I’m not very good at being an adult. It’s all a ruse. I fail at the most basic tasks of adultood. Driving. Remembering to pay gas bill on time (ever). Making doctor’s appointments and then actually GOING to them. And most importantly, feeding myself. I rely on the following food groups for sustenance:
- Peanut butter
I actually have a personalized food pyramid a friend helpfully designed for me after learning of my diet. I’ve tried cooking. I’ve made fancy tarts with herbs and spices and gnocchi with kale and other vegetables people like to have bumper stickers about. And by the time I’m done I’m so sick of looking at the god damn leafy greens that I refuse to eat it, put it in the refrigerator, and go back to my trusty pyramid.
So, yeah, I’m kind of terrible at feeding myself. My basic issue is timing. I don’t eat breakfast, because I think it’s stupid unless it’s a weekend and I’m eating a Hungry Man or Lumberjack breakfast that has like 7 pancakes, 10 strips of bacon, a dozen eggs, and 14 pieces of toast or something like that. I rarely eat lunch because I’m too lazy to make my lunch before work and I’d rather use my lunch break to breed dragons on my iPhone. So I typically drink coffee all day. Alright, and I’ll cop to the fact that I often stop by my favorite coffee shop en route to work and buy a piece of cake/cupcake/whoopie pie and eat that for “breakfast.” Or I call it a “snack.” Whatever that means. Regardless, when work is over, I cannot wait to get home because I am STARVING.
And this is where the problem begins.
As soon as I walk in the door I strip down to my bra and control top pantyhose (because I actually travel back in time to the 1950s for my job) and grab a vat of yogurt, a jar of nutella, honey, and usually some type of preserves. And then begins the disgusting process of mixing and stirring and double and triple dipping into jars as I stand over the kitchen sink, forgetting to close my shades, and inhale said yogurt with inappropriate toppings.
This is my life.
Eventually, I do make a semi-legit dinner that is usually a sandwich, salad, or whatever doesn’t involve me using that giant white metal box the fire comes from. And you’re probably thinking, “Okay, this is absolutely disgusting, but I’m not quite sure why this is a reason you are single?” Well, ladies and gents, that’s because it does not just stop here.
It’s not just yogurt. It’s not just occasionally after work. It’s midnight, with left over grilled pork chops, with all the lights off and a muumuu on (the pink one with polka dots, because that’s the one for eating). It’s in bed with a box of Domino’s pizza and motherfucking Dawson’s Creek. It’s cracked black pepper triscuits slathered in raspberry preserves with Alice propped up on the sink shelf via FaceTime. It’s anytime, anywhere, and I can’t control it.
So, what do I do if I ever have a dude overnight guest? Do I wait until he falls asleep to creep down the hallway to the kitchen, TO THE SINK, and eat spoonfuls of local honey from the jar, while I silently glare at the dogs with the
“IF YOU EFFING BARK, I SWEAR TO JESUS!”
look on my face, while they stare back at me with their small, judging eyes, so bitter to be on the other side of the dog gate, just waiting, WAITING to make enough noise to rouse my guest. And what if that dude wakes up? What if he comes around the corner to find me hunched over like Gollum with the ring, wearing that pink polkadot muu (because that’s the one FOR EATING, geez) dipping my spoon in honey, and now suddenly, nutella, alternately. What can I say?
“Uh, am I sleepwalking? I must be sleepwalking.”
“I have low blood sugar.”
No, NO, none of those work! No one is going to believe that! It’s just who I am! I EAT AT WEIRD TIMES. I EAT OVER THE SINK. I EAT SPREADS.
I am a midnight sink eater. It’s just who I am.
And I can’t quit. Not even for the hypothetical (did I mention bearded?) hipster that would be sleeping in my bed after we finished watching LOST.