Platzing

Okay, its confession time. I really like to bare my soul here and tell all the embarrassing and shameful things about myself (like farts and dirty bathrooms and stuff like that) because I feel like, deep down, you know exactly what I mean, and you have had similar experiences and doubts and my admissions will make you feel a little bit better about yourself. You can thank me later.

The other day, while Leila was in school, I went to the movies by myself. I love to go to the movies by myself in the middle of the day, and I can't remember the last time I did it. Okay, I did it last week, too, but before that, it had been years. So I went to the movies, and I got myself a small coke and a box of those mini butterfingers. I want to emphasize that I did not finish the butterfingers, but I did finish the coke. On the way home, for reasons I can't explain, I pulled off the freeway and went through the McDonalds drive through. The car just steered its way in there. I got a $2.99 mini meal with a double cheeseburger, small fry and a small coke. It was, as always, delicious.

 

Now, there are women out there, wives, who hide spending from their husbands. They buy new clothes, or something new for the house, and they hide the receipts and pay the visa bill before hubby knows anything about it. I've seen extreme cases on Oprah where women have essentially bankrupted their families with their shopping and starbucks habits, and they lose their houses and stuff. I do not hide spending, it would never occur to me. But what I do hide is eating, usually junk food, but not always. Eating out, even if its $2.99, always feels indulgent to me, like something reserved for special occasions that I don't deserve. I often look to Rob for some kind of permission to eat out, as if his approval removes all costs and calories. This is so f***ked. He long ago learned that to reason with me about food is to beat his head against a wall, and if he judges my food choices, he never shows it. I just love that guy. Anyway, I get Mc Donalds, or a burrito, or my favorite sandwich, or a piece of coffee cake, or candy at the movies, and I hide the evidence. I either throw the bags and containers away someplace other than my house, or I try to bury it under other garbage in our trash can. Sometimes, I leave it in the car, and he eventually sees it, and he never says anything. He knows that these are my own personal demons, and he can't get between us. 

 

So, I had my mini meal, loved every bite of it, was wonderfully full, and I hid the evidence.

Later that same day, he called to tell me that his new glasses were ready, and we decided he would take the bus to Sausalito to pick up his glasses, and Leila and I would pick him up there. Then he suggested that we stop at In N Out Burger for dinner on the way home. Ugh.

 

I was still full from the mini meal, but I'm so lame that, instead of just saying, "I'm not really that hungry." the crazies got in: If I say I'm not hungry, he'll know that I ate like a pig today, and he might ask me what I ate, then I'd be forced to tell the truth, and he'd find out that I had McDonalds. The subtext of which was, The fact that I am a pig will be re enforced for the one millionth time and this time will be the one that puts him over the edge and he wont love me anymore, and I'll be alone with my loathsome cat and my size extra large pants and my remote control. It took one fraction of a second for all of that to go through my head. My neuroses are really fast. So, I said "Okay!" and knew I was doomed.

 

I picked him up, we went to In N Out, and I got us a table. It didn't occur to me that I could, at that point, say that I wasn't that hungry and only wanted the smallest possible thing. When I get inside a restaurant like that, the part of me that thinks going out to eat is for special occasions only wants to take advantage of the situation and rational thought leaves me completely. Rob came back to the table with a cheeseburger, fries, and a coke. And I ate it. To my credit, I did not finish the coke, not even close, and we split two orders of fries with Leila, but I ate every delicious bite of that cheeseburger and I don't know how, I was so full. I was platzing.

 

We got home, put the kid to bed, etc. etc. and then Rob set before me a plate of orange sections. Now, I wanted to puke looking at more food, but here's the thing: I never eat fruit, and the only way I eat it is if he cuts it up and puts it in front of me. I have asked him to do this so that I don't die of malnutrition. Earlier in the week, he had put an orange on the counter for me, and I had, of course ignored it. He kept telling me I should eat the orange, and I told him that putting an orange on the counter was not the same as cutting it up and putting it in front of me, and that orange would stay on the counter until flies started swarming. I just never reach for fruit. So when he put the orange slices down in front of me, I couldn't very well say I wasn't in the mood for fruit when I had just made a big stink. So I ate it. On the last section, I really did think I was going to die, so I just left it.

Here's the tally: Three cokes, two cheeseburgers, two fries, one orange, and 2/3 of a box of mini butterfingers. I think I had breakfast, too, and I'm hoping it was a simple bowl of cereal but who knows, I can't remember. 

 

I have issues.