There’s no question that I like to eat. No. I love to eat. One look at me and my double chins makes that crystal clear.
I’ve always loved to eat, and it wasn’t until my mid-twenties when my eating caught up with me and I found myself living as a full time resident of Fatsville. (Our mascot is Garfield, the lasagna loving cat, and our primary export is butane…some residents export more than others…)
I’ve known that I’ve been “chunky” for a long time. Normally, I like to call myself fluffy, because it sounds much better than obese or fat and it makes me think of curling up with a fluffy blanket and a tub of ice cream.
Tonight, while I was at dinner stuffing my face with thousands of calories of buttery goodness, I realized that I’m a fat girl at heart. Not just because I’m actually fat, and my heart is probably coated with cellulite, but because I act like a fat girl does.
This prompted me to start a list (because I love to number things. It gives me a sense of power.)
So here are a few ways I know that I’m a fat girl. Read up and take notes. These are really enlightening thoughts.
1. I will only attend social gatherings if there will be a good selection of food there.
I like to know that if I’m venturing out for an event, it’s worth my while. I don’t mean that it’s a charitable event or it does something good for the environment; I mean I want to know if the food spread will be good. Want me to come out and support Nurses for Newborns?
Not if all you have is a veggie tray and a rotisserie chicken. Want me to bowl to help orphaned children? Only if there are toasted ravioli and all you can eat pasta. I’m not that charitable.
2. No matter how full I am, I could still eat more.
I’ve heard people say things like “I just couldn’t eat one more bite.” What? Why not? Of course you can. Or at least, of course I can. And I will. I’m not a quitter. If there is food on the table, even if my stomach is bursting and I’m actually sweating out steak sauce, I continue to eat until someone takes the food away.
So pass the rolls and keep the judgment to yourself (but please share your carrot cake).
3. I remember events based upon what food was served.
I have a selective memory. Some things I tend to remember quite well, while others are a bit more hazy. Alcohol is typically involved as the cause for the latter. Either way, I’m far more likely to remember an event in my life if I can associate it with food. I’m like a fricking card catalogue of food and the Dewey Decimal system is in full effect in my brain. First day of Kindergarten?
Yeah, I remember it. It’s filed under Sloppy Joes. The day Princess Diana died? I mourned her over corn dogs. Nothing says the death of royalty quite like artificial meat dipped in a deep fryer. So if you want me to remember something, make sure you serve something delicious (and lock the liquor cabinet).
4. When I’m eating, I’m thinking about what and when I will eat next.
Doesn’t everyone do this? While I’m chowing down on my foot long sub at lunch, I’m already thinking about my afternoon snack, and how long I have to wait until I can eat again. I’m like a teenage boy who just discovered his father’s Playboy magazines and wants to slip off alone with them whenever he can. In my case, the porn is chips and salsa with a huge helping of guacamole (and a side of shame and despair).
5. When I go out to eat, my eye remains on the back room to see when they will bring out food.
I have a hard time concentrating on the conversation at a restaurant when I know that just behind those flapping doors is a world of food. From chicken breasts to cheese balls, I know the only thing separating me from a wonderland of cholesterol and calories are those flimsy doors with windows made of plastic.
Every time a waiter slams through them, I wonder what delicacy he is holding and if I can get a glimpse, or even just a sniff of what he’s bringing out. I realize this makes me sound like a serial rapist on an episode of Law and Order SVU, but I’m cool with that. Christopher Meloni rocks.
And the final and most important way I know I’m a fat girl? The scale. She’s a fickle beast and although I tell myself she’s a lying nag…she’s probably telling the truth. Either that, or she’s in cahoots with my pants.