I have had prouder moments than the time yesterday when I was twenty minutes away from meeting my friend Ashley for dinner, and found myself standing in the kitchen, desperately spooning gobs of peanut butter into my mouth and breaking off pieces of crumbly cheese onto tiny toasts and cramming them in my gullet, suddenly confident in the knowledge that if I had to wait twenty more minutes to eat, I would die, DIE, right there on my kitchen floor, or in my car, or, hell, in line at Chipotle.
Hunger has morphed from a somewhat annoying natural daily phenomenon into a beast whose wrath I fear if I don’t keep it sated with a constant trickle of snacks. The goal is to make the hunger purr instead of roar when it’s time for an actual meal, but it’s not an exact science, and I suck at all kinds of science anyway.
Right now, every raisin in the vicinity of my mouth needs to fear for its shriveled little life.
I’ve spent my whole life being fucked up about food and eating, and what amount of consumption is proper and appropriate and necessary. Suffice it to say that this extreme shift in how much I want and need to consume is throwing me for a bit of a loop. But it’s also very freeing to have no choice but to put that bullshit aside.
Never run out of peanut butter. It is your friend and will most likely still be your friend when all your other foodfriends have turned on you. Yeah, I’m talking about you, tomato sauce and salad and citrus.
Um, I do this on an almost daily basis and I’m not even pregnant. :)