Hey, did you know that
when you go off chemo, you get hideously depressed? It's weird. I would have thought exactly the
opposite. Hopefully that’s all done now, but just in case,
my friend Ed of More Items of Limited Interest wrote a guest post that had me
tickled from beginning to end.
Enjoy!
When I learned that Tammy
would be running some guest entries on FOTF, to my delight, she acquiesced and
allowed me to participate. Then I realized I don’t know much about food. This
was a challenge, given that the word "food" comprises 62 percent of the blog’s
title. Unfortunately for me, but
thankfully for you, gentle reader, I have enough issues with food and
self-esteem that I can easily bang out 1,000 words on one of my favorite
subjects.
Hi, my name is Ed, and I’m a
secret eater.
I was a fat kid. I was always tall
for my age—and always big. I was eleven pounds at birth (and born a month early
to boot). Branded with the scarlet “H” (Husky) in my Tuffskins. Labeled
“pleasingly plump” by a grandmother who probably thought it was a compliment.
(Actually, I’m pretty sure she didn’t. Thanks for nothing, Gram.) I liked food,
and it liked me. Actually, it taunted me mercilessly, leaving me in that
strange place between pleasure and self-disgust (I call it “plelf-disgust”).
The shame really hit when I
was around 14 or so, when I realized that: 1) hey, these pants don’t fit; and
2) this shirt is also kind of snug. It was around that time that I found my
food intake was being catalogued. Not by me, but by, well, a parent whose name
rhymes with “Tom.” Admittedly, it was hard to avoid when you ate, say, 29
Hydrox or consumed 80 percent of the bag of chips that were being saved for
“company.” The cataloging did nothing more than make me more determined than
ever to continue my eating, in secret.
So, like the Vanessa
Williams Penthouse I hid under my
mattress (“Oh God! She’s Nude”—I never really understood why they used a file
photo of Miss America and George Burns to sell what was really a grainy
collection of amateurish photos, but that’s neither here nor there), I hid my
eating. And, like the magazine, when my eating was found out, it was pretty
shameful. Imagine checking in on Ms. Williams and finding that someone had
replaced it with the previous week’s church bulletin.
Incidentally, about that
time, I became a church organist. Let me tell you, I beat the women off with a
stick (Overweight—check! Ill-fitting clothes from Bradlees—check! Awesome
hairstyle with down-the-middle part—check! And he can play “Faith of Our Fathers” by ear? I can’t
believe he doesn’t have a girlfriend!). So, there were a lot of things conspiring to unite me with secret
eating.
Then, at age 18, I was
diagnosed with Crohn’s Disease. It was miraculous in that I went from a portly
240 lbs. to a rather gaunt 166 lbs. I was actually encouraged to eat more.
Despite that, or perhaps thanks to it, food and I remained tremendous
frenemies. To this day, I still fall victim to the siren’s song that is the
extra, forbidden snack.
I plead guilty to
encouraging my wife to go to bed early so I can sit down with a box of Rice
Chex, and then create a cereal/milk imbalance that can only be corrected by
adding more of each, until I have consumed 34 servings. Clearly, I know that
while my wife hates to bear witness to the gastric distress caused by nine
bowls of bedtime cereal, I don’t think she thinks less of me as a person due to
my inability to say no to excess cereal. (I like to think that she considers
this just another one of my fantastic personality quirks that does nothing to
detract from the endless cavalcade of whimsy that is our marriage).
So, my plan is to share, for
the first time, some of my best practices related to secret eating. With no
further ado:
Milwaukee County Stadium,
4th-8th innings, Brewers vs. Dodgers, August 1999: During a cross-country trip to visit major league
ballparks, I exit my seat each inning, using a variety of excuses, including
the need to freshen up, purchase souvenirs or simply “reflect on the great
Brewers of the 1982 AL Champions team.” In fact, I was making a bee-line to the
conveniently-located bratwurst stand and enjoying a brat with everything,
including something called “Stadium Sauce,” which I’m told is nothing more than
ketchup and mustard mixed together.
