I have a love affair with food. I don’t just enjoy it like regular people. Eating good food is a five sense experience to me. When I’ve got something particularly tasty in front of me, it’s about everything from the smell to the texture to the presentation to, of course, the taste. If there’s an audible treat– like a sizzle going on– well, the excitement factor has been ramped up. Otherwise, it’s just me moaning in appreciation that will be heard.
I often eat too much, and I frequently eat emotionally–currently I’m nursing some heartbreak and grief with a long line of fatty foods– but I don’t eat to feed an empty hole in my soul. Well, not usually, that is. I don’t think there’s serious psychological issues going on here. I’m just a foodie. Even when I’m eating the proper caloric intake and watching my fat, fiber, calcium and sodium, I still eat only what I enjoy. I still make my meals an experience. I still splurge and treat myself. Food and good cooking is an art. An art that I refuse to give up.
However, in this love affair that I have going on, there is some abuse. And that abuse is called the doughnut. I can’t even claim to abuse the high class doughnuts, for god’s sake. I mean, give me a box of seriously crappy heart-attack-in-a-box Entenmann’s chocolate pop’ems and I’m a pig in rut.
Since September of 2001, I have turned to the chocolate doughnut in times of immense stress. The cafeteria where I work has chocolate glazed doughnuts the size of my face. On a bad day, they are particularly attractive to me. But somewhere deep inside, I am aware that the doughnut is not really my friend. Even though he acts like he likes me as much as I like him. Just because the doughnut combines two wondrous creations – cake and fried food – I must not be fooled. I must resist the bad love!
It may be a good time while I’m enjoying the wondrous chocolatey sugary glazed cakey doughnut. I mean, it’s good. But then comes the guilt, the horror, the embarrassment. And then the sick part. No, I really mean the sick part– actually being sick. The part where my stomach laughs at me for being so stupid.
My first clue of abuse, other than the growing tightness of my pants, should be the secretive nature of my affair. I hide the doughnut box from people if they come over. If I buy doughnuts, I eat them very fast. Is this to hide the evidence? I have no idea. All I know is that the only thing left behind are an embarrassing array of crumbs.
It is a shameful abusive relationship. And I think I may need someone to break us up.
Oh the horrors. The horror. Sigh.