Food, Glorious Food

I have always suffered from this particular bugbear. It’s a huge societal double standard, and I don’t think it exists only in my head: See a skinny person eating a cake or a pastry or a burger, and your automatic response is, “Mmmmm caaaaake” or pastry or burger or whatever. See an overweight person eating the same thing, and the default response is, “Well it’s no wonder they’re fat, is it?” Why do I have to be judged for everything I put into my mouth? My body, my choice, right?

It just so happens that I love avocado. In fact, I can’t get enough of it. I probably eat five a week. I’m also pescatarian (a vegetarian who eats fish) – no fatty burgers for me. Instead, lots of lean, healthy, vitamin-rich fish. I even eat kale and quinoa (just not quite as obsessively as avocado). I should be applauded. I could front my own health food tv show. Most of my meals would crash Pinterest and Instagram if I was capable of abstaining for long enough to take a photograph before shovelling the smorgasbord into my salivating mouth.

But I’m a proper foodie, not a health food fanatic. My passion for fine dining does not discriminate. Would I scoff a superfood salad? Yes, yes I would. Would I also devour two puddings at the end of a three (now four) course meal? Absolutely. I’m sure I have. Though possibly not on a first date.

Because there’s just no escaping being judged when you’re my size. And I’m far from needing a crane to get out of the house. But the food guilts are nevertheless very real.

Even when I am in the solitude of my own home, with no audience ready with a sideways glance and metaphorical pointing finger, I can’t avoid it. I’m so conditioned that when there’s no one there to do it for me, I judge myself. And more often than not, remove all the pleasure from said food anyway. If it doesn’t happen during the actual act of eating, it will certainly occur in hindsight (literally) as I catch the size of my rear in the mirror and berate myself for my earlier indulgence.

All should be fine in moderation, right? Eating two puddings isn’t exactly part of my weekly routine. At least, not in the same way avocados are.

I dated an ex-chef for a couple of months recently (don’t faint, but yes, an actual, albeit short-term, bona fide boyfriend). We cooked up a storm together. It was heavenly while it lasted, though I’m confident my fitness instructor at the gym won’t be mourning the break up.

I may have given up the man, but I’m not going to give up the good stuff, unhealthy or otherwise. Instead I think I’m going to quit the self-flagellation. A little of what you fancy does you good according to the old adage. So from now on, I’m jolly well going to have my cake and eat it.