for three dollars you can buy a loaf of three pepper french bread that is the most delicious thing to ever self combust with acne-like mold spores after just three days on top of your refrigerator. when you buy it, you are actually signing up for a foot race with nature and the clock starts the second they cinch the bag. you could make bread this good -- if you weren't running a back alley abortion clinic for yeast in your kitchen. not to mention that when you bake bread, there is that uncomfortable moment between rising and rising more when your wimpy little hands are covered in something the consistency of shower caulk. and so, the foot race with nature it is.
i like a turkey sandwich with cheddar, provalone or swiss. onions, tomatoes and black olives -- although about half of the time, i've found that the black olives have shriveled into something that tastes like a dirty diaper. obviously, that can really ruin a sandwich.
i always order a full sandwich, plotting how i will eat one half and save the other half for later. these sandwiches are the size of my tibia. i figure half is the size of my stomach in its resting position. the food hording, while something i've always done, became more pronounced in the onset of this relationship. before i felt comfortable opening chuck's refrigerator, let alone contributing to the contents, i lived in fear that midway through a veronica mars marathon i'd suddenly become famished. that i'd steal into his pantry while he slept and find it bare, save for a can of chickpeas and some baking soda that expired when i still had braces. that's when i started carrying emergency clif bars. that's why even today i have the cremains of two pop tarts in my purse. that's why i always order a full sandwich.
oftentimes, the girl who makes my sandwich is this bubbly conversationalist who frequently reminds me that she has put toothpicks in the sandwich to hold it together. "DON'T FORGET I PUT TOOTHPICKS IN THERE!" she warns, wagging her finger. "BECAUSE THAT WOULD BE TERRIBLE!"
i nod and spend the next seven seconds tasting the roof of my mouth and imagining being impaled by this four-inch sliver decorated with a blue cellophane ribbon. my bloody tongue jutting through the small crater, licking my own sinuses. that would be terrible.
i eat the half slowly, a textbook case of savoring each bite. and a half hour later, i'll always, always decide to eat the entire sandwich. it tastes so good, i'm still a little hungry.
two hours later, it's like the thing has doubled in my gut. my stomach pushes to a painful convex shape. i wobble when i walk. i fantacize about bulemia and elastic pants and rue that moment i said "full sandwich."
and then, the next week, i make the same mistake.