The Hunger Games (But Not Really)

5 Sep

My fiancé (let’s call him Ben, because that’s his real name) and I seldom fight but when he do it’s hideous and cruel. I assault his character, in shrill tones, and he runs away. Literally. He scampers across the street like an ashamed terrier who thinks I’ll forget he peed in my shoe if he changes location. In turn, I scream that he’s weak so that everyone can hear, but this is NY so we’re not interesting. In the six years we’ve been dating, we haven’t argued about anything that couldn’t be solved by him turning off the Yankees game. He’s never done anything wrongful. But, when we do get all emo, it’s for one reason: hunger, which is often combined with a happy hour cocktail consumed instead of dinner.

I have a distorted relationship with food. I simultaneously love and loathe being famished. Craving ethnic-y stuffs followed by satisfying that urge is my all-time favorite feeling. What I hate is the imminent depression that follows gorging and knowing that I won’t get that meal back again. As a result, when I find myself peckish, I tend to pleasure delay for entirely too long, transforming me from a (relatively) grounded girl, to a maniac, fiendishly texting friends for help out of my relationship while weeping in the nearest Urban Outfitters. After several hours, and threats to break our lease, our blood bath will end with the chime of the doorbell. Our savior? The delivery boy brandishing french fries and omelets and usually a Reuben for him. After the first bite, Ben and I will start to giggle, feeling so silly that our hunger ever let us get here. Then, he’ll put on Bravo, just for me, and just like that, our vitriol is gone with our famish.

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