dress – noun
a one-piece garment for a woman or a girl that covers the body and extends down over the legs
eating dress
(eat-ing dress) noun
any assortment of clothing worn specifically for eating; typically over-sized with an elastic waist; dinner is ready so put on your eating dress.
It was comedienne and activist Margaret Cho who brought this term into my vocabulary. My eating dress is a pair of black sweat-pants, a ratty housecoat (which used to be white) and a pair of slippers. I change into this ensemble the moment I get home from work (which is pretty much when I start eating) and generally wear it throughout the evening. I sometimes wonder if my Husband thinks these are the only clothes I own?
I have a salt tooth. Whereas most people have a sweet tooth, my cravings trend towards potato chips and anything slathered in salty deliciousness. I love a bowl of Frosty Coated Sugar Bombs as much as the next guy but my heart lies at the bottom of a Doritos bag.
Zesty Cheese Doritos and chocolate milk…
It is my crack.
In the spirit of full disclosure I will admit to eating a lot of Zesty Cheese Doritos and drinking a lot of chocolate milk. Probably more than was healthy. And I didn’t waste my time with the little 90g bag either – it was the full meal deal or nothing. I would devour the entire bag in one glorious, overindulgent cram session until I was left feeling bloated and ashamed, with orange stained fingers and a stomach full of regret.
When I was single and lived alone my dinners consisted entirely of Doritos, chocolate milk and my eating dress. It got so bad that I would walk well out of my way to purchase them. I would literally rotate stores so that the proprietors wouldn’t wonder why I was buying the same crap every day. I would ask for a double bag to try to hide what was inside. I would walk home quickly, unwilling to make eye contact with anyone, switching the shopping bag from hand to hand in a desperate attempt to disguise its contents.
I was embarrassed and felt judged. I was fat and disgusting inside but skinny and malnourished on the outside.
In retrospect I’m sure nobody gave a rat’s ass what I was eating or how much of it. It was my baggage I carried on those long walks home, my guilt, and my shame.
Things have changed since those days and I can (almost) buy my crack without those old feelings assailing me. Is it that I don’t care (as much) what other people think of me? Have I addressed and dealt with the “real” issues through hours of therapy? Have age and wisdom helped me to love myself the way I am, to stop being so fucking judgmental?
I don’t know.
I will still (on occasion) demolish a bag of Zesty Cheese Doritos and pound back 500ml of Chillin Chocolate milk and remember the good ol’ days when I considered them to be one of the 4 major food groups. Those days are fewer and farther between but they still happen. I can allow myself this indulgence and be much kinder and gentler about it. I’m thankful for the change.
What hasn’t changed is the eating dress.
I should probably throw this abominable housecoat away…