious and melted a chunk to swipe a handful of strawberries through because I can’t watch The Mindy Project snack-less.
¾ of a bag of yogurt covered pretzels because I needed lunch dessert.
The last part of a bag of Zesty Cheese Doritos. I cut off the top of the bag so as to not waste a bowl and then casually dug cheese schmutz and crumbs out of my bra and fingernails for 20 minutes.
A To-Go carton of Annie's gluten free macaroni and cheese sprinkled with bacon and old cheddar. Okay, fine. I ate TWO of them.
Four of the 12 blackberry lemon muffins I made because I had blackberries and lemons and sometimes a goddamn muffin is just what you need at 10:57 pm.
Two cookies that I baked using a two cookie recipe. Gluten free cookie dough always spreads like a motherfucker so those baked cookies end up covering 7/8ths of a cookie sheet. I ate one when it was too hot and saved the other one for later. Six minutes later to be precise.
A can of grapefruit Perrier to wash down all the sin.
An endless array of smoothies and half-warm ghetto instant espresso that I like to make startling hot then wait exactly too long until it's too lukewarm to pretend I wanted it that way.
Four handfuls each of marshmallows and Jelly Belly's. I ate the Jelly Belly's one at a time. Come on. I'm not a total idiot. For each of these choices, by the third handful I was totally sated, but if you think I am going to get up and throw away the last morsels in a bowl, you don't know a goddamn thing about me.
I ate like a high school linebacker with a tapeworm trying to make weight.
The wreckage left behind was a sinkful of hastily gathered dishes and holes in the fridge. A veritable "Did I do that?" art installation of weakness and guilt.
When I went back to work on Wednesday, I was a slug. My guts were extended and my pantry empty. I felt tremendously gross about my goldfish control and bored gnawing.
At noon I logged off and sat and at my desk, forking dry tuna out of a small can while staring listlessly at the wall. Man, being a responsible adult lady tastes like shit sometimes.