You know how I know how there’s no God? Comfort Eating. What a bullshit concept. There’s very little comfort in it, if you ask me.
Ah, how I love and hate Comfort Eating. It’s the ultimate cautionary tale for instant gratification – ‘A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the BLAH BLAH BLAH.” What a load of bollocks. Why do we have to eat all the bad foods to feel good? Don’t know about you, but I spend so much time pledging allegiance to the world of hedonism through yummy-but-deadly empty calorie consumption, that I’m in danger of becoming permanently blind to my expanding waistline. Why can’t I just feel self-fulfilled through the actions of my everyday life instead? That way, I won’t have to endure the slow-creeping but painful consequences of the button on my jeans trying to dig me a new belly-button every time I sit down. Where’s the comfort in that?
OR..since there’s a pill for everything anyway, why can’t we take one that convinces all those addiction-prone little synapses in our brain that the only comfort food that exists is salad? That reminds me, I’d better ring some of my scientist friends and see what they can do about that. Must I think of everything??Jeez…
But seriously folks. I’ve had the worst few months lately when it comes to making food choices. In that I haven’t really been making any conscious ones. I’ve mostly just been letting my loneliness, boredom and monthly raging hormones forage for me – my body is merely the vessel searching for stodge. I go through my cupboards and fridge not looking with my eyes, but with my heart. Which we all know, is an insane fucking idea. It’s the quickest way to ending up on a Channel 5 special about how my arse has become so all-encompassing that it’s woven itself into the couch. I fear that in a medical emergency, my first response team may one day end up being a crane, front-wall demolition, and some strong sympathetic firemen. If you’d like a glimpse into my future, think of Pearl from the (fiercely underrated) movie Blade. Oh, Pearl. You are comfort-eating goals.
I’m not gonna lie, the way I’ve been feeling lately, I’d be quite content to live out my days like this. Well-fed, lazing around the bed, no constrictive clothing. Sure doesn’t she look only delighted with herself?? Only thing is, I probably wouldn’t have very many days to live out if I did. STUPID ADULT RESPONSIBILITY FOR MY OWN HEALTH. I have to say, the prospect of an early grave due to super-morbid obesity doesn’t deter me half as much as the thought of needing to get someone to help me get in between those hard-to-reach rolls with a warm wet flannel. Not only that, but they’d probably have to move in. EEEK. That’s how much of a hopeless case I am. The thought of having to live with someone and give up my blissful calorie-ignorant hermit life will be the thing that might convince me. At this stage, I don’t think anything else would stop me reaching for that wedge of Russian Slice that’s so big it has its own Eircode.
Yeah…so there’s no real ‘inspo’ in this post, just me giving out yards about how much I both love and loathe comfort eating. It’s a tricky bastard, in that you eat to feel better, which feels great at the time. However, what it gives you in pleasure, it gives you back in consequences twice over. The short-term is you feel racked with guilt and like you’re going to burst; and in some cases, if you’re like me and crave food you’re blatantly intolerant of, the business end of you becomes best pals with your toilet bowl. Elegant.
Speaking of which, the long-term consequences are also a big pile of shite. My skin can suffer, which is exacerbated by my not-sexy-at-all compulsive skin-picking disorder, which I wrote about in the blog post below:
So that, in addition to the usual suspects of weight gain and claustrophobic legs (SHUT UP THAT’S TOTALLY A THING) from your jeggings getting ever-tighter, can combine to make me feel…well, about as sexy and welcome in the world as a pube on a toothbrush.
Then, because the universe is a vicious evil asshole, you’ll go out one day makeup-free, all ruddy and triple-chinned, wearing whatever would give your pudgy little self the least amount of red angry welts. Sweat will be dribbling down your back and under your boobs even though you literally walked for just one song on your Spotify playlist. The hair will be a fucking ruin as well, because this is Jenny-Luck and you’re not allowed ANYTHING nice. This is the exact day you’ll meet one or all of the following: an ex you still like / your former school bully / that teacher who thought you’d go nowhere in life / an RTE news crew who want to know your thoughts on Brexit / your gorgeous best friend who insists on getting a selfie with you that exact moment – and tagging you in it on Facebook. LOVELY.
Sure what else can you do after a day like that only face-plant a Tayto sammitch or seven? I mean really, can you blame me?
I have no solutions. I’m trying to limit my comfort-eating to half a metric ton of fat-filled arse-expanding goodness a day (I’m all about the moderation). The only thing actually making a difference is lots and lots of doing actual stuff. So now that I’m in a work placement which is utterly fantastic, I’m out of the gaff and away from the fridge way more. Then, when I do have time off, I have adulting to catch up on like tidying, form-filling, or catching up on my correspondence like the 90-year-old soul that I am, and so on. Writing is also a brilliant diet aid, once I get into the zone of not wanting to get up and leave the words lest I lose my flow. I’ll allow myself tea, OBVIOUSLY. Tea is life. It’s got an Access All Areas pass.
Here’s hoping that I’ll reach a balance in my life where I’m so fulfilled in various areas, that it won’t even occur to me to start grazing on snacks to pass the time or to make myself feel better. Then, if ever comes a time where I’m genuinely low because of something crappy, instead of strapping on a feedbag full of the contents of an entire Spar hot counter and Chicken Hut gravy, maybe I’ll reach out to a friend and ask them to call over – you know, giving the comfort of human company a try instead. I don’t do that very often. Usually when I’m down in the bunker, hermit life is the life for me. But there’s a first time for everything. Maybe there’s nothing sweeter than a hug and a chat from a mate, so calling them might be the best thing I can do – for my soul as well as my waistline.
Of course if, along with their hugs and chats, they called over armed with a tub or two of Häagen-Dazs, I’d certainly welcome them in. Be rude not to…
I will never learn.