Why it works: Sporting events are excellent secret eating
opportunities, due to the ease of food acquisition, the distraction offered by
the game you have paid to ostensibly watch, or the hope that your friends will
be too shitfaced to judge you too harshly.
Pretty much every time I
visited Anna’s Taqueria, 1998-present: Convincing the cashier at the local taqueria that I am, in fact,
ordering for myself and my friend Hank (author’s note: I don’t have a friend
named Hank), and going so far as to order two drinks and separate bags to keep
the ruse alive.
Why it works: The second drink/separate bag fools them every time,
as does completing your transaction with someone for whom English may be a
second or third language.
McDonald’s Drive-Through
Windows Following Client Meetings/Dinners, 1996-present: I work in a client-service industry, and by and
large, the one iron-clad rule to which I adhere is this: eat dainty portions in
front of the client, and then hit the closest drive-through for the return
trip. There’s nothing more unsightly for a client than having your vendor try
to discuss strategy while eating from one of those taco shell salads. And let’s
face it, you’d never see Don Draper eating a Sloppy Joe while getting that
far-off creative look in his eyes as he spins a masterful campaign for Kodak
slide carousels or London Fog coats.
Why it works: Allows you to maintain your dignity in front of
clients; drive home is also a wonderful opportunity to spent some quality time
with a 20-piece McNuggets and a Shamrock Shake. NOTE: If you’re going with
colleagues, be sure to suggest that you drive separately.
By keeping these handy tips
in mind, you, too, can master the shameful art of secret eating. Thank you.
(Seriously, you guys can
leave now … Mmf. What? What? … I did not eat the last 19 Pecan Sandies. I resent the implication).
I too am a member of the secret eaters club, or at least I was until I left home and found out that, other than my mother, people don't care or judge that much about what/how much I eat, especially if it's delicious! But it really messes you up, doesn't it! I feel your pain!
Posted by: Sandicita | September 25, 2009 at 12:54 PM
Once again, the question arises as to whether I know Ed better than I know myself.
My own fun fact: living at home post-college, in my first dead-end job with a miserable excuse for a boss and cowed co-workers who found it convenient to blame their mistakes on me, I found a friend in solitary lunches that got steadily more "satisfying." Pictures of me from this period are not a pretty sight.
Posted by: ctipper | September 25, 2009 at 01:51 PM
I’m a bit of a secret eater myself, but I rarely get away with it. My TMJ is too loud. The kids (or Husband) will be in the other room and as soon as I start chewing, someone’s all over me asking what I’m eating. God, people, leave me alone!
Posted by: Tammy | September 25, 2009 at 02:07 PM
With two little kids and two Beagles, I can't get away with hiding any food - they seek me out. They have food radar chips, secretly planted in their heads, and as far as I'm concerned, all FOUR of them are Hounds.
Posted by: Amy | September 25, 2009 at 03:02 PM
Portion control is a bitch who deserves to be slapped (twice). We should start a "Secret Eaters" Anonymous. I think it should be pot luck style...
Posted by: Sis | September 25, 2009 at 05:35 PM
Ed's mattress reminded me of something:
When I turned 18, Ed and two friends locked me out of the car in the rain in the parking lot of Cumberland Farms one afternoon. I was instructed that I would be allowed back in the car when I returned with the Madonna issue of Penthouse (they were not old enough to buy it yet). To my eternal delight, the older brother of a classmate of ours was working the register, adding to the shame and embarrassment of the purchase. The grainy, unprofessional pictures were nothing special, but memory of my pals' diabolical treachery will last forever.
Posted by: Husband | September 25, 2009 at 06:31 PM
Haha this is hilarious! Unfortunately, I have never been a member of the Secret Eaters Club--I binge eat in public.
Posted by: Yumi | September 26, 2009 at 07:33 PM
I'm so happy to read I'm not the only one with the late night cereal to milk ratio trick. Amen!
Posted by: April in CT | October 05, 2009 at 04:34 PM