For Valentine’s Day I made my love a gigantic heart-shaped chocolate chip cookie. Just writing about it makes my mouth water. He thanked me profusely, complementing me on my baking and decorating skills and how delicious the cookie looked. And then he put it away.
If I am ever presented with a cookie, of any size, the only place I’m putting it is in my mouth. Post haste. I don’t understand how men can see something yummy and think, “I’ll eat this later.” I have no concept of waiting to eat anything that contains my recommended weekly fat and sugar content. When it comes to high-calorie foods, I operate not on the assumption that I could be dead tomorrow, but that I could die in the next few minutes.
But worse than being able to shelve a cookie, men just don’t seem to have a need to, every now and then, for good reason, consume their body weight in fried dough in one sitting. Like those late night “I’ve got the blues” binges involving a dozen Krispy Kremes. Well okay, it isn’t always because I have the blues. Sometimes I just have a bad day and need a good binge. Well, okay, it isn’t always because I had a bad day…
I know I’m not alone here, girls. I don’t mind admitting it to you, because I know you do it too – in private, and for good reason. In fact you’re probably crouched on the closet floor right now, next to a box of Ring Dings. I understand. We can’t let them see us. First of all, it is not a pretty sight. Second of all, we could never again get away with bitching about how fat we feel. Men don’t understand that we can shovel food into our faces at warp speed with one hand, while with the other grab a chunk of wobbly flesh whining, “I have got to go to the gym. I am such a porker.” If you did that in front of a guy, he’d say, “If you don’t like the way you look, stop eating all that crap!” Whereas a woman would say, “What fat? Are you insane? You’re a stick. Look at this,” grabbing a hunk of her own flank in sisterly solidarity.
Men, I feel your pain here. I realize that what we’re asking for is completely irrational and, frankly, you can’t win anyway. We demand you “help us out” by steering us clear of the cookie aisle in the grocery store, but you’d better ignore the sudden cravings that send us on a special 30 minute trip out of our way to our favorite fudge store – God help you if you say a word in that case. How are you supposed to know the difference? You aren’t. But you’d better.
I am luckier than most. I have a man sufficiently savvy (or maybe just experienced) to say, “Is this when I am supposed to try to stop you, or is this when I am supposed to tell you I love you no matter what, and you’re not fat, and you should eat whatever you want and do whatever makes you happy?” when I make a nose-dive for a box of brownie mix after wailing that my ass is the widest in three counties. Even a guy sharp enough to pose this query before proceeding, however, can still get into trouble if the woman’s really in the mood to twist your words into punishment material.
I managed to wait a whole day and a half before turning to my sweetie on the couch and, with the strain of the past 36 hours barely contained in my high-pitched voice as I tried to sound as casual as possible, asked, “So, can I have a bite of your cookie?” He replied, “Of course, baby!” as if I were crazy for asking – whereas a woman would have bitten my hand off if I made any motion toward her cookie, as well she should. It would have been tacky of me to eat his whole cookie, considering it was my gift to him, so I just took a big bite. Besides, I didn’t want him to see how truly insane I could have gone on that gigantic heart-shaped, icing-laced delicacy.
Three days later that damned cookie, minus one big bite, is still in the fridge. I have not slept in that time just thinking about it, sitting there, sugary and delicious. Also I’m a little cramped from crouching here in the closet for so long.
© 2004 Karen A. Bertiger
