Feed Me!

There are some days when you’re just hungry for no reason.  Today is one of those days for me.  I could eat the ass out of a dead skunk with nary a grimace, and ask for seconds.  A doctor might call this a drop in blood sugar.  I call it “the frantic search for sustenance or I might just kill somebody.”

I will SO hurt you.

Lunchtime could not have come soon enough.  Yes, I actually had the willpower to wait until lunchtime, chugging a bottle of tepid water, staring at my clock like a crazy person.  Finally the numbers flashed and I was out of my chair like there was a fire, racing for the cafeteria, cackling, shoving people out of the way…I gleefully grabbed a huge, tantalizing bowl of hot chili, a bag of barbecue chips, a cup of Greek yogurt, and a Coke, threw money at the cashier, and high-tailed it into the lobby…

…only to remember that today is Wednesday, and it’s Weight Watchers Day, and my ex-leader is in the lobby, looking right at me, smiling like a predator.  

“Hi!” she says brightly, beady eyes flashing over my stash.  You have to pay for bags in Monkey County so I put that extra nickel toward that extra large chili bowl, and everything was stacked up like a foodie Jenga game.  I could almost hear her totaling the calorie count in her head.

“Hi,” I replied, throwing her a grimace that passed for a smile.  Lady, do not judge me right now, I will take you out.

“Looks like quite a haul there,” she giggled.  I hope she didn’t hear the growl.  That could have been my stomach, or it could have been a warning, I don’t know…but I said something idiotic and ran for the elevator.  Bitch was eyeballing my Saltines.

I ran for my office, gleefully locked the door, and dove in to lunchtime heaven, the destruction of which took about 10 minutes tops.  I sat back with a sigh, stomach distended, lips and fingertips orange with chili and barbecue seasoning.  As I’m cleaning my hands with my little wet wipe, my brain made a warning sound. 

SIGNAL HAS NOT BEEN RECEIVED.

Shit. 

If there’s one thing I learned from that Weight Watcher’s class, it's that you need to wait for your brain to receive the signal from your stomach that it’s full.  Apparently I have faulty wiring.  Sometimes I get this signal loud and clear; other times, I’m not aware that the storage facility is rapidly approaching maximum capacity.  Only one time have I reversed gears from eating too much – and that was terrific spaghetti, too, dammit, which is probably why I ignored the mayday klaxon.  Today, however, appears to be one of those days in which my gastric process has blown a gasket and all I can think is that giant plant from “Little Shop of Horrors” screaming “FEED ME SEYMOUR, FEED ME!”

So okay, lunch was done.  I decided to ignore the clamoring and see if I could go the allotted 30 minutes – the time it’s supposed to take that signal to get from stomach to brain.  Naturally, that didn’t happen; within 10 minutes my hands were shaking, my eyes were bulging, and I was on the prowl for sugar.  Any sugar.  Packets.  Sugar cane.  The cardboard box that says "Sugar" on the side.

I can’t keep an emergency stash of candy on hand because I’ll eat the entire thing in seconds.  My co-workers have bags of candy in their offices that they take to meetings to share with others, and out of embarrassment, I stay away from those bags, because at this point I’d clear them out and they’d be left in meetings trying to explain to the chocolate-bribed executives what happened.  I can’t leave them in that predicament.  After all, chocolate-bribed executives are dangerous.

But I work in an office building, which has secretaries, who always have candy.  Always.  I know this for a fact, having been a secretary once myself.  I am surprised it’s not a job requirement.  “Must type 120 words per minute, know the intricacies of Microsoft Office, and keep candy dish filled with miniature Snickers at all times.”

So out the door I went, trying to look professional, wiping the beads of sweat from my forehead as I headed for the division secretary's desk around the corner.  My stomach felt like I'd swallowed a bowling ball.  God, I was full of food, and I was still maniacally hungry!  This sucked!  Stupid non-working brain signal! 

I made it to Catherine’s desk, ostentatiously checking my mail slot for non-existent mail.  She smiled cheerily.  “Is it too hot in here?” she asked, noticing the sweat beads.

“Nope!” I replied back, eyes searching for the candy.  There it was, in a little basket near her computer.  Oh God, Reese’s cups.  Full size ones.  Probably melted, because yes, it was too hot in here.  Didn’t care at this point.

“Ooo,” I said, trying not to slobber, “Reese’s!  Mind if I grab one?”

“Of course not!  Help yourself!”  So I did.  To three.  I didn’t even make it back to my desk and they were gone in one chomp.  I don’t even know what I did with the wrapping.  Did I even unwrap them?

Would you believe three full-size Reese’s cups still didn’t send the hunger signal?  Nope! Off I went with wallet in hand, grumbling to myself by now; I’m a bottomless pit, this is all going to my ever-burgeoning waistline, how the hell do I stop this, etc.  Our office building does not maintain vending machines on each floor, so I had to go find one tucked in the confines of another floor. Stair climbing.  Exercise.  Don't judge me.

Why is it, when you find a vending machine, that (1) the goddamned thing won’t take your money, and (2) someone always walks in to see you buying a second bag of M&Ms and looks at you like you’re the most disgusting person on the face of the earth?  I immediately grinned guiltily at the well-dressed young man who surprised me this time, while all the while I wanted to do this:

GET...OUUUUT!!!

But finally, FINALLY those M&Ms hit the switch.  I’m now sitting at my desk feeling bloated, and I’ll probably be reaching for my bottle of Tums later, but for now, the monster is sated.

Now…what’s for dinner?  Hmm.

--Rebecca