My Crack

dress - noun

a one-piece garment for a woman or a girl that covers the body and extends down over the legs

eating dress

(eat-ing dress) noun

any assortment of clothing worn specifically for eating; typically over-sized with an elastic waist; dinner is ready so put on your eating dress.

It was comedienne and activist Margaret Cho who brought this term into my vocabulary. My eating dress is a pair of black sweat-pants, a ratty housecoat (which used to be white) and a pair of slippers.  I change into this ensemble the moment I get home from work (which is pretty much when I start eating) and generally wear it throughout the evening.  I sometimes wonder if my Husband thinks these are the only clothes I own?

I have a salt tooth.  Whereas most people have a sweet tooth, my cravings trend towards potato chips and anything slathered in salty deliciousness.  I love a bowl of Frosty Coated Sugar Bombs as much as the next guy but my heart lies at the bottom of a Doritos bag.

Zesty Cheese Doritos and chocolate milk…

It is my crack. 

In the spirit of full disclosure I will admit to eating a lot of Zesty Cheese Doritos and drinking a lot of chocolate milk.  Probably more than was healthy.  And I didn’t waste my time with the little 90g bag either – it was the full meal deal or nothing.  I would devour the entire bag in one glorious, overindulgent cram session until I was left feeling bloated and ashamed, with orange stained fingers and a stomach full of regret.

When I was single and lived alone my dinners consisted entirely of Doritos, chocolate milk and my eating dress.  It got so bad that I would walk well out of my way to purchase them.  I would literally rotate stores so that the proprietors wouldn’t wonder why I was buying the same crap every day.  I would ask for a double bag to try to hide what was inside.  I would walk home quickly, unwilling to make eye contact with anyone, switching the shopping bag from hand to hand in a desperate attempt to disguise its contents.

 I was embarrassed and felt judged.  I was fat and disgusting inside but skinny and malnourished on the outside. 

 In retrospect I’m sure nobody gave a rat’s ass what I was eating or how much of it.  It was my baggage I carried on those long walks home, my guilt, and my shame.

Things have changed since those days and I can (almost) buy my crack without those old feelings assailing me.  Is it that I don’t care (as much) what other people think of me?  Have I addressed and dealt with the “real” issues through hours of therapy?  Have age and wisdom helped me to love myself the way I am, to stop being so fucking judgemental?

I don’t know. 

I will still (on occasion) demolish a bag of Zesty Cheese Doritos and pound back 500ml of Chillin Chocolate milk and remember the good ol’ days when I considered them to be one of the 4 major food groups.  Those days are fewer and farther between but they still happen.  I can allow myself this indulgence and be much kinder and gentler about it.   I’m thankful for the change…

What hasn’t changed is the eating dress. 

I should probably throw this abominable housecoat away…