Over the weekend we went to the Hamptons (see photo album here), and on the way back we went to a were in a grocery store, and a situation came up that was so Funny Strange, I felt I must immediately commit it to the notebook so that men everywhere could laugh and shake their heads sympathetically.
First, to set the stage: I am one of those women who can eat a man-size amount of food and stay roughly the same size. This has always been the case for me—I was an extremely thin child who could (and did) eat ice cream every day, and even though I do have what you might call “food issues,” I actually do eat quite a bit (like a whole steak dinner with dessert, for instance). I do work out every day, but for the most part I don’t really watch what I eat (meaning , I love peanut M & Ms), and so every once in awhile, I don’t know when to stop, and then I get a little sick and complain about how I’m having a stomach heart attack. You would laugh and marvel at how much food it takes to get me to this point.
I know, you’re all “what does this have to do with Stephan?” Patience! I am getting there.
Saturday night, we’re driving we go into a grocery store. Keep in mind I have already eaten a whole dinner AND made Stephan stop at Carvel to buy me a dipped cone (in my defense, I only ate part of it). We’re in the store, and he points out an Entenmann’s cake that is black and white like a black and white cookie. Um—hello? That looks delicious, and must be sampled. While we’re checking out, I ask the checker (a man) if he has a fork, and Stephan goes “Um….are you sure you want to eat that? Didn’t you just have ice cream?” To which I reply (with words heard around the relationship world forever):
“Why….are you saying I’m fat?”
I’m kidding of course, but the checkout guy doesn’t know this, and neither does the guy behind us, who covers his mouth to stop the snicker that pops out anyway. Checkout guy looks at guy behind us, then at Stephan. Checkout guy laughs and says in a thick Indian accent to Stephan “You don’t have to answer that, my friend.”
Finally I understand what’s happening. Men of all ages and ethnicities band together in a brotherhood to protect each other from loaded questions like “Do you think I’m fat?” They have all been there, stepped on that landmine, and have lived to tell the tale.
Of course Stephan has the proper answer, which is “What the hell are you talking about?" and then explains that he meant "don’t eat too much and get a stomachache,” but all the guys around are still laughing because they have ALL BEEN THERE, my friends.
And now, Stephan weighs (ha! pun intended) in on his side of the story. Here is what he says:
There’s no need for me to (ahem) weigh in on my side of the story, other then to state in all capitals HOW VERY, VERY, INSANELY LUCKY YOU ARE THAT YOU CAN EAT WHATEVER YOU WANT TO AND NOT GAIN WEIGHT, so as to insure your female readership does not come and firebomb your home.
A fine point. I am lucky in this regard, although possibly jealous readers should remember that I am a little bit crazy in the head sometimes, and is that something they would want in exchange for a fast metabolism? Give it some thought. Remember, I am phobic about germs in food to the point that I keep almost everything in the refrigerator, have probably taken every psychiatric drug known to man to try to straighten out my brain chemicals, and sometimes I have to change hotel rooms multiple times because it creeps me out to hear people walking above me, PLUS I never really know what is going to strike me as anxiety-inducingly disturbing at any given time. Would it be worth it for you to have this constant mental weirdness in exchange for the ability to eat whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted? Hmmm……..