Rachel Young

tuesday, august 28, 2001

I failed to mention I ate a whole bag of cheddar cheese Goldfish while I was at work today. An entire bag. In one day. Consumed in one greedy little mouth to one tiny but slowly expanding stomach.

So after work, I decided to walk from Union Square to Central Park instead of taking the subway. I was afraid if I didn’t do something about it, all the carbs would suddenly turn to permanent fat which would conveniently be stored in my ever-expanding arse with my ever-diminishing metabolism rate. But even after all that walking, I could still feel all those hundreds of tiny little orange goldfish swarming around in my mid-section.

My roommate finally comes home from her weekend excursion, and out of nowhere tells me she ate a whole bag of Goldfish today while she was at practice.

How freakin’ weird is that? (Or is this something women do commonly but never publicly announce? Are we all closet Goldfish addicts?)

But my roommate's a dancer. I’m a seat-warmer from 9 to 5, then so on late into the crack of dawn. I probably shouldn’t compare myself to her if I’m to keep any shred of confidence.

But when I look at a big bag of potatoes, it's a different story. I feel so much better afterwards.

“Ha! You’ve got more bulge than I do, you dirty old sack of potatoes!”

“Eat me.” *

And with that simple directive, I give in. I’m such a sucker for those darn carbs.

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* At this point, you`re probably thinking I should be more concerned with my mental health as opposed to my physical. But really -- you should see the way that old sack of potatoes looks at me with a dirty grin.

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