Eating My Feelings

by Mark Rosenberg

  We sat down and I immediately ordered three eggs, bacon, toast, two waffles, and a cup of coffee with an iced tea chaser.

  “I’ll have yogurt,” Mickey told the waitress.

  “Yogurt?” I said. “Seriously?” I gave him a dirty look for making me feel like a fat-ass.

  We chatted until our food arrived. Then all conversation stopped. I shoveled food into my mouth as if I had never eaten before. It was very reminiscent of when I was young and fat and would take three-mile walks every day to stay in shape. I was, however, taking those three-mile walks to Burger King and would proceed to scarf two Whoppers and walk back home, thus defeating the purpose of walking three miles in the first place. Mickey looked at me with awe.

  “When’s the last time you ate?” he asked.

  “Yesterday, why?” I replied.

  “Because you’re eating like—” he stopped.

  I stopped eating and looked up at him with crumbs around my mouth.

  “You’re eating like you’re eating your feelings,” he said.

  “What?”

  “You’re eating your feelings.”

  “Come again?”

  “Are you okay with this whole lost-virginity thing?” he said.

  Quite honestly, the only thing on my mind was the plate of food in front of me.

  “What do you mean eating my feelings?”

  “You know, when you’re upset about something and you binge-eat to forget about it.”

  Finally, someone had given a proper name to what I had been doing for years.

  “I’m not upset about anything,” I replied.

  “Okay, I just wanted to check.”

  I continued eating, and when I was finished, I ate the rest of Mickey’s yogurt. I was starving. Perhaps whatever drugs were served the previous night had baby laxatives in them. After breakfast, Mickey dropped me off at my mother’s.

  Since Mickey lived in D.C. and I lived in New York, we both knew there was no potential to have a worthwhile relationship. Because of geographical issues, we decided whenever we were horny, we would text-message each other the words sexy pants, which was code for “I’m ready to have phone sex.” That, ladies and gentlemen, is what I like to call communicating like adults.

  It is tradition in my family after gorging on Thanksgiving dinner to go out for pizza the next night. As if we hadn’t eaten enough already. I ate about four hundred slices of pizza that evening. I remembered what Mickey had said. Perhaps I was more upset about this whole lost-virginity situation than I thought I was. As I was gorging food, my other sister, Kim, asked, “Are you coming down off of something?”

  “I’m not sure,” I replied. The ingredients of the powder I had snorted the night before were still unknown to me and I wasn’t sure what was going on. I was also still pretty sure I had gotten pregnant.

  “Are you okay?” Kim asked.

  “I think so.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I lost my virginity last night,” I said.

  “WHAT?!” she yelled.

  Everyone looked up to see what my sister was yelling about and she shrugged it off.

  “You were still a virgin until last night?” she asked.

  “Well, I’ve hooked up before. I mean, I’d done everything but …”

  “But, butt?”

  “Roger that,” I said.

  “With who?”

  “A guy called Mickey Goldman.”

  “OH MY GOD!” My sister yelled again.

  “What the fuck are you two yelling about down there?” my mother asked.

  “Uh, nothing,” I replied.

  My sister continued: “You know Jamie and I—”

  “Yes,” I cut her off. “I know. You went to Jewish Community Center summer camp with him. It’s a fun Rosenberg family fact that I am now very much aware of, thank you very much.”

  “Interesting. Does Jamie know about this?”

  “Are you kidding me?” I asked. “She orchestrated this whole ordeal.”

  “Girl needs to get a hobby. Or a boyfriend.”

  “Cheers to that,” I said as we clinked our beer glasses.

  I didn’t think about Mickey very much. Once I was back in New York, I didn’t have time for sexy pants text messages because I had to wrap up finals and get my social calendar in check for the holidays. Besides, he lived in D.C. and I lived in New York—we weren’t looking to be in a relationship. As my mother would say, “Two blonds don’t make a right.” A few weeks later I went back to D.C. for Christmas and stopped at my father’s office first. When I got there, my father was in a meeting, so I waited for him in the lobby. I fingered through a Highlights magazine and enjoyed the vocal prowess of Dionne Warwick as I waited. My father always had the best music playing in the lobby of his office.

