Sleep with the Fishes

Earlier this week I had one of my more ridiculous meltdowns.

First, a little justification. I had been up since 5am when John and I drove home from my brother's place on the Jersey Shore, battled a ridiculous subway commute to work, and then had a harrowing day wherein everyone needed everything now-- kind of par for the course at work except for the 5am thing. I was exhausted after a weekend of travel to DC/Virginia, and worked until 6:45pm (also the norm) before meeting my Beloved.

He had spent the day doing awesome things to make life easier. We had been away all weekend so he braved Costco alone to pick up some giant sized groceries for our tiny fridge. I kind of imagine him strolling through the empty aisles, tasting samples and exchanging pleasantries with the sample-givers, but when I am at work I always think everyone out there is having more fun than me, no matter what they're doing.

I met him after work at an appointment in our neighborhood, and by the time I saw him I looked and felt like a zombie. I asked what he had bought at Costco, and he told me about these fish patties he had gotten. "Like filets?" I asked. "No, you know, breaded fish patties. They're good."

Up yours, Gordan's Fisherman!

I started to cry.

Now, in truth, John had bought all sorts of things. Paper towels, for one, and I know it's strange but I do feel more secure with a closet stocked with paper towels. I think it's the germaphobe in me. He had also gotten chicken, vegetables, gigantic condiments that we were in need of-- you know, the things you get at Costco.

But when I heard fish patties, my inner nutjob railed. "Fish! Dipped in batter! Fried! Then frozen! Like a McFish or whatever they call it! That's like eating a stick of butter!" And it wasn't the fish-- my hungry, overtired brain imagined a refrigerator filled with things I really can't eat.

When we decided to live together, and even before, I often thought that when we struck it rich John and I would have the luxury of separate fridges. His would be stocked with the things I often buy for him because I know he loves them (and, in truth, because I want to eat them and indulge vicariously through him): ready-to-eat pizza, fresh mozzarella wrapped in thinly sliced prosciutto, frozen Buffalo wings, knishes, blocks of various cheeses, bacon, sausages, bottles of hot sauce, multiple pints of ice cream--all Haagen Daz, all full-fat; his cabinets would be bursting with Corn Pops, crusty rolls, Mac and Cheese, and the Costco apple muffins he loves that make up my caloric intake for two days in just one muffin.

Mine would have my standard fare: leaf spinach for salad, apples, pears, baby carrots, hummus for nights I got crazy (and the carrots to eat it with-- you think I could mess with bread? No.), avocado, grilled chicken, frozen shrimp, olive oil and lemon juice for my homemade salad dressing. Dried apricots and almond milk for the nights I really needed dessert.

I must think at least once a day about how I envy John and his casual approach to eating. If he wants it, he eats it, and he is still fit and trim. I've even gone so far as to keep a Facebook album of his more jealousy-inducing meals. If he feels like he's not in his best shape, he works out for a week and is back to exactly where he wants to be. Last week, I counted my calories with meticulous precision, worked out nearly every day-- hard-- and then indulged in ice cream one night. I gained 2+ pounds at my Weight Watchers weigh in.

He, rightfully so, thinks I am a bit insane. I mean, I wept over fish. He doesn't see a freezer full of fish cakes as a slow death march back to my highest weight--the Number That Cannot Be Named-- he sees them as dinner. Sometimes lunch.  But he's never been a fat kid. In fact, though I've never confirmed it, I suspect he was the kid who made fun of the fat kids. I mean, he was the kid who made fun of everyone, he grew up to be a comic-- that's what they do. I often look at his cute little first-grader face framed on our wall and think, "Oh, he is so painfully adorable-- all red hair and sweetness. I wish I knew him then." Then I realize that if we had met, perhaps in our preteen years, his wicked humor would have made me, my humongous Miami Mice t-shirt, overbite and zaftig physique an easy target. And I would still be resentful.

When I go grocery shopping alone, my cart is divided into two parts: the food I want to eat, which goes to John. Then there's the food I do eat. It's still delicious, but it's fuel, meant to keep me from collapsing, not induce a cathartic experience. My cart is both aspirational and practical.


As kooky as I am, I have finally found the person who-- while he doesn't quite get my insanity-- accepts it. When we got home that night, he dropped my crazy, crying, spinning self off and went out to the fruit stand to get me some apples to shut me up. When I got upstairs, I saw through my ridiculous tears that he had cut the nutritional information off of the box of fish so that I could figure out how many Weight Watchers PointsPlus were in it. Through my sobs I whipped out my calculator, which I always keep on hand.


They were low fat, high protein and high fiber. Turns out that of the two of us, me and the fish, the only remotely unhealthy thing in that room was me. If insanity did burn calories, I would have had ice cream with mine.