disordered Thanksgiving
The big 'ol turkey day scares me like none other. Everytime November hits, I'm like a scared child for 3 good months. There is no other time in which not only is it acceptable to gorge yourself, it is encouraged. November 1st comes and all the sudden people are spouting off paragraph long menus, intricatedly created dishes with the sole intent to make you loosen your belt, unbutton those jeans, over eat, gain 15 pounds in 37 minutes. Thanksgiving not only means eating copious amounts of food, it also means eating this in front of others. I hate eating in front of others, but strangely only around the end of the year. I don't care if it's family or friends, or complete strangers. I'd rather sit back like a fly on the wall, plate empty, entirely unnoticed, oking at others as the talk and laugh, all through the endless repeatitive motion of fork-to-mouth, fork-to-mouth.
This year I had the unfortunately occassion of spending thanksgiving in the company of complete strangers. I didn't want to be there, I dreaded it like the plague, but attended for a close friend. A day centered around cooking, eating, socializing. I was in heaven. It was complete hell. I'm obsessed with food in an entirely unhealthy way. I covet it like a worshipper to a diety; purseing acknowledgement of unwavering respect and adulation, ceaseless journey to finally become worthy of their blessing. Yet, I am certain I do not need it. So I fixate. Other people's eating habits become fascinating. Like I can learn what it is like to be 'normal' just by observing those that are 'normal.' "She subsists on carbs and jelly, hmmm." "He eats shakes and wafers, interesting." Everyday is puncuated by what I ate, what I didn't eat; in other words when I was strong, when I was weak. I come home and recreate my day for those that ask in what I feel others would think is important. Everytime someone asks me how my day was, I want to say something along the lines of: "I had miso soup and nothing else, pat me on the back!" or "I can't even tell you everything I ate, I had so much. I'm depressed." Purely pathetic.
I intentionally turned down the offer to bring home leftovers, stating instead that my family will bring home plenty, there will just not be enough room. Knowing that if I did, I'd awake at 1 in the morning, hungry, but not physically. Hungry only becuase I know there is food , dazed walking to fridge, eating turkey-ham-marshmallowed-yam-cranberry-mashed-potato sandwiches in the dark. A slim triangle of light seeping from the refridgerator, cutting through the dark kitchen, illuminating me. A crazed lady with the mentality of an ex-con, recently escaped from starvation penitentiary. Dramatic, yes. But aren't we all dramatists; beneath the cranial interiors of the skull, through the gray matter of brains, deep in the firing synapses we create and star in the melodramas of our lives. My just happens to be on the stage of a plate, pie and cottage cheese my supporting actors. We sway and twirl in choreographed dances, all saying "i need you/i don't need you." Geez, I can't wait for Christmas dinner.
