It wasn’t supposed to be a troublesome drive home after spending an afternoon bingeing Bridgerton (Again? Yes, again!) with my mom, but I somehow managed to make it exciting and pathetic all at once. The plan had been to eat pizza or “bad for you” equivalent during the show, but I ended up just eating some leftover Mexican food that I had saved from an extremely needed confab with some of my besties that exact morning. Not because I didn’t have it in me to eat just for the sake of eating, but because I just couldn’t bring myself to take any major breaks between episodes to put an actual order in. 

You might not think (if you happened to ever think about it at all) that car-warmed enchiladas and chile rellenos would mix well with the ton and shenanigans of rich people trying to hook up with other rich people night after night, but I beg to differ. Sucking down oodles of melted cheese while gagging over gorgeous actors in their gorgeous costumes (I’m looking at you, Luke Newton) was actually quite fulfilling. And for those straight eight hours of hormones and hotness I was content. But as some of us with severe emotional/eating relationships with ourselves might know, food always comes racing into the picture—one way or another. 

My body crackling like a bonfire as I lurched off the couch, I exited out of my Netflix account (sorry Mom, I couldn’t leave it open for you because I’m too cheap to pay for an extended account—eff you, Netflix) and gathered my belongings so I could start my (kinda) long trip home. My brain wasn’t exactly functional enough at that point for me to be handling heavy machinery, but I wanted to go and I had already begun to fixate on the journey and what kind of fast-food restaurants I could hit on the way. It wasn’t really relevant what kind of food I yearned for, I just wanted, desired, and (needed?) to spend what little cash I had on hand on something! Anything! Just put some food in my belly! Did I mention that I wasn’t even really hungry? No? Surprising, because I feel like I talk about that exact shit every single day. 

So, I gave my mom and hug and thanked her for giving me eight hours of her life to feed my delulu, and set out for home. The Bridgerton haze was beginning to lift and I started to gauge my feelings on what I really wanted to eat on my way home (let’s face it, the food was never going to last long enough to make it to my actual house). Starbucks sounded relatively good. I probably wouldn’t get any actual food there, but after spending so much time in my mom’s sauna (aka house-love you, Mom) perhaps a cold drink would put me in a content mind (and stomach) set.  

But, after navigating my way through a bout of (the waaaaay too fucking elaborate) summer road construction, I drove and cursed my way into the store parking lot. Just to find out that it was closed! (Ahem. Just a bit of advice to Starbucks, in order to not crush the souls of people thirsting for one of your icy concoctions, don’t keep all of your lights on inside to fake us desperate people out! Seeing what looked like a functional [and open] store just to realize it was all just a fake oasis was some serious messed up shit and it makes some of us not what to go there anymore. For that moment, anyway.) I flung my steering wheel hard to the left and flipped a squealy bitch to get the hell out of there. 

Now I was desperate. Desperate for something I didn’t particularly want, but was now completely invested into receiving. Screw you, Starbucks, I’ll get a caramel frappe and double cheeseburger (what a combo!) from McDonald’s instead! That’ll show you all not to mess with a woman and her irrational food habits. I’ll go to a place that stays open 24 hours for the sole purpose of being my true friend and constant enabler. With a new plan in place, I drove on to the nearest restaurant I could find. 

And wouldn’t you just know that I hit another bout of mother trucking summer road construction?! I mean, I know it has to get done some time, but all-around town on the exact days during the exact same times?!You people have invented all new levels of petty. I cussed my way through the half mile of one lane traffic and fled towards McDonalds to try to get my food freak on… 

Unfortunately, the rational part of my brain decided to engage when I was in the last quarter mile to my destination. Do you really need to spend the money? What if the fries (yes, I added fries while sitting in traffic) weren’t as good as they should be? I already had a lot of food lumping around inside my body—do I really need any more? What if I have to actually put in some physical activity and get out of the car because the drive-thru was closed? (I wasn’t exactly wearing my Sunday best and if I was face to face with someone, for sure they’d be able get a waft of my eight-hour boob sweat.) What if I came upon a robbery? What if McDonald’s had a nation-wide shortage of fries? (Wait! Did I start this paragraph stating that I had a part of my brain that was rational?) What if I just went home and made a sandwich there?… Siiiiggggghhhhhh…..Grrrr….. 

So, I passed up the freaking McDonalds and continued on my way. No lie, I was seriously mourning, but at the same time I was very proud of myself for being a sensible, motivated, calm human being for standing up to my inner demons. Yay, me! (And yeah, it really sucked. Those fries would have truly been banging.) I continued on my (way, way too fucking inconvenient) trip home and thought about what I was going to gobble up when I got there. Oh, but there’s a Costco! And they have hot dogs and ice cream (and have been closed for at least three hours) and there’s a Dunkin’–maybe it wouldn’t be bad if I got two or twelve blueberry doughnuts! Oh shit, there’s another McDonalds! Noooooooooooo (picture this in a deep Darth Vader flavored voice)! I needed to get home before I succumbed and ended up eating a week’s equivalent of calories in the next half hour.  

I straightened up in my seat and steadfastly made my way through my town’s “restaurant corner” and made it home. Huzzah! My body crackling like a bag of potato chips, I groaned out of the car and shuffled my way inside. Must. Eat. Food. Now. Not sparing a moment to hang up my purse where it usually lived (fine, where it managed to live, maybe half of the time) I tossed it on the kitchen table and stalked (as fast as my weakened Bridgerton legs could take me) to the fridge. Where there was simultaneously too much food and not enough of the kind of food I wanted to gobble up. Yep. That tracks. No ice cream, no cookies, no Cheez Its, no chocolate chips…If I wanted to eat, I was going to have to prepare something from scratch! (Quelle horreur!) 

Just then, “rational” brain showed up and started working her voodoo—You don’t need to eat anything tonight…Go straight to sleep and you can wake up a winner! Buttery cinnamon toast isn’t going to help in any way (Ha. Ha ha.)! Besides, the toaster oven takes to effing long to toast anyway! You don’t even like those kinds of cheese crackers—why do that to yourself? It’s too much work to boil water for some oatmeal…And on and on and on. Was I going to have to succumb and be my biggest advocate again? I thought it was established that anyone but myself was my biggest advocate. I don’t like that job. I want out. I want to have my cravings satiated each and every time—even when I know it’s not always in my best interest. Damn it! I was going to go to sleep without eating, wasn’t I? 

Thoroughly exhausted and mentally gob smacked, I wearily kissed my hubby on the head (yeah, he was there– I had barely said hello in my haste to stuff my face) and trudged to bed. I was weak from hunger (not really) and irritated with my mental gymnastics (yes, really) and closed my eyes to quickly (hopefully) fall contentedly asleep knowing that I survived a night of temptation and irrational thoughts without hamstringing myself by overeating. I relaxed and finally found myself mentally floating away…into a dreamy McDonalds, where I could double cheeseburger my way into peaceful slumber. 

©DRB 2024 

Photo by Mockup Graphics on Unsplash

Want to comment?