There is a problem with my bathroom scale – other than the fact that it’s extremely dusty from rarity of use, that is.  Apparently, my scale has forgotten that I am supposed to weigh one hundred and sixty pounds.  Stupid scale. 

So, how did I get here? (Hey, no Velveeta and ice cream cracks, N.)  And what on earth is wrong with me, that I look in the mirror and don’t see a two hundred pound girl?  Is there an opposite to anorexia where, rather than looking at yourself and never thinking you’re thin, you look and NEVER see fat?  Even when the pants won’t button? 

I am a maniac for food.  I obsess about it, dream about it, sneak it, revel in it, and savor every bite of everything I eat.  I live to eat.  And when I get a craving?  Oh, you’d better watch out.   I’ve been known to go pretty far out of my way for that fajita, coney dog, McFlurry, Thai fried rice, ooh, those decadent chicken artichoke wraps.  Mmm…What’s for breakfast again?

I guess it’s pretty lucky that I don’t stay up late at night, and have my cravings wash over me at hours when the stores and fast food joints aren’t open to fulfill my need.  I can just see my picture in the newspaper after my arrest for breaking into The Cracker Barrel, because I just couldn’t live another moment without tasting their french toast and cheesy hashbrowns, one after the other – sweet, salt, sweet, salt.  I wonder what the sentence would be for such a crime? 

I bet I’d have a cool prison name though.  I’m thinking ‘Tank’.


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