If a man's home is his castle, then a woman's car is her den of iniquity. And I'm not even talking about the kinds of trouble a young woman in the 50s might've gotten themselves into in the backseat of her boyfriend's Chevy.
The transgressions I'm talking about take form in little pieces. Little bite-sized pieces. Wrapped in cellophane.
Yesterday I had a conversation that really put me on edge. I thought about it, worried a little, got angry, worried a little more, and by dinner time, I was still replaying the conversation in my mind. Oh well, I sighed. I've got to let this go. It's time to stop obsessing.
So I set to the task at hand, which happened to be running to the store for a few odds and ends for that night's dinner. Hmmmm, y'know what would taste good with the hamburgers and the salad I'm making? I thought to myself. Chips. Some good, healthy, grainy chips.
The chip aisle is beautiful. All those bags with photographs of chips, magnified 100 times. You can see every ridge, every curl. You can practically see the grains of luminous salt on each chip. The bags make that satisfying crunch sound. I like to run my hands over all the chips. So many kinds! Healthy choices: multi-grain. Baked! Organic! Isn't it wonderful?
I did run my hands over all those healthy choices. But you and I both know how this story ends: Me, grabbing a bag of the Frito's Honey BBQ twists, the kind with the sickeningly artificial red powder. My eyes dart up and down the aisle. Did anyone see me? I dodged to the self-checkout lane, quickly purchased my items, being sure to put the bag of Frito's on the top of the last bag I put into my cart.
From there, it's all over. By the time I've returned home, half the bag is devoured, the shrunken, crumpled wrapper lying in a demoralized heap in my car's passenger seat, as I lick my fingers noisily.
What have I done?
For a brief moment, I was able to step outside of myself and see this scene. It struck me as being so funny and so pitiful all at the same time that I decided to mention it on my Facebook status. And the comments came rolling in. I was expecting some light chiding, or perhaps some encouragement to break my habit. Instead, I got a confessional. Turns out, I'm not the only one who pigs out in the car and hides the evidence. I got admissions from friends, profiling their vices: licorice, Pringles, dark chocolate mints, donuts. Beef jerky. Nutter Butters. My friend Chris asked me (or was she ordering me?) to share my Frito's, because those are her vice, too. (My answer? "No.")
I wonder if I will ever stop stress eating. I wonder why so many people do it. All I know is that when I am upset, stressed or hurt, my thoughts don't turn to revenge; they turn to the small stash of candy bars I hid in my glove compartment. And so do you.
Shhhhhhhhh.
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