It’s gotten to the point where I can’t even eat at the office anymore. Which is scary on a lot of levels because lawyers often have to eat in the office—just the way it is. Everyone does it. But for some reason, any time I sit to grab a bite, I have to suffer my co-workers judgmental commentary about my food. It’s to the point that I want come in with a spud gun and rage.
The source of this particular problem dates back to one particular partner who recently left my firm because her size-2 ass wanted to become a fulltime anorexic mommy to her two spoiled-brat children while spending her days demeaning staff at country clubs around the metro area.
For the better part of my first two years here, she interrupted my lunch or dinner pretty much everyday by saying something about how she found my food to be 1. gross, 2. fattening, or 3. both. All the while forcing me to stare at her komodo dragon neck and lose my appetite while she bemoaned. She had a skillful knack for finding me anywhere I may be in the office the very moment I was about to take a bite. She would come in to tell me to do something only to then immediately turn her nose up at my food.
One of my personal favorites: “That turkey sandwich smells rank.”
The sandwich was an inch from my mouth. All I smelt was a savory turkey sandwich. For her to have smelt it in the four seconds she had been in my office from 10 feet away, it would have had to been a pretty rotten sandwich. AND SINCE WHEN HAS A TURKEY SANDWICH EVER SMELT BADLY?? After she left, I threw away a perfectly delicious, fresh, untouched turkey sandwich because my pilates-adicted Skeletor of a boss made me feel like crap for eating it.
And God forbid she ever catch me eating something as decadent as Chinese food.
Allow me to make a disclaimer: I work downtown in an urban city center, yet 90% of people who work here flee to their tract homes in the suburbs after 6:00 PM. With no real nightlife or residential population around the office, there are only two places that deliver at night—a greasy Chinese palace and an even greasier pizza joint. So you’d think she’d forgive me if I couldn’t hit up the Whole Foods salad bar at 11:00 PM and pick up a garden’s worth of vegetables at a bargain rate of $7.99/pound to nibble on while my eyes bleed reading countless documents to serve her.
“That’ll make you fat. You know that, right?”
“Doesn’t that place have a ‘C’ rating?”
“Do you monitor your sodium intake?”
“There’s probably dog and cat meat mixed up in there to save money.”
Seriously, didn’t that myth go out of fashion in the ‘60s?
But even if I eat a salad, I can’t win either because she blathers on about hidden calories in the dressing!
I know this is the first thing your readers will comment on, so please allow me get right out in front of it: I’m not fat. (But I’m not thin either.) Please don’t make me give specifics relative to my looks. Just allow me to honestly say that my figure rests evenly in the middle of a bell curve, equidistant between “tragically thin” (my former boss) and “morbidly obese” (the massive paralegal who sits down the hall, yet no one breaths a fat word to). Do I love my body? No. But who does? Even skinny bitches hate themselves.
Even though I don’t always make the best food choices, I eat reasonable portions. I exercise when I can. I don’t eat my emotions to mask father issues or cut myself in the bathroom stall just to feel. I’m just a regular girl, with a regular body who has an all-consuming, stressful job that rarely affords Weight Watcher-approved options at all points of the day.
Secondly, my food is never smelly or gross or foul or any other adjective she used to ruin my meal. I’m a hygienic person, and I’ve never had food poisoning. I’m smart enough to realize when something is stale or moldy. I also am pretty aware of the basic nutritional value of most things. But I’m not sure of any of it anymore because it’s made me insane.
To be honest, I think the problem is that my boss was a skinny, anorexic bitch who couldn’t be happy (or feel good about herself) unless she ruined my meal by insulting it or making me feel disgusting.
Still, it all comes down to two kickers:
1. I’ve actually gone down one whole dress size in the last months before she left, and it’s all because of her. So I don’t know if I should thank her or kick her.
2. Probably so affected after serving the frigid hag for so many years, my secretary, who the hag and I used to share, made a comment to me yesterday about my Chipotle burrito in the exact tone as her. That was the second one she made that week, which means her legacy will continue to haunt me. (Not to mention the residual turmoil and practical eating disorder she inflicted me with.)
What this all comes down to is that it’s my body, my choice. I never make snide comments to anyone when they’re eating, so I’d appreciate if everyone would mind their own freaking business and not make quips when I’m trying to eat.
But I can’t win anyway. I will never be rid of this woman, and eating has become hell.
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