Guys. Omg. The buffet at the grocery store.
I’ve known about it, obviously, but I never really realized how perfect it is for a growing fatty like me. Chicken wings! Waffle fries! Mozzarella sticks! Chinese food! Mac and cheese! I couldn’t help myself; I got a little of everything.
Today was an especially stressful day. I had to work late, and then still didn’t finish what my team needed for tomorrow’s meetings, which meant that even after we left the office, we had more work to complete remotely. My boss had sent a passive-aggressive email, about how our upcoming reviews will be especially attentive to “productivity both inside and outside the workplace,” which meant my team leader, following suit, decided to organize a video call and, when that was done, a chunk of time working collaboratively on the presentation. Blah blah blah.
All I could think about the whole time was how I wanted to eat and eat and eat, and of course I couldn’t, really, since I was on the video call. As soon as that was over I hustled (as much as a girl my size can hustle!) over to the grocery store, half thinking I would pig out on a frozen pizza. When I walked in and saw the buffet bar, I was transfixed: the gooey mac and cheese, the greasy chicken wings, the calorie-ridden Chinese food; I was practically drooling. I felt my spine shiver and a lingering tightness deep in my pelvis: it was the feeling I had as a little girl when I first stuffed myself with birthday cake; the feeling I used to have when I would sneak Wendy’s before and after the high school school day; the feeling I had when my first FA boyfriend would feed me doughnuts in my dorm room; the tell-tale sign that tonight I would stuff myself fat; it was the feeling of my obsession with food and fat lodged deep within me.
The buffet bar, I’ve found, will prove to be economically dangerous. I couldn’t help myself, and the three boxes of food I bought (Chines in one, chicken wings, fingers, fries, and mozzarella sticks in the second, the third reserved solely for my precious mac and cheese) totaled nearly three pounds and cost me $23. As I was checking out, I was half hoping that the cashier—who I’m sure was wondering if all three boxes, all three pounds, of this food was for me—would open up the boxes and check to see just what this big fatty in front of him was buying. I wanted him to see my chicken wings, my mac and cheese, my Chinese food. I wanted to tell him I was going to eat all of this food tonight. I wanted to blush, slightly, as I let him in on the secret of my fat life, the secret of why I was so fat, which is that I cannot stop eating. I wanted to tell him that I am addicted to eating fatty dinners, to stuffing myself with caloric desserts, to waddling to the fridge for more and more and more food. (He was cute-ish, and when he told me how much it was, I leaned over the counter slightly, letting my belly inch over the waist of my pants towards him. He couldn’t take his eyes off of me; because he wants to feed me, I told myself, though probably because he was somewhat repulsed by my massive jiggly body preparing to feast, both thoughts I find to be unspeakably erotic.)
Equally as dangerous as the grocery store buffet, of course, is that this grocery store also houses a Dunkin Donuts. The thought of soft, chewy, frosted donuts, which occupied me for the entirety of my conference video call, were what initially prompted my obsession to enjoy a fatty feast tonight. I thought, perhaps, I would eat last night’s leftovers, but I couldn’t shake the donuts from my mind; I wanted a vanilla frosted, a chocolate frosted, a jelly, a glazed; I would buy 6, I decided, and stuff myself with them all night, and what was left, if anything, would be tomorrow’s breakfast. With the $23 of greasy buffet food in my bag, I waddled over to the DD stand. When I noticed they had no jelly and no vanilla frosted my heart almost dropped. The cashier wasn’t at the counter, so I decided to bounce over to the near-by stand-alone DD, just around the corner.
Takes a true fat girl to make more than one stop in search of just the right donuts to fulfill a craving.
Alas! This DD, too, out of both vanilla and chocolate frosted, and no jellies! I asked if they had any jelly donuts; only the munchkins, I was told. I asked for 12 jelly munchkins (he gave me 15; end-of-the-night generosity, I suspect), two glazed donuts, and a coffee roll. I could see that the man helping me eyeing my stomach, probably thinking to himself that these donuts were the last thing a girl like me needed. He seemed almost angry at my gluttony, like he was going to refuse me a sale, the way a bartender might deny the drunk perched at the end of the bar. Haven’t you had enough? he was thinking. Never, never, never, thought I! My fat belly will spill out over my jeans and drag along the floor, my hips will squish against the edges of your doorway, my chins will drip down near my cleavage, my thighs will jiggle up against one another with each inhalation of breath, and still I will trudge my way into your Dunkin Donuts and order my donuts! I will eat and eat and eat and you will watch my belly grow and grow and grow. (Ahh, the pleasures of indulging a fantasy; the eroticism inherent in a life of gluttony; the gratification of answering to your body, of giving your belly everything it desires and more, of never denying yourself a fattening treat!)
My food purchased, my desert in hand, I jiggled home, imagining myself growing fatter with each step, as I would, soon, with each bite. The fries, the chicken, the Chinese food: each bite got me one step closer to fulfilling an unfulfillable erotic desire, as if each bite was but a single solitary coin dropped into an infinitely large piggy bank. The bites of food built upon one another and filled up my belly; the calories expanded throughout my body as my reserve of caloric energy was converted into excess bodily fat; my rolls rolled just slightly more and my belly swelled out over my thighs; eventually my stomach would reach its current capacity and the intake would slow. (I didn’t finish the Chinese food; it actually wasn’t as good as it looked. Note to self—next time double up on that mac ‘n cheese.)
But even as my stomach cried uncle and the fat feast came to a close (the donuts are 75% gone; I’m snacking on them now, an hour after dinner has been completed), I knew that my infinite piggy bank would only shake with an even greater desire. The fat little piggy is full, but the obsession with obesity and fat, with food and gluttony, with laziness and stuffing has not and never can be quelled, even for the briefest moment. My stomach grumbles with anguish—it can’t take more grease tonight, and admonishes me for pounding in a few extra donuts—but my heart is ripe with the pang of growing fatter still. I feel that deeply rooted tenseness, just above my pelvis, lodged deep in the heart of my spine, that promises to release after another bite, another pound, another donut, another belly roll. The knot in my spine tells me that with just a bit more cellulite, it will untie itself and will dissipate. I answer the knot, bowing to its every command: more pizza, more grease, more donuts and chocolate and ice cream and potato chips. More and more and more fat spilling off of my body.
I know that the knot of gluttony lies to me. I know that it will never release, even after a fourth and fifth and sixth donut; I know it won’t release after tomorrow’s pancake and egg and bacon breakfast; I know it won’t release if I get cheeseburgers and fries and a shake for lunch tomorrow. I know it won’t release when I hit 350lbs, 400lbs, 500lbs and beyond. I know the knot of desire will never cease to grow tighter, and will never cease to drive my body into the oblivion of obesity.
And I don’t care. I know that my desires are destructive; that knowledge only makes them stronger still. I answer to my desires. I am addicted to my desires.
I am addicted to food. I am addicted to fat. I am addicted to MY fat.