RSSFriday B.S.: Skin and Bones
Jul 20
Humor Carbs, Eating, Humor Comments Off
I’m a snacker (that is, one who snacks -- not one of those gross wannabe sliders that they sell at KFC in such wonderful flavors as “chicken fried steak” and “just peeled off the floor.”) Almost anything will do; cheez-its, bread and butter, M&Ms. I’m not a grazer. I don’t go to the fridge looking to pick here and pick there, satisfied with just a bite of the first thing I see. No, I want it all, and I want it now.
I’m also a carb-o-holic. I get an insatiable satisfaction from eating pasta for no other reason than it releases endorphins akin to being jacked up on Sudafed. It need not have flavor, sauce, vegetables or even be fully cooked. (If you think comparing digesting carbs to an endorphin rush is specious at best, then you clearly have never been addicted to anything.) Not to be confused with endomorphic (um, a fancy term for “fatty.”)
This is my favorite clinical description of an endomorph: “love of food” and “over-developed digestive system.” Yes, well, now that we have cleared that up.
Contrary to what you might think, this is all about your attitude about food; not really how fat you are. I know it’s confusing. Think of it this way. Just because you live in Arkansas City (in Kansas, population: 11,416) doesn’t mean you live in Arkansas. Unless you live in Arkansas City, Arkansas population: 544. Yes, well, now that we have that cleared up.
No, it is all about how food makes you feel. Food is your substitute for love, the one you turn to in a time of need. It regulates you better (and faster) than sleep. It keeps you sane in time of crazy. It makes you happy when you’re ready to bawl. It helps you concentrate. It’s an anodyne and an aphrodisiac (I just won Scattergories!) Food relieves boredom and calms fears. It can be the answer to any question you have ever asked.
I dream in sugary goodness (sometimes, I dream of biting people, but whatever) thin wafers of mint and scoops of vanilla ice cream, warm chocolate chip cookies, and cheesecake. My mouth starts to water at just the thought.
I’ve banned all desserts from my house. A snacker with easy access to desserts and I would be the 800 pound fatty on the Discovery Channel being prodded from behind by a camera crew that wants to film me turning over to have my temperature taken up my anus by a state-appointed caretaker. Beefcake! BEEFCAKE!
When the camera comes back around to my face, a man with a microphone will ask me in all seriousness, “How did this happen?”
I croak out, “World record for most donuts consumed in a year.” I smile proudly, though my lips are cracked and I’m sweating in my nethers, “7,000.” (You know, 19 doughnuts a day may sound unreasonable, but 6 doughnuts a day is still over 2,000 in a year. Does that sound like such a stretch? Time to throw away your subscription to Diabetic Cooking; you never read it anyway.)
The man looks at me, while the camera slowly focuses in on my expression of solemn pride. Then he says, “Well, now that we have that cleared up.”
I’m not saying I avoid all sugary foods, carbs, and snacks. I just don’t play to my snacker tendencies by having ensuring everything in my house requires extensive cooking. Then, to avoid feeding my carb-o-holism, I don’t buy the cheez-its or M&Ms or anything else that can be eaten with one hand on the remote control. That leaves a diet primarily of bread and butter, fruits and vegetables, eggs and cheese. It virtually guarantees representation of every food group, and when I feel the siren call of food, be it carbs and sugar or the phenomenon I like to refer to as gorging until I puke, pretty much my only option is to ignore it.
I’m not sure it’s mentally healthy to deny myself so stringently, but then I’m also not so sure it’s physically healthy to give in, either. One would like to think that somewhere in my kitchen is a happy middle ground. Nutrisystem?
Until the day that I don’t use food as a crutch, to make myself feel better, or just to pass the time, I think my solution offers the best chance to keep my tendencies under control. Every small lapse, a whole bag of tortilla chips, six ice cream sandwiches, or handfuls of chocolate covered pretzels, sends me into a shame spiral that only more gorging can rectify. And when eating becomes about anger and revulsion, food loses everything that makes it fundamentally satisfying. All of which means it’s time to stop.
The lesson is easy to learn and easy to unlearn. I guess I can look at it like this: at least I’m addicted to food and not to something that might really damage my body, like crack, or weight-lifting. No, I’m kidding, All three are equally damaging. Well, now that we have that cleared up.
