Oh, take-out dinners, the kind you can phone to have sent over, this one is for you.
From the mere idea of you…warm comforting food that someone else will make, saving me the trouble of cooking or even thinking, for that matter. You save me time. Make things easy. I’m going to call and have your steamy loveliness sent over. What could be a better idea than this?
Soon after, you arrive in the smiling hands of a driver. Your plastic bag outfit is quite becoming, but I tear it off – there’s a knot I can’t undo. As I open the styrofoam containers, I feel a tinge of regret at the wastefulness of a single-use-container and plastic bag that I can’t use again. But the steamy goodness, the bounty of your excellence is spread out before me. Inviting me. I can eat as much as I want. These foods I had no hand in making, but I can eat. Different flavours plus some for lunch tomorrow. How lovely.
When it’s all done, I feel too full. The dull ache arising from just a bit too much food coupled with the over-use of oil, salt and sugar. Far too unhealthy for me to make myself. But as long as someone else does it, I can ignore it for a while.
Suddenly, you are a bad idea, sitting in my stomach like a stone. My satisfaction turned to discomfort. You turned on me. How could you? I charged this to my credit card and now I have to work it off. Both at the gym and at my job. You have become a deficit. How do you manage to seem like such a reasonable, inexpensive idea until afterwards? In the wake of empty styrofoam containers laid out like a group of dead clams, your relationship with me has changed.
Why must it be like this every time?