Monday, March 21, 2011
Less serious, more embarassing
On the heels of this morning's very serious entry comes this: I know I have a problem when I find myself sitting down with a bucket, a BUCKET, of chicken. Yes. Because, when my body is craving some sort of nutrient, like, say, protein, does it say to me, "you should get some isolated protein and mix it with some nonfat milk"? It does NOT. It says, "Get me fried chicken. NOW!" and it says it in the deep throaty voice of a very fat woman.
And, UNortunately, it is a matter of about ten minutes to get from school/class to KFC, right down the street.
It's never a good idea for me to sit in the drive-through of ANY eatery when I am hungry. I do not make wise decisions. And I was. hungry, I mean. I had missed breakfast, and so ate my lunch for breakfast, and then ate my dinner for lunch, so that by dinner-time, I was pretty hungry. So before I knew what was happening, I once again found myself in the drive-through at KFC, contemplationg the offerings of fried health up on the menu, and before I could stop my mouth, the fat-lady-throaty-voice said, "I'll take the 6 piece chicken dinner, chicken only." Which was technically listed in the family section. But lets not go there.
I knew I had made a mistake when my chicken was handed through the window to me in a BUCKET. Yes, bucket. There's no denying that you have a binging problem when your dinner is in a bucket. You are one step removed from a trough, at that point, and that can only mean one thing: MOO. or oink. or whatever. To at insult to injury, the window guy asked me if I wanted plates, plural. No, thanks. I just wanted some napkins. He gave me enough napkins to take care of a school cafeteria, this entire experience reminding me that I was eating the food of several people. Six, to be precise.
I arrived back to class about 30 minutes early, and immediately comments about the bucket began.
Is that for you or for the victims of the earthquake?
Misty, has it ever occurred to you that this fried chicken thing is getting a little out of hand?
The last comment came from a fellow social work student who has known me for a couple years, and who asked it in his best therapeutic voice. The others were joking. He was not.
Meanwhile, across from me was another fellow student weeping, yes, weeping, about some really shitty thing going on in her life, adding perspective to my relative shame. There I sat, the queen glutton, with a bucket of food in front of me.
So I lied. Well, of course I did. I took a piece out and invited others to dig in. And they did, saving me from myself. I spent $10 on a single piece of fried chicken and, hopefully, learned my lesson.
And that lesson would be: don't take a debit card with me on class nights.
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