After a fried food frenzy followed by a snacktravaganza on Saturday night, I spent most of yesterday going from a salt-induced semiconscious state to a full on sugar coma.
It started with a plate of Dickles (fried dill pickles for those of you who have been deprived of this magnificent manna), an oyster Po’ Boy sandwich, and truffle fries. This was enough to whet my appetite and bring out something akin to vampire blood lust. Except, instead of a human neck, I wanted to sink my fangs into a bag of Doritos.
I’ve been chasing that orange dragon on and off since I was in third grade. We never had chips at my house, or anything good for that matter. The closest thing I ever got to a homemade dessert was a bad version of a Brown Cow, which consisted of two scoops of vanilla ice milk floating in TAB cola. So, when during a slumber party, a playmate ripped open that shiny, red wrapping and revealed those magical cadmium-colored triangles, I lost my mind. I ate the entire bag, and then threw up the rest of the night. I’d had a similar incident once with a sleeve of Reece’s Cup and entire carton of grape Nehi that I found hidden under my older sister’s bed. It looked like the chic from The Exorcist had eaten Barney.
So after the Dickle-fest, Frank should have known better than to suggest we go to the Dollar Tree to “get a little nom-nom.” First of all, he is way to big and burly to say “nom-nom.” Second, he knows I cannot be trusted with junk food. We emerged fifteen minutes and fifteen dollars later with all varieties of generic cheese puffys, marshmallow fluffys, gummy geegaws, and pastel cream-filled wafers.
We climbed in the bed, busted open every bag, and gorged like we’d never seen a cinnamon Swirly Twirl dipped in Cheddar Whiz before. I awoke yesterday, fingers still stained and sticky, full of remorse and MSG. I went to the bathroom mirror, and vowed to myself that it was the last time. The vicious cycle had to stop. I would no longer take pride in the fact that people often said, “You eat more than any girl…actually, more than anybody I’ve ever known.” I would acknowledge that as a middle-aged woman I should be eating more like a sparrow and less like a member of Sigma Alpha Epsilon. I would subsist on Sushi, quinoa, raw broccoli, and periodic sips of Oolong tea.
I held out all day with just black coffee for breakfast, a tiny bowl of some spinach slime for lunch, a few Special K crackers in the afternoon, and then…again…I lost my mind! I had leftover chicken wings (I’m supposed to be a vegetarian), potato wedges, and a tofu corndog, all while I was cooking a pot of Portabella Pasta. I snarfed down two bowls of it, half a dozen knock-off pirouette cookies, several handfuls of White Cheddar popcorn, and a midnight snack of blueberry pancakes. Of course, it took an entire bottle of red wine to wash it all down.
Realization: I will never be the kind of girl who nibbles. I’m a feasting kind of female. Living large-getting large, taking life in big bites, and swallowing it whole. It’s just another step on the road to self-acceptance.
Oh…and in answer to the obvious question…of course, I was!
the bourbonistA, Promoting Debauchery and stamping out political-correctness one blog at a time.