your shrink would be proud (because i don't have one) (or something like that)

"how do you eat so fast?" he asked from across the table.  his plate sat in front of him, a third full...mine was empty, except for a few swipe marks from the last scrumptious bite.  she can't do much, but the girl can cook.

(yes me)

"how do you eat so fast???"

a question no one has ever asked me.  ever.  in my whole existence.  because i, zanna, am queen of the pokey eaters.  i'm always the last one with food on her plate (yes i'm gonna eat that!) and am not sure exactly how this metamorphosis into scarfing like a scavenger came about without me noticing sooner...but it's beginning to dawn on me why.

the last several months i've been shoveling disgusting fast food grease bombs into me with some sort of hopeless desperation.  the cheesier the better.  is the bottom of the box dripping and waxy with rendered animal fat?  yes please.  and i'll be back tomorrow.  and when i get to my little parking place with my 27 minutes left, it's a feeding frenzy.  the fries i didn't really want somehow disappear.  if it's been an extra shitty day, they're dipped in mayo before the final act.  once, i dredged them in a chocolate shake.  because why the fuck not?

i always end up with a surprising number of minutes to spare.

actually, with just the right fry and just the right shake, that's really good.  try it.  just not every goddamn day, every goddamn time you want to punish yourself for whatever it is that you've done or for whatever loss you've perceived or for whatever it is you're replacing or hiding or cowering from or for whatever debt you owe that is beyond your means so you may as well spend that last seven bucks on something that very well may kill you before the next statement comes due.

and how aware am i that this shit will kill.  i mean seriously.  aside from throwing yourself headfirst into a sealed room being pounded with a mega-super-radiation ray from hell, there's not a much surer way to commit serious health kamikazi.

so i ask myself, Self, why are we punishing us?

i love good food, healthy raw food, real whole good for me food.  it makes me stop feeling bad.  and no not really about being fat - everyone always says, you're not fat.  and if i were looking at me from the outside, i would probably say, no, you're not fat.

ok maybe a little, but not too terribly blimpish.  

but it's not about looking fat.  it's oh so much about how i actually physically feel.  and i feel old.  sluggish.  my knees hurt again.  the aches are back, the overall shittiness is back.  i have actually experienced heartburn again for the first time in literally years.  sometimes i think i do this to myself purposely, for the cycles, because i start to think maybe i've forgotten just how awful it really is.  surprisingly, i haven't been ill, and the previous three octobers have been devoted to ingesting antibiotics, so it seems i'm doing something right - but overall i feel like hell and i know better.

the amazing boyfriend and i love food together.  :)  we cook together, we cook for one another while the other drools with expectation, and fuck if everything isn't better with cheddar.  and bacon.  and sour cream.

EVERYDAMNTHING.

yummy.

i'd probably have been ok with just the new relationship awesomeness celebration in the kitchen thrice weekly (at least) - but the fast food got me.  and my enormous thighs.  or, my thighs enormous?  ...either way... i've gained back almost every single pound now.  holding steady at a weight i refuse to type.  it's not denial, it's embarrassment.  i was never going back to this number...never...never...

i am going through a lot of bullshit.  i am not able to write AND publish about the bullshit.  yet.  but one day, oh, one day, something something in mariah carey's voice inside my head DAMN YOU WISH YOU WERE IN HERE....

gah.  not really.

the point is, there's a lot of bullshit that makes me think, you deserve this.  take it.  take more of it. take it all and go back for seconds you dirty...

yeah.  

not as a reward.  usually.  almost always, i think, i must be punishing myself.  for putting up with the bullshit, for waiting out the bullshit, for squashing what i really want to say and do about the bullshit and for being a decent human being when in fact i really, really want to be just like all the nasty bottomfeeders shoveling out the bullshit.

and sometimes it IS a reward.  sometimes i justify it that way - you've worked hard and you're very tired and you shouldn't deny yourself that 800 calorie fat-filled coffee by-product. 

and sometimes i just don't care and am fully aware that i hate myself in this moment and i hope i die of a heart attack in the parking lot.

i mean i don't really want to die.  but at least then i wouldn't have to deal with the tidal wave of bullshit.  hey i didn't promise it wasn't gonna get morbid.

no i am not "suicidal." (i just air-quoted that in my head.)  look at me.  i'm spectacular.

besides, i have a million paintings inside me waiting patiently to get out.

the point is, somehow, somewhere not too deep down in my psyche, i don't think i deserve to live life to the fullest.  i should feel guilty for even wanting to, and certainly for trying.  and so, fill myself with self-hatred in the guise of a cheeseburger.  (one not lovingly made by The Cook Man of My Dreams, but one slapped together by an angry, toothless, gray woman in a sloppy hairnet with shattered dreams and a chapped ass.)

damn, if that image doesn't put me off the fast food sludge, nothing will...


right about now, the shrink (had i not scared them all away) would be laying down her pen, looking at her watch, and saying noncommitally, "i think we've made a real breakthrough here.  same time next week."


for the record, i've skipped dinner, but that's a whole different story.

fin.