  After humming the entire theme from Valley of the Dolls, I saw my father approach the lobby with a man who looked like he may or may not have been inside of me weeks earlier.

  “MARK!” my father yelled as I got up to greet him. “Do you know Mickey?” he said as Mickey came from behind to shake my hand.

  I must have had that look that people get when they find out they’re adopted. I was horrified.

  “Hello, Mickey,” I said as I reached out to shake his hand.

  “Mickey has been a client of mine for years. You know kids these days with their terrible driving habits and drugs charges.” I looked at Mickey awkwardly and my father continued. “Did you know that he went to JCC summer camp with your sisters?” Mickey gave me a look that said either “I just shit my pants” or “I’ve never been so embarrassed.”

  “I did not. I did not know that you went to JCC summer camp with Kim and Jamie. Fascinating,” I said.

  “He got into a little accident a few months ago and I was just helping him with some paperwork. We’ve known him for so long, it’s almost as if he’s like my own son.”

  Ew. Wait … did I have sex with my own brother? With my family, anything is possible.

  Mickey and I exchanged pleasantries and he quickly left my father’s office.

  My father and I then proceed to catch up, and as we were walking out of the office doors I received a text message that read: sexy pants!

  That was the last time I ever saw Mickey, but I have to thank him for teaching me so many life lessons. He taught me that when presented with an unknown drug, it’s probably best to just say no. He taught me that losing your virginity is best saved for strangers because if all doesn’t go well, you never have to see them again unless they’re clients of your father’s. And finally, Mickey had identified my lifelong struggle with food and had given it a name. He explained the essence of what eating my feelings is and I continue to embrace it to this day.

  AS THE REVOLVING DOOR OF DELIVERY MEN TURNS

  For years, Mark had been gorging on food alone until he met the one person who shared his love of food to the extent he did. Some would call our heroine’s new friend a companion, but Mark calls her his soul mate.

  Fall of 2003 was a magical time for everyone. Audiences were delighting in the hilarious genius that was Bruce Almighty and America’s sweetheart-in-training Kelly Clarkson was amazing the country with her golden vocals. I had the great pleasure of meeting a new friend, Sally. Sally had met my friend Tom while fighting over the price of her head shots at Kinko’s. Shortly after, Tom dragged Sally to meet me at the Edison Diner on 47th Street.

  “Can I get you three something to drink?” the waitress said as she approached our table.

  “I’ll have a Diet Coke,” I said.

  “OH MY GOD!” Sally screamed.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “I LOVE Diet Coke,” she replied.

  It was love at first sight. Not only had we bonded over a mutual love of Diet Coke, she was also a fan of other essentials in my life: musical theater and Britney Spears. I had finally met my intellectual equal.

  Another reason I love Sally is because she is one of the most gorgeous peo
ple I have ever known—inside and out. On the outside, she has long brown hair, a smile for days, wide eyes, and boobs as big as her heart. She also enjoys the sun, so on any given day it’s always a question as to what nationality she really is. On the inside, she’s a truck driver. She drinks beer like it’s her job, curses like a sailor, and loves all types of sporting events, especially ones that revolve in or around Buffalo, her hometown. You never want to play a game with her either. She is the worst sport ever and a bad loser and turns any game night into a blood sport. She’s the greatest person I’ve ever known. She’s extremely sweet to your face but will be the first to tell you to go fuck yourself if you piss her off. She truly is a magical human being.

  A few weeks into our friendship, Sally came over to my apartment for a sleepover. We dined on French toast and onion rings and watched Britney’s last world tour. I was so happy that I had found someone on my level. But it wasn’t until that night that I realized just how on my level Sally really was.

  “Uh, I’m so full,” I said as I turned out the light to go to bed.

