The BEAST

That is what I call the creature that insists that I eat all day everyday. Probably one of my most said phrases is “Are you going to finish that?” I drive my beloved boyfriend along, around and up the wall because I eat my meals and then finish his (without asking). We’ve almost had divorces over this - it could be our most argued topic of all time, followed closely by his severe lack of sense of direction. He would be lost without me. Literally.

I have been called a human garbage disposal, a pig, and on one occasion a hummingbird, because I eat my own body weight every day. I’m not sure it was meant as a compliment, but I thought that was quite sweet nonetheless.

I’m not overweight by any means. Some tell me I’m too skinny. Barring the average female self-esteem insecurities, I think I’m okayish. But I also think that deep down inside me, there’s a very, very fat woman dying to eat her way out.

Eating is a big issue in my life and not for the above-mentioned average female insecurities. My problem is that as much as I like to eat, my body tends to not like what I eat. While in res, I was diagnosed with malnutrition because apparently my daily diet of at least one egg; 4-6 pieces of toast either covered in melted cheese or coated in peanut butter and syrup; one or two helpings of whatever grease-laden carcinogenic attempt at meat was being served in the dining hall topped with generous lashings of mayonnaise, chutney and tomato sauce; one large packet of chips (generally chipniks) with one tub of cream-based dip; and one take-out meal at about 10pm at night… was not healthy. (remember I started that sentence a few lines back? End sentence.) Not vegetables or fruit, unless they were being used to lob at fellow students.

And, just this once, I will swear that I’m not exaggerating. Ask any former resmate you can find. I put on 10kg that year, which took me from looking anorexic to looking a little chubby around the cheeks - I even delighted in naming my tummy fat roll, Fred. It also had the delayed reaction of just about killing my digestive system. Okay, I might be exaggerating a bit there.

But this is what it boils down to – I’m not supposed to eat or drink: dairy products, garlic, onion, mayonnaise, citrus fruit, wheat, refined foods, fatty foods, fizzy drinks, alcoholic drinks – especially cider, blah blah blah blah blah. All said and done, I’m left with a diet of bananas, dry provitas and water. So I largely ignore the dietary suggestions and deal with the consequences later.

This brings me back to the Beast. The Beast must eat. When the Beast doesn’t eat, it gets grumpy.

Yesterday, during one of the many power outages, I went in search of a chicken mayo sarmie. None to be found in the canteen downstairs, so I asked for a toasted chicken mayo to be made up. Sorry, all out of chicken mayo. The Beast raised its head groggily from slumber and forced me to seek further afield for the elusive chicen mayo.

I got to my favourite hole-in-the-wall shop in Rosebank. No sarmies to be seen at all. What’s up with this – it’s not even midday!? Okay, I’ll just have one of those yummy home-made chicken pies. The Beast nodded its head in confirmation. That’ll do, Pig. That’ll do.

Sorry, we’re all out of home-made chicken pies. The Beast roared, making me have a mild temper tantrum in front of the shop counter. What DO you have?

Settling for a spinach and feta pie, the Beast was placated for at least another few hours. I’ve given up trying to fight it. The Beast must eat. And heaven help anyone who fails to move out of the way fast enough…

A quote from a colleague with one wicked sense of humour:

"I don't like eating vegetables. I find the wheelchairs get stuck in my teeth."

It's sick, I know, but I had a guilty chuckle.