Beware the Diet Monster

This morning as “A” and I left my house, he offered to give me a ride to a more convenient train station. As I opened the passenger door, he swiftly reached across the seat to grab a bag that was sitting there. Needless to say, I had to know what was in that bag. You will never believe what it was, Popeye’s. Yes, that’s right apparently when I PMS freaked out at him about bringing Popeye’s into the house, I so traumatized him that he is afraid for me to even see the bag. Obviously, he suspects that the mere mention of fast food will send me into some diet induced rant, where I begin listing all the foods I am no longer consuming and how unfair I think it is that he still gets to eat them. After a brief moment of silence “A” confessed that he ate it in the car before he came over last night because he didn’t want to bring it into the house. I have now turned Popeye’s into contraband. I also have to admit that in some ways I thought that was the sweetest thing he’s ever done for me. Oh, “A” you’re so cute when you are frightened of me.

I have no idea how other addicts feel, but as a food addict (who will always be in recovery) I know that at times my behavior towards food could qualify as obsessive. I’m not certain if the former smoker (given that I did smoke but certainly never loved cigarettes more than food, so I can’t really make this judgment) watches those around her smoking and obsessively thinks about the cigarette, with absolute fascination, wondering things like how does it taste and how can the smoker still continue to smoke with such abandon. Only a former smoker need never smoke again, whereas a food addict must eat every day. Which is why, I ask that should you be standing next to me while you are ordering your bacon, egg and cheese on a roll and I am ordering my egg whites on whole grain bread, that you please forgive me for staring. It’s just I’m fascinated. I’m like Audrey Hepburn standing at the window of Tiffany’s; I recognize its comfort but know that I can’t go in. This morning as I stood at the Starbucks counter waiting for my Grande Skim Latte (which I consider to be a treat) there was this gorgeous, super skinny woman standing next to me waiting for her hot chocolate. Here’s the kicker, when the barista (yes, I know) handed her the hot chocolate, skinny girl opened her cup drank for a second and proceeded to hold out her cup asking for more whipped cream. I’m telling you, I stood there, my mouth open and watched as the barista swirled on a huge serving of whipped cream. I can not imagine this. What is it like to live in a world where whipped cream is a thing of enjoyment and not viewed as a T of D? I can only hope that the skinny hot chocolate with extra whipped cream drinking woman has to suffer in other ways. I might be a royal but I am no saint. I ask you, why should I suffer alone?

Oh, and to the dear loyal gentleman fan that passed by me today and called me “Princess” I do realize that The Princess and I are very similar but we do like to maintain our own identities, so please in the future it’s HRH, thank you very much.