  “I know, me too,” Sally replied.

  As we lay there attempting to go to sleep, Sally rolled over and said: “You know what would have made this night complete?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Brownie sundaes.”

  “True that!” I replied. “I fucking love brownie sundaes. A warm brownie with vanilla ice cream and whipped cream. Nothing tops that!”

  “I know, I kind of want one now,” Sally said.

  “Well, it’s 2 A.M. I think it’s a bit late,” I said. “Speaking of desserts, I do love a nice black-and-white cookie. I really only like the white part though. Does that make me a racist?”

  “That is not what makes you a racist.”

  “Okay, good.” I felt relieved.

  As I continued trying to doze off, Sally rolled over once more and said: “You know what I really love?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Pigs in a blanket.”

  “Me too,” I replied.

  “But not like the microwave pigs in a blanket. I like putting hot dogs in crescent rolls then sticking them in the oven. That’s the best.”

  I was getting excited: “Oh my God, I know! With hot mustard. Delish!”

  Mind you, we had eaten all evening long. Yet we continued to speak of food well into the night.

  “You know what else I love? Nachos. Next time we have a sleepover, we should make homemade nachos.”

  “And taco dip!” Sally said with glee. “I make the best fucking taco dip you’ll ever have.”

  “I know! Next time we get together we should just have Night of a Thousand Dips. I can make spinach-and-artichoke dip. And cheese dip. It will be amazing.”

  “Oh, let’s do that next week.”

  “Sally?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I want Chicken McNuggets. Let’s walk across the street to McDonald’s and get some.”

  “Okay.”

  Sally and I walked across the street from my apartment at 2 A.M. and got two twenty-piece Chicken McNuggets at the twenty-four-hour McDonald’s. I loved Sally. You would have thought that the two of us were morbidly obese the way we spoke of food, but we just loved to eat—everything in sight.

  A few years after I met Sally, her roommate moved out and she asked me if I wanted to move in with her. Her apartment on the Upper East Side was less of an apartment and more of a youth hostel. There was no living room or common area; there were simply three bedrooms that were connected by a long hallway that led to a small kitchen and an even smaller bathroom. Each bedroom had a loft bed, so there was really no headroom once you got into the bedrooms, so you would have to squat once you entered the room. It was almost paradise, but not quite. When Sally asked me to be her roommate, I jumped at the chance. At first I believed it would be a good idea to move in with Sally because I loved her and the rent was cheaper than what I was paying at the time. I then calculated the amount of money we would most likely spend on groceries and realized I would probably be in the red if I moved in with her, but didn’t really care.

  “Can you imagine the feeding frenzies we will have?” she asked.

  “No,” I said with a straight face. “No. I honestly cannot.”

  Once I moved into the crack shack that was my new apartment, I decided that I was going to have to give my new abode a fitting name.

  “Let’s call our apartment La Boulaie. Like Dorian’s house on One Life to Live.”

  “I don’t know what any of those words mean, but it sounds good to me,” Sally replied.

  Once I got settled, the fun began. Every Saturday night, Sally and I would go out for “Blackout or Back Out Saturday Nights.” Meaning every Saturday we would either black out from drinking or if you couldn’t take the heat, you would be forced to back out and go home only to be ridiculed the next day by the other party. It was a constant shit show of boozing, debauchery, and late-night hookups. On Sunday, Sally and I would sit on her bed and watch reruns of Beverly Hills, 90210 hung over all day long.

  Being hung over meant being hungry. Drinking can take a lot out of you, and if you find yourself running from the law or an ex, it can also be a really good form of cardio. Every Sunday Sally and I would park it on her bed and a day of eating would commence. We would order at least three meals from delivery in one day. Once we ordered from the same place three times in one day and the deliverymen thought we were high. We weren’t—we were just fat pigs.

  A few months into our cohabitation, a horrible blizzard struck Manhattan. Sally and I prepared for lockdown.

