How Skinny Feels

There’s an enormous, monster Toblerone on our kitchen island right now, mocking me. I don’t know which roommate it belongs to (I sent a text and started it with “URGENT”, haven’t heard back yet) so right now it’s just sitting there. It’s open already but barely any of it has been eaten. I want to eat it so badly.

I’m not sure I even like Toblerone. I’ve asked what’s in it hundreds of times and I forget immediately. Chocolate definitely. Toffee? Or do I just automatically think it’s toffee because Toblerone starts with a “to".” I wanna say there’s something unpleasant but minor enough that you’re going eat it anyway, like marzipan, or fingernail clippings, or a raisin.

This one is enormous. It clocks in at about a third of the length of the island. We’re lucky enough to live in NYC and have a totally respectable, open plan kitchen, but it does mean that we need a proper butcher block to use the space. And at some point in the history of this apartment, it acquired one. I couldn’t tell you who got it. I was not responsible, and it wasn’t either of my roommates.

But luckily one of my forefathers spent the funds on a nice, big, solid island that we can hang pans on, with enough space underneath for us to keep an alarmingly large assortment of alcohol that none of us drinks and vitamins that none of us take.

I’ve lived in this apartment for four years now and I have had such good times around the island. We’ve thrown so many parties, I’ve had so many friends over for dinner. I’ve had some really dumb and some really serious conversations around this hunk of wood. I’ve spilled so many things on the island. I’ve burned it. I’ve left rings of wine and coffee on it that will probably never come out.

And now it’s staggering under the weight of a Toblerone that is, let’s just say it, unnecessarily big. This Toblerone screams money. It’s ostentatious. It wears it’s gold lamé coat proudly. It gives zero fucks. I want it so badly.

My mom had a coworker once who had a sign that said “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.” on her cubicle. I’ve since learned that that little gem can be attributed to our voice for the voiceless, Kate Moss. I remember hearing it for the first time when I was young and feeling part of my brain physically click into place as I realized just how fucked up it was going to be to be a woman in this world.

In the midst of all of my now totally resolved food issues (jk they’re still more or less bubbling below the surface) I developed this tendency to compare every piece of food I eat to the feeling of being skinny. I’ve been doing it for years. The summer between freshman and sophomore year of college, I stopped eating any sugar, ate 1200 calories and ran every single day. By the end of the summer, I was legit skinny. And now, 20 pounds heavier, I still remember that feeling surprisingly well. It would feel great, almost euphoric, at very specific moments… like when you were trying on clothes. I guess, to be fair to Kate Moss, that’s what being a model is (I always try to be fair to/about supermodels in case I meet one one day who can get me free stuff) But for the most part, it was just kind of disappointing. I felt like I had won some award no one cared about. I knew as I was talking about my weight that I was talking about it too much. I still didn’t date anyone seriously, I still had to write papers at a music school that I will be paying for for the rest of my life. I still had all of my OG, signature Rose Insecurities.

So now, I’m constantly asking the silent question of each item of food that goes anywhere near my mouth- are you worth being fat for? And to be honest, most of the delicious things that exist absolutely are.

I consider the Toblerone. Honestly, this guy probably isn’t worth being fat. But sometimes, when a giant candy bar appears in front of you, you just have to take it as a direct instruction to eat it. The candy gods have spoken, we have no control over our own lives.

NEW DEVELOPMENT: My roommate just came down the spiral staircase and, without any prompting, told me the story of how the Toblerone appeared in our home. Apparently, her boyfriend had been coming back from a trip and needed to give a gift to someone who he needed to deter but also stay cool with SO he just got him a giant Toblerone because it was the most impersonal gift he could find. And so then another friend, after hearing this story, thought, correctly, that it would be hilarious for them to bring my roommate a giant Toblerone as a gift. I love it so much more knowing it exists as a joke. She also (BOOM) gave me permission to eat it.

But now that I know I’m allowed to, I’m not sure I want to anymore. That’s the thing about giant Toblers-one. Once you have one, you don’t really want it anymore. I mean I’m definitely still gonna eat it.

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