Appetites

This follows up from two posts ago – the idea of wanting and eating any and all the food in the world.

I am reminded of my alcoholic friends who would drink anything with alcohol as an ingredient – mouthwash, cough medicine – and in large quantities. It didn’t matter what it was as long as it was ‘something’ proof.

That’s me and food. Nothing proved off limits. For years, I didn’t eat meat, because it seemed cruel and kind of gross. But one night during a binge, I drove by an Arby’s and drove through the drive in. Many, many roast beef sandwiches later, I suppose I wasn’t a vegetarian afterall. Morals and gross-ness meant nothing in my quest to stuff my belly and forget my life.

Pop tarts, twinkies, liver – it didn’t matter, I shoveled them in.

Those foods do seem really in gross in theory, yet, I don’t know – I guess I also like them, on some level. My sister would probably do anything rather than have to eat a twinkie. Me, I’d pick the twinkie.

The weirdest people to me are my friends who fought with their parents about finishing dinner. These odd people were such picky children – they wouldn’t eat much besides chicken nuggets and peanut butter. Their folks would beg and cajole them to eat other foods and sometimes make them sit at the table until they’d finished everything. My friends would cry and pout, desperate not eat to varied meals. Dinner was a stand-off in many of those homes.

Parents loved me – they’d barely have to do dishes after I’d cleaned their plates. One neighbor had me over to show her daughter how much I loved vegetables. At five, I polished off brussels sprouts, spinach, cauliflower, tomatoes. Little Linda Gross probably hated me.

It didn’t matter what it was, I devoured it.

I don’t eat junk food now. Twinkies and pop tarts aren’t in my life. They’re not good for me, physically or mentally. But in my heart (and belly), like my friends swilling Listerine, there a just fine option.

I am not normal, by nature, when it comes to food. That’s what I take all the Steps that I do.

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