It doesn't take Sigmund Freud to figure out how I deal with stress. At the first sign of tension, I wonder "Hm, what's to eat?"
At work whenever things get crazy, I find myself scrabbling through my desk for change and heading off to the Evil Snack Machine. I always hope I am wearing something with big pockets so that I can hide my snack and don't have to make the Walk of Shame across Cubeland with the evidence showing.
Yeah, like no one would ever suspect a size 16 woman of buying junk food. No, they probably thought I was doing isometric exercises in the break room.
I don't even LIKE milk chocolate or Pop Tarts, and I have found myself eating both at my desk when the workload gets crazy and the customers are yelling about something we did.
Then there has been the past few weeks. First the monotony and terror of sitting around the hospital was broken only by trips to the greasy spoon diner ("Dessert is free with that entree, hun.")
Then the sorrow and the pity and the cold comfort of stuffing my face and of drinking too much.
Then the invitations from friends to keep me from sinking into my sorrow alone. And the lunches out because I was so worn to a frizzle that making a sandwich seemed like summiting Mount Everest.
I made brown butter shortbread cookies last week when I was off work. I was going to give them to friends and take them to church. I gave a few away and ate the rest. Yes, I ate all the rest. A LOT OF DAMN COOKIES, people.
Now I am large and fat and bloated. Like I wasn't before? But now for reals. I look like Prince Fielder after a trip to the all-you-can-eat buffet. Naw, that's a lie. Prince is svelte compared to me.
Being addicted to food kind of makes me wish for a real addiction, the ones you can give up and not have to deal with being in your face every day. You can avoid heroin. You can avoid cocaine. But the snack machine shall ever be with you.