There are a couple of questions that really irk me. As I was writing in my journal, I realized I had a lot of bitterness inside for the questions that really make me want to hurl. And being a full figured gal, there were a plenty. One thing that I hate is when people question my food choices. I already know I’m plus sized. I don’t need to look in the mirror to get a reality check because I see myself every day. I see every imperfection to the nth power. I don’t need others to point that stuff out. What I definitely don’t need, when I sit down to eat, is that dreaded question: “Are you going to eat all that?”
The answer is, “YES. I’m going to eat this whole cheeseburger with all the fixings and the steak fries because I paid for it and I WANT it.” It’s better than stopping off at McDonalds before a Lady’s Night (which is supposed to be a night to relax and splurge) to make up for the bird eating for display purposes only. I shouldn’t have to answer that question. If I was 5’7”, 150 pounds, no one would even ask. So, why are they asking me? No one asks the group drunk if they are going to drink that 6th Long Island.
There is only one thing worse than eating with the food police. When I go out to eat, which is not that often anymore, I want to be able to enjoy a meal. Perish the thought that I, for once, don’t care how many calories are in a meal. There comes a time when I’ll want dessert and not have to share it with the whole table in a quest to appear less Miss Piggy-ish. It’s time out for that. Really.
