SelfAbsorbed.ME : ‘It’s Your Life, We Just Write it Funnier’

To eat or not to eat? That is never the question–unless of course I’m sitting across from any male relatively close to my age, struggling to fork down a bite of salad that will gracefully, seamlessly disappear into my mouth. Oh, the size of those unruly lettuce leaves! And I sit there wondering not only how I’m going to finish the salad without a hitch, but also if he’s judging me for ordering a salad in the first place.

My anxiety stems from extended periods of time spent with my best friend’s boyfriend, let’s call him Ted. Ted and I are pretty close. So close, in fact, that he calls me “Tank” and treats me like one of his “boys.” In such a position, I am lucky enough to hear his uncensored opinion of girls, from who looks like a “beast” to who has “mad bombs” to who holds the most elite title of “bangin’.” Additionally, I have become familiar with Ted’s general distaste of watching girls eat. One Saturday a couple of months ago, things got personal. 

We were both dropping his girlfriend, my best friend, off at the airport. Desperate time constraints called for desperate measures and we made the stop at McDonald’s, or what Ted likes to call “Donny’s.” He’s really into nicknames. My friend ordered chicken fingers–a straightforward choice that would allow her to take small and well-controlled bites. Ted’s presence no doubt influenced this decision. However, Ted and I were craving something a bit more hearty. We both got bacon cheeseburgers. I finished my burger when he was about half-way done. I wasn’t about to curb my lusty eat-face session with the Big Mac for any third party. He looked at me skeptically: “Wow, Tank. You beasted that.”

Yeah, you know what? I did. And I liked it. This was the first time I’d eaten at McDonald’s in years, so I wasn’t feeling particularly guilty about such indulgences. I shrugged him off, but as I sat there finishing my Oreo Frosty, indifference towards his observation quickly mutated into ugly self-consciousness. It was as though the Big Mac had forever left a smear of ketchup across my cheek. My attempt to scrub away at such a dark mark occurred almost immediately as I asked Ted to take me to Trader Joe’s on the way home from the airport. It was there I made the discovery that I could do no right, for my choices of natural peanut butter and Kashi cereal left him rolling his eyes in an equally disgusted manner. It seems as though I simply can’t win. 

I’m the first to admit that girls generally tend to be a little screwed up about their diets, each in their own special way. I have covertly taken packets of Splenda by the handful from Starbucks and carried the supply around in my purse. I have made friends confiscate jars of crunchy peanut butter from my cupboard. I have cried over the torments of deciding whether or not to have a second helping of my mother’s potato salad. However, my neurotic fixation on a diet is nothing I would ever expose to a boy I knew on any level, whether he be boy friend or boyfriend. 

Thus, it’s a source of anxiety to learn that most of my male peers do in fact have an opinion on a girl’s diet. I wouldn’t mind so much if I had the same standards for these guys, but I don’t. I have no interest in what they eat or how much they consume. Granted, I’d take issue if I were dating a guy who lived solely off of Cup O’ Noodles, but generally my standards are low and flexible. Therefore, it’s always a little disappointing to learn that yes, sometimes you are what you eat. Not only that, but you’re also how you eat it and what’s left in front of you when you’re done. 

To be continued…

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