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Releasing your Inner Smart*ss
By 6wd | March 7, 2008
When I use–or ALMOST use–the a-word in that title, I’m referring to an intelligent donkey, not to a body part. I live in the (James Earl Jones voice here) DEEP SOUTH, where you don’t use words like that without carefully ’splainin yo foooo seff. Or inserting an asterisk over a vowel. Or should I say *sterisk?
But I regress.
Okay, so you’re in a restaurant, right? You’re there with close family or medium-close friends or really-not-that-close-at-all office pals (the farther your relationship distance from your dining companions, the greater the chance you’ll need these weapons with which I’m about to equip you).
Comes time to order.
They go first.
They order NOT by considerations of health, but by considerations of whatever the heck looks good to them on the menu.
Cheesy mayonnaisse-sour cream sauce over fried pork rinds with (choice of 3 sides)–lard-fried beans, creamy bacon-butter noodles, and cheddar-beef batter-dipped onion rings. Bread choice? Um, banana muffins, extra butter on the side.
And a diet coke. Yeah.
Your turn.
“I’ll have the house salad with the dressing on the side.”
Waitress (EVERY time): “And?”
You: “And nothing. That’s all.”
Your dining companions: “But what are you having to EAT?”
You: “Just the salad.”
Waitress AND dining companions: Wordlessly stare at you. Three seconds of clumsy silence.
You: Shrug, smiling weakly back at them. Feel the embarrassment start creeping up your neck. Drop eye contact down to the location of your silverware. Study fork prongs as you meekly hand menu back to waitress.
AND HERE’S WHERE IT BEGINS.
“Is that ALL you’re having for LUNCH?” “That’s your LUNCH?” “That’s not a LUNCH.” “Is this some kind of new DIET?” “Can’t you just get a cheeseburger and take the bread off?” “You’re saving room for the cocoa-rum-butter cheeesecake, right?”"You can have some of my fries.”
And THIS is why so many of us (me, too!) cringe when we have to eat in restaurants. Because our dining companions are not just, well, inconSIDerate, but they are displaying all the symptoms of the extreeeeeemely common psychological disease I call…
Pigorexia You’vegotcher Nervosa.
This disease is characterized by an overwhelming need to calm one’s own guilt about eating like Kirstie Alley in a Fettucini Alfredo factory.
The victims of pigorexia have consciences that lie dormant as long as everyone around them is consuming either butter, gravy, or cheese burritos.
But should one brave soul, sitting amongst these pigorexics, choose to eat intelligently, the pigorexic conscience is kicked out of its sleep, and awakes with a vengeance.
It knows only two modes of operation.
One is to attempt to equalize the dining errors among everyone at the table by seeing to it that no one at the table is innocent of self-destructive menu selections.
The other mode is to use lame statements to attempt to punish and/or shame the intelligent diner by suggesting that they are making stupid food choices. Or that the person eating CORRECTLY is the one being rude, by waking the consciences of all the pigorexics at the table.
So what do you do?
Well, you can either practice your patience, your humility, your forgiveness, or your ability to make rational decisions when everyone else is doing cartwheels down the nutball lane.
OR
You can simply release your inner smart*ss.
Oh, all right. I’ve never had the nerve to do this one. But I’m going to tell you some things I’ve WANTED to say.
The scenario would be that they’re in the middle of their Raymond Burr-ito megalunch, and you’re in the middle of your salad.
Pigorexic: I don’t think you’re eating enough.
You: Really? Well, I think YOU’RE eating enough…For a family of six.
Pigorexic: How long do you think that little salad is going to stay in your stomach?
You: Not as long as that cheesecake is going to stay on your thighs.
Pigorexic: If you’re going to eat a meal like THAT, what’s the point of coming to a nice restaurant?
You: If you’re going to eat a meal like THAT, what’s the point of ordering a diet coke?
Pigorexic: Why are you trying to lose weight anyway? I certainly wouldn’t enjoy walking around with a body that looked like a skinny little stick.
You: I certainly wouldn’t enjoy walking around with a cholesterol level that triggered containment measures by the Environmental Protection Agency.
Well, you get the point.
When I’ve thought up a few more Weapons of Pigorexic Destruction, I’ll post them.
Till then, have fun in your next restaurant. And PLEASE remember the actual comments you hear, and send them to me. It will help us build up our artillery of intelligent donkey replies.
Even if we’re not brave enough to actually SAY them.
We can still THINK them.
And thinking them goes really well with a side s*l*d.
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