  “Okay,” I said, “I’m going to go to the gym real quick, in anticipation of eating my feelings all night. I’ll stop at the store on my way home and get everything we need for what I’m sure will be a three-day feeding frenzy.”

  “Perfect. I’ll stay here and watch TV while you’re gone. We want to make sure it’s warm for your return.”

  I went to the gym and on my way home went to the store and bought one hundred dollars’ worth of groceries. Not one protein, vegetable, or fruit. Nothing nutritious, just junk—the way we liked it. I returned home to find Sally waiting for me. I don’t know why I even bothered going to the gym. I think I had gained two pounds just from looking at all of the crap I had just bought at the store.

  “You know what I could really go for tonight?” Sally asked.

  “What’s that?”

  “Fried chicken.”

  “Seriously, Sally?” I asked. “I just spent a hundred bucks at the store and it’s starting to snow. I’m not going back out there to get fried chicken. What’s with the cravings anyway? What are you, pregnant?”

  “NO!” Sally yelled. “I just really want fried chicken.”

  “I got the essentials. Pigs in a blanket, stuff to make taco dip and brownie sundaes, carrots.”

  “Carrots?”

  I started laughing hysterically. “That was just for us. I’m kidding.”

  Sally laughed like she had the devil inside of her and replied: “I was about to say? Carrots? What the fuck are we supposed to do with carrots?”

  Nothing about this conversation was funny at all, but we laughed for about five more minutes until Sally got serious again.

  “What are we going to do about this fried-chicken situation?”

  “We have enough food for days, we don’t need it,” I replied.

  “I want fried chicken!”

  “Listen, bitch,” I said, “if you want fried chicken, you can go down the street to get it. I’m not going out in the snow again.”

  “I have a better idea. I’ll see if KFC delivers.”

  Sally went into her bedroom as I continued putting the groceries away.

  “Fuck, yeah! They do!” she called from the other room. “What do you want?”

  “Fried chicken, I guess,” I said.

  “You guess?” Sally said as if I had just offended her. “They have, like, a menagerie of side dishes
to choose from. How can you just ‘guess’ you want fried chicken? I thought you were in it to win it with this whole feeding-frenzy thing.”

  “Okay, I’ll take a side of mac and cheese and mashed potatoes.”

  “Now, that’s what I’m talking about!”

  “Sally?”

  “Yes.”

  “See if there is a Pizza Hut attached to that KFC. We may as well kill two birds with one stone.”

  “God love you, Mark, for thinking ahead.”

  Sally then proceeded to order fifty dollars’ worth of food from the KFC/Pizza Hut down the street. When the deliveryman arrived after having made the two-block trek in nearly a foot of snow, I tipped him twenty bucks and sent him on his way. Sally and I gorged that weekend like we never had before. It’s what I imagine the craft services table would have looked like if Marlon Brando and Dom DeLuise ever teamed up to do a film together. Buckets of chicken, pizza, dips, pigs in a blanket, you name it, we ate it that weekend. But the pièce de résistance was always dessert. That night, we were going to make the brownie sundaes to end all brownie sundaes.

  “So,” I said to Sally as we entered the kitchen, “we have all of the ingredients. All we need to do is mix it up and put that fucker in the oven.”

  “Thank God we have these to look forward to,” Sally said as if we hadn’t eaten enough already that day.

  As I was mixing the ingredients into the bowl, I reached up to grab a measuring cup and knocked a glass over and into the bowl, and it shattered into a thousand pieces.

  “GODDAMN IT!” I yelled.

  “Oh no, now we can’t have brownies,” Sally cried.

  “Why not?”

  “Uh, because there are thousands of shards of broken glass in the mix.”

  “Can’t we just pick them out?” I asked.

  “Seriously?” Sally said. She looked back at me and realized that I was in fact being 100 percent serious and continued, “No!”

  “Motherfucker. I really wanted brownie sundaes.”

  “Oh well,” Sally said. “We have eaten enough today.”

  “No!”

  “What?”