If you f*ck off, you can eat more ice cream

I have written before about this woman at my work; her name rhymes with Leggy, so let's just call her Leggy. She is indeed leggy as well as being fond of high-waisted jeans. She's a tall, very slim woman with long arms, fingers, legs, toes (oh, yes I've seen her toes... she wears some ergonomic sandals that have separators between each toe!), and a very long nose, figuratively speaking. She's always in others'
business and believes herself to be the patron saint of healthy eating, riding a bicycle, buying a house on the cheap, Lasik eye surgery, the benefits of metal braces over Invisalign, why people should never buy bottles of water (the bottles pollute the environment), and how to not be fat. This is probably her favorite topic. She brings her food from home and heats it up in the microwave and I don't ever know what exactly it is, but it fits in one tiny plastic container the size of a man's wallet and it smells like wet cat food.

Upon returning from her lunch break today, which she enjoyed out in the sunshine (to be fair, she actually ate out of a round container today, the diameter of which was about the same as that of a teacup SAUCER) she cheerfully informed me that it is almost bicycling season. She thinks I ought to ride my bike to work. I actually don't have a bike, but I did tell her once that I have one, just to avoid the painful conversation about WHY I DON'T HAVE A BIKE. For authenticity's sake, I simply described Dear Daniel's bike to her, down to the color, brand, shifting mechanism, pros and cons. I added some strategic whining about not wanting to ride in the dark of early morning or early evening. That got her off my back about riding to work for a few months.

Now it is getting lighter out and I apparently no longer have an excuse for not riding my non-existent bike to work. She told me this today, and her parting shot was a cheerful, "You can eat more ice cream!"

God! It's just so dated to me, the way she maintains her weight, by a careful balancing of calories expended and calories taken in each day; her little tiny cat food casseroles, her weird obsession with ultra premium ice cream. I rarely eat that kind of ice cream anyway, just because it's milky and rich and I can taste the eggs, not because I'm afraid of being FAT. Who gives a fuck? In reality, don't most people, most kind-of-not-wealthy American women my age, have days when they eat nothing but carbs and cheese and other days when they eat nothing but diet soda and cigarettes and probably semen? Half the people are obese and the other half are anorexic, and we're all screwed up about food and our bodies because of our stupid baby boomer parents, like her! I'm lucky to be in the middle of the whole stupid fat-skinny continuum and I really feel like it's as much genetic luck as the careful balance of my macaroni and cheese with my hikes through the forest.

That said, I really do want to spring for a huge 5 gallon of ice cream from Costco or some other equally horrible food source (oh yes, there's the food-related class snobbery coming out) and put it in the freezer at work, unmarked, to see who gets into it.