The Fetishist

I’ve done it. I’ve spent almost a whole month eating right and exercising. I’ve reduced the number of calories I’ve consumed, I’ve burned off more calories than I’ve eaten, I’ve made valiant efforts at curbing sodium (even though everything including kale has sodium in it, you guys), and not once have I resorted to being the kind of dick who puts beans in their brownies or opens a valued customer card at the douchebag store (you know, the kind that sells multiple varieties of protein powder, several of them containing the words “cranked” and/or “jacked”).

It hasn’t been that hard. Overall, I eat what I want to eat when I want to eat it. It’s just that now, I’m aware that I could have 1/3 of a pint of ice cream before I go to bed or I could bank that calorie deficit and just drink some tea. The tea is infinitely more boring and not at all as satisfying as salted caramel gelato, but I’ve been saving my Fitbit progress reports and so far, I’m on track to lose more than one pound per week. With my only “I give zero fucks” days being Easter (for Seattle family dim sum) and my birthday (not until next month), this is finally math that I can use as an adult.

It’s just that now I’m starting to fantasize about food in really odd ways. I’ve heard that people do this when they’re starving, or when they’re on a prolonged wilderness hike where there’s no processed food around for hundreds of miles. To them, the food they want takes on an almost mythical status, and not only do they fetishize the taste and texture and experience of eventually eating that food, but even just thinking about it becomes a sensory experience.

Now, obviously I am not starving, and the last wilderness I experienced was the hiking I did this weekend (up and down the ravine a few times, but still inside of a park well within city limits). But earlier today I heard myself say “god, I could French kiss that doughnut” and I realized that I absolutely meant it.

And it’s not just doughnuts. It’s tater tot casserole. It’s bacon cheeseburgers. It’s those Russell Stover chocolate Easter eggs that are suddenly in every motherfucking flavor including birthday cake, which is surprisingly pretty good. It’s tall glasses of my own margaritas on glossy ice cubes. I’m not actually hungry, I know that, it’s just that I’ve started to imagine putting these things in my mouth and the whole thing just fills with drool.

Which I then swallow because it whets my appetite.

Kidding.

I realize that this may put me in league with all of those women I can’t stand, but you should now that I’m not talking about this at work. I barely speak about it to my friends (mostly because some of them, sort of understandably, think it’s insane and don’t realize that, considering my powers of self-loathing, it took me way too long to care about this shit and I’m not about to fuck it up now). I’m just exorcising a few demons here, probably because I could murder an entire chocolate bunny barnyard at the moment, and guess why? You don’t have to be the girl selling me chocolate and tampons at Walgreen’s last night to figure that out.

She could barely figure it out, because she handled my purchases – not only looked at, but touched and scanned and accepted money for them – and still asked me if I wanted a receipt.

“…Seriously?” I asked.

“Oh,” she laughed. “Hahaha. I get it. Try to have a nice night.”

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About erineph

I'm Erin. I have tattoos and more than one cat. I am an office drone, a music writer, and an erstwhile bartender. I am a cook in the bedroom and a whore in the kitchen. Things I enjoy include but are not limited to zombies, burritos, Cthulhu, Kurt Vonnegut, Keith Richards, accordions, perfumery, and wearing fat pants in the privacy of my own home.
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