Nutrition

In addition to a mild weight problem, my habits of self-nourishment also contribute to my ever-decreasing dignity. My diet provides a constant source of shame, but despite this, I am not really looking to make any changes in my eating habits, so until the government intervenes (Meals on Wheels, fingers crossed) they will continue to be a source of personal embarrassment and self loathing, creating yet another reason for me to remain in my home.  Additionally, because of my unwillingness to alter my own behavior, or seek variety in my diet, I must simply continue to lack vital nutrients and remain generally lethargic.

On the off chance that I actually patronize a local supermarket I am inevitably faced with the question, “Hmm, what do I like to eat?” Because the only answer I can come up with is “carryout” I am forced to roam the aisles searching for anything that a moped-driving immigrant would deliver to my door. Since fried crab rangoon isn’t readily unavailable, I fill my shopping basket with a combination of items that would suggest that my parents have gone out of town, and I have been left to complete the grocery shopping alone—Pop Tarts, six varieties of potato chips, sugar cereal, anything Totinos produces and so much soda that I have to carry it home in shifts. 

In the event that I go to the grocery store prepared, I usually like to try and purchase something that is not only cheap and delicious, but also requires the least amount of preparation before consumption. Generally this means that I buy one loaf of bread, one jar of peanut butter and one jar of pickles. This $9 purchase provides up to 12 meals, and because that’s so frugal, I usually also purchase a 12-pack of Busch light and a bucket of Samoa Girl Scout Cookie ice cream as a personal reward for my economically sound choices, as well as for leaving the house.

When I worked in an office, I usually had lunch in my car. A few cigarettes, a 20 oz. Diet Coke, and maybe a few buttered flatbreads from Quizblows, but on one particular day I was feeling saucy, so I wandered over to the local Gelson’s market for a real, three course lunch. I hit up the pre-made section and chose a size 2 of turkey chili, and then picked up my usual jar of peanut butter and jar of pickles. Up to this point, I had never eaten in the office kitchen—mostly because it smelled of feet and cottage cheese, but also because I’m not 11 and looking for cafeteria style dining. At any rate, on this day, I wanted to sit down at a big table, spread out my lunch things and eat. Whence I was caught stirring peanut butter into my chili, questioned about it (with a pickle follow-up) and then told, “You eat like you’re pregnant. All the time.” I quickly finished eating, vowing to never eat in the office kitchen again, as well as to buy a pregnancy test immediately after work.

Because of my shear hatred for going out in public I am relegated to eating at home and because my kitchen is ill equipped for cooking my own meals, in that it contains nothing more than a giant cigarette lighter with under storage and a jumbo soda/beer cooling box, I am forced to eat the kinds of food that people will bring to my door. To say my diet lacks variety is an under statement. When I find something that I like, I will eat it until I don’t. This usually means that I consume the same combination of food for every meal anywhere from a few months, to a couple years.

When I lived at the Berkshire Apartments in upper Northwest D.C. I discovered a real gem—Pane Bella, a Mediterranean establishment downtown that delivered anywhere in the city. Three to four times a week I dialed their number and 30 minutes later would be devouring a chicken/veggie/hummus  pita sandwich and six pitas coated in hummus on the side. One day I answered the door anxious to consume my delicious evening meal in the comfort of my bed/couch. When I opened the door, my whole world came shattering down around me. “Oh, you got glasses,” the deliveryman said cheerfully. “I like them.” Now, this may not seem like an insult, in fact, technically, it’s a compliment. However, when someone you know no further than from his frequent appearance at the threshold of your home notices a change in your appearance that none of your friends or colleagues did, it’s time to find a new menu.

When I lived in Los Angeles, my diet was simple. I drank gin and tonic all day, vodka and Red Bull all night and wore a nicotine patch. Food wasn’t really an issue.

When I moved back to D.C. I was quite excited to rekindle my romance with the Pane Bella delivery man. First week in my new apartment, I called to place my order. And wouldn’t you know it, the restaurant was no longer in business. I don’t think this is any coincidence, and I feel absolutely awful about how my move affected their profits. However, I’m mostly just mad because I had a real hankering for a meat mixture stuffed into a pita.

Fortunately, the Internet provides a massive list of every place within the District that will deliver foodstuffs to my home. I chose a Chinese establishment with an Irish name and made the call. O’Tasty wins! The food is here in 30 minutes, it’s hot, it’s delicious and the deliveryman keeps his eyes down when he hands me the food. Their spicy tofu, fried wontons and sesame chicken are cheap and the portions are large. Looks like I found my new dietary staple!

One Saturday night though, it all began to head downhill. A rare occasion, I had planned on going on this particular night. The plan was, shower, eat, nap, go out. In that order. Although O’Tasty is a mere four blocks away, it always takes at least 30 minutes for it to arrive at my door. I figure, 10 minutes to cook, five minutes to pack and load, and 15 to get it to my house. I placed my order and jumped in the shower. Usually, I like to sit in the shower, think about some stuff, sing a number or two and practice an award acceptance speech. Knowing that a young Asian man was to be at my door very shortly, I kept this one quick. In and out. I didn’t even condition.

As I stepped out of the shower, literally EIGHT minutes, EIGHT after I had placed the order someone was knocking at my door. Ill equipped to answer immediately I hurriedly threw on the clothes I was wearing pre-shower, while yelling “Just a second” in the general direction of the door. I was at the door a minute later, dripping wet and ready for some Chinese food. The young man, whose eyes averted eyes had been a constant in our month long, three times a week relationship, was staring, eyes up, slightly grinning. Oh how nice. I thought. He’s becoming less shy. Maybe small talk will soon be introduced to this friendship.

I carried the food into the kitchen and walked back into the bathroom to dry off more thoroughly. Ohhhhhhhhhhh!!!! I see. In my rush to get the bags of food into my home, I hadn’t noticed A) that the shirt I picked up off the floor was white, and B) that after a mere six seconds on my body, it was transparent.

The following week I needed some spicy tofu, like, NEEDED it. I briefly considered patronizing a different establishment, but this incident was as much my fault as anybody else’s. No reason to punish O’Tasty just because of my inability to properly clothe myself when presented with human interaction. I also briefly considered placing Home Alone into the DVD player, turning the volume up loud and forcing the deliveryman to do a dead drop at my doorstep. I would slide money under the door, look shiftily both ways out the door before snatching it inside with a one handed yank, and then rip the bag to shreds with my teeth, crouched down in front of the door with the lights off devouring every bite like a wolverine with a fresh kill.

Instead I opted for professionalism (my obvious strong suit) and ordered the usual from O’Tasty. Wearing a thick T-shirt and a wool sweater I opened the door and paid the man with pride for the bag of food he brought me. As I dug through its contents I discovered a spring roll and a rogue Diet Coke that I hadn’t ordered, or paid for.  Looks like his un-averted eyes were the beginning of a beautiful friendship afterall. . .