I think the Italians are secretly trying to make us all disgustingly fatter than them with their comfort food. Or I have a problem. One of those.
Here’s what: yesterday I was too rushed to put my dinner together and take it to work as I usually do. I had been decking the halls and was running late. I was a little stressed and a little anxious, trying to figure out (like everybody else in the Western world) how I was going to get everything done in time to actually enjoy the season. And then at work I got an email from Jack, and our subsequent exchange upset me. And so when it was time for dinner, I ordered carryout from the restaurant down the street from the office. A lot. Of carryout. Of the Italian variety. And not the lovely fish, or even the sumptuous chicken or veal. No, Jack said something stupid on top of a couple of other stupid things he’s said recently that he probably thinks aren’t stupid at all but in fact they are, and I wound up surrounded by carbohydrates.
And I blame the Italians. And Jack. Who’s actually half-Sicilian, now that I think about it. Double culpability.
Oh, who am I kidding? Who has two thumbs and is an emotional eater?! This girrrrrl!
To be fair, it’s not that I eat when I’m upset. It’s what I eat. Thankfully, I managed to break free a few years ago of that godforsaken habit of eating because of anything other than hunger, and I’m hoping I can hang on to that conviction. In this particular case, all I’d eaten earlier in the day was a piece of quiche, so my voraciousness was justified. What was less justified was the restaurant portion of Rigatoni Ridiculous in Ridiculous Sauce and piles of fresh-baked super-white completely-devoid-of-all-redeeming-nutritional-ingredients bread.
There was salad. That makes it better, right? That there was salad? Except the salad had a lot of croutons.
And then there was cake. Dense four-layer cake with an inch of mousse between each layer.
What? I needed chocolate therapy.
I told the guy at the carryout counter that I needed two sets of cutlery so he wouldn’t think I was eating all that food myself.
In case you’re wondering, yes, this was the sum total of how I dealt with my emotions. And yes, it did make me feel better, thankyouverymuch. So no, I didn’t directly tell Jack that he’d upset me. I did point out some of the stupidity he sent in his email when I replied. Gently. I think he got the point, because I didn’t hear from him for the rest of the night.
I only ate half the pasta and probably less than half the giant slab of cake that justifies what the restaurant charges for that thing. I ate most of the salad. And only 1/5 of the insane amount of bread. I figure that means I ate a little less than half a pound of pasta and what normal people would call a piece and a half of cake. But I used the bread to soak up more Ridiculous Sauce.
And then I sat at my desk for another four hours before I drove an hour home and sat on my couch. Just to make sure that all the carbs went directly to the cellulite dimples to which they’d been assigned.
Even worse than all this is that I have absolutely no remorse about it. This morning my belly is a little pouffier than it was yesterday and I know it’s because of all those carbs, but I’ll just find something to wear that camouflages it and go about my day, eat salad and soup for two days, get my normal stomach back and be blissfully unaware that I’ve added to my butt and thighs.
But Jack might still have no remorse for the stupid stuff he said.
Good thing I have leftovers.