We Are Never Meeting in Real Life

I’m not sure if these are all really real, but that kind of seems beside the point considering that I’m attempting to whittle a third-grader off my backside. If I have to try to wipe the memory of the sharp, sweet sting of Italian salami from the taste buds in my mind, then I’m not going to ruin whatever progress I make by shoveling fistfuls of Pop-Tarts in my mouth every day.

This is what I’m like: I don’t ever buy juice, because I’ve got so many fitness articles and printouts from the nutritionist burned into my brain about empty calories and mindless sugar consumption that I don’t even go near it. My eyes don’t even wander over to the juice section. And that sounds so good and so health-conscious but the real gag is that I don’t want to waste a thousand calories on apple juice, a cheap and unsatisfying provisional solution to my despair, when I could invest those same calories in something that will really dull the sharp edge of life’s blade, like a slice of the birthday cake that was half-price because little Timmy’s parents never picked it up. So yeah, there’s never going to be a twelve-pack of beer in my fridge (empty calories) but you might find a chocolate gift basket I sent to myself and signed someone else’s name for (empty calories that stave off sadness for approximately twenty minutes).

I don’t know that I’m always happy in this big body. Or what there is that I can actually do about it. I was not born to delicate people; my mom was six feet tall and my dad was short and broad with oversize hands that he gifted me along with my life. This rotting meat corpse they created is riddled with inexplicable disease and is as wide as it is tall. I was never destined to be a waif, or to have a less-than-terrible relationship with food. I grew up poor, anxious, and unhappy, with cheap carbohydrates the only affordable substitute for joy. If I had a depressed kid right now, I’d drag him to a doctor and ask for some Wellbutrin, but that was never an option for tiny me. Even as a kid, when I did all the fantasizing that little kids do, I never pictured a tall, strapping man hoisting me into his tuxedo-clad arms, the itchy netting of my veil rustling against his beard as we descend the steps of a church of his choosing as a crowd of our loved ones throws confetti over our heads. I had an incredibly realistic imagination, and I knew that no husband of mine would ever be picking me up. After exchanging legal vows and a chaste kiss in front of the judge, my future husband and I would walk with grim determination from the courthouse, hand in hand and Velcroed into our most sensible shoes, get into our roomy midsize sedan, then eat the Tuesday afternoon lunch special at IHOP. We’d toast with overcooked sausage links because IHOP doesn’t serve booze, then drive to our unpretentious ranch-style house to make love one time and never again until we died.

So I bought a bunch of vegan cookbooks. I soaked the overnight oats; I made the fake cheese out of cashews and an onion and a carrot and a potato; I resisted the temptation of milk chocolate even though dark chocolate tastes like ants. And it felt fine. I felt fine. I made this amazing chickpea masala in my own kitchen that tasted almost as good as takeout.

Pretty sure the first time I faltered was at the movie theater. I love, love, love going to the movies, and when I do I like, like, like to have popcorn. And a fountain Coke, because I live for the burning snap of a freshly carbonated beverage. I went to see The Hateful Eight alone on a Saturday afternoon after work. I bought my ticket and willed myself to go straight to the theater, to not even glance at the concession stand, but I could not resist the siren call of the self-serve soda machine. I changed my inner mantra from “you don’t need anything” to “fine, just get a drink,” but as soon as I rounded the corner and heard the kernels popping their glorious staccato I jumped into the popcorn line and promised to make Cuban black beans and rice for the next three days. I was able to control myself enough to get both a small popcorn and a root beer (curveball! this girl is full of surprises!), but the minute the first buttered bite hit my tongue I was like, “Lord, I’ve made a dire mistake.” (The vegan thing, not the popcorn, just so we’re clear.)

The next day, as I was chopping tomatoes and red peppers for gazpacho, I decided that although I would continue to try my best to steer clear of meat and cheese, going forward I would never again publicly refer to myself as vegan. Then, if I decided to eat some carnitas or have an eggnog at Christmas, no one I know from the Internet could look down his judgmental nose at my choices. Carnivore in the streets, person-who-has-eaten-a-carrot-masquerading-as-a-hot-dog in the sheets.





Million-Dollar Mermaid


Samantha Irby's books