Foodsexual

This morning, I ate breakfast so aggressively that I found a Cheerio in my boot an hour later.  Whoops.

But this is not really atypical.  I would describe myself as a foodsexual.  Menfolk, I like you, but are you chocolate chip cookies?  Are you pesto or nectarines?  No.  You are not.  Nothing is more exciting (nudge nudge wink wink) than a sublimely prepared meal.  At college, I plan my whole daily schedule around which dining hall has the best breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  And I will walk miles out of my way to get there. 

What’s more, I look forward to the occasional fancy restaurant meal for DAYS.  I stalk the online menu, click through the picture gallery, look up dish names that I don’t know (they’re always some kind of Italian inside joke), and strategically starve myself on the Awaited Day.  There is a deep and barely appropriate pleasure in savoring every bite of really good food.  Especially when you scrape the dish, lick the spoon, and hoover up all the crumbs.  My plates go back to the kitchen cleaner than when they arrived on my table.

I think that I will spend all of my money on delicious food when I get out of college and become a real person.  Who needs furniture?  I have a sleeping bag and a desk lamp and a computer.  And some cooking supplies.  That’s plenty.  Just me and my food.  I will be at last, in the haven of a small dingy apartment, a foodsexual free to indulge her wildest fantasies.