Ladies: how would you like to actually order something at a restaurant AND EAT IT, TOO? I’m serious. I’m gonna get all Marie Antoinette up in this joint and tell you – yes, you can! (That’s more Marie-Antionette-with-a-Barack-Obama-segue. Sue me.) The important thing is this:
It is possible, it is here today and it can be yours.
- Are you tired of ordering “dressing on the side?”
- If you eat one more piece of lettuce, will PF Chang’s be able to serve you up with a side of diced, spiced chicken and call you a wrap?
- Have you ever had a date look at your clean dessert plate and say, “Wow”???
If you answered YES to any of these questions, I’ve got the solution. Now, it’s not anything fancy and you probably see it at the store each and every day. You may have even recently seen it at a party or in your local coffee shop. Some of you might even be within 20 feet of some right now.
Are you ready for the secret? Are you exhausted with more don’ts than dos in your diet? Are you excited about sending a plate back to the kitchen so clean that the dishwasher will think (just for a moment) that he could get away without washing it? Then it’s time.
I’m a huge fucking fan of cake. Rivaled only by my interest in pie and other pie-like desserts dressed-up as “cobbler,” cake is a mainstay in my diet. Last night, I had a late afternoon date for cocktails and what turned out to be dessert. After a lovely variation on a Manhattan, I decided to pair it up with a piece of chocolate cake. This, my friends, is cake I know. It’s never turned on me. Never treated me ill. I knew the cake and invited it to my table. And I ate it. Now, American portions can get out of hand and I’m here to tell you – this wasn’t some Claim Jumper-sized portion of cake. It was a smidge. A sliver by truck stop proportions. And not that I have to justify it, but it wasn’t as if I was horking half a Sara Lee confection.
And my date looked at me after I finished my dessert (a half hour later — see? No horking.) and said plain as day:
“Wow. You must really have a sweet tooth.”
I blinked and replied, also plain as day, “Guilty! I love cake like a fat kid loves cake.”
To which he replied, “Well, enough cake and you’ll sure enough be the fat kid.”
***disclaimer: I did not resort to violence.***
A bit speechless, I fumbled around with other conversation for the next ten minutes or so. He eventually excused himself to go to the bathroom, during which time I wiped my Fat Kid, Cake-Eating face, got up, walked up to our server, handed her a $20 and walked out the door.
My phone rang 7 minutes later. Him. *ignore*
Here it is: I will order the fucking cake if I want the fucking cake. AND, I will eat the fucking cake that I order because I love cake. I took time out of my day to meet you, shared my time with you and now that’s time I’ll never get back. And for what? So you can allude to the fact that my back 40 is sliding precariously towards being a “baby got back/front/diagonal/sideways?” Kiss my ass. All of it. Covered with cake.
I’ve never been the skinny girl but I’ll tell you one thing: I’ve been fat. 170 pounds back in 1998. Twelve years ago, when I lacked a modest portion of self esteem in my diet, food didn’t talk back so it became my best friend. But I’m healthy and happy and barely tip the scales at a buck-thirty. I ride my bike nearly 200 miles a week and end up in the gym 4 mornings at the ass crack of dawn, so who are you – and who is anyone – to tell me I should be wary of having cake?
I don’t hold myself to an unrealistic standard and I know I’ll never be a supermodel. Curves are sexy and I’m not looking to have U-turns instead of a waistline. The media doesn’t help and as women, fashion designers play a sick joke of “follow the bouncing size” with us as they change what a size 4 means every motherfucking year. Men? Lucky. A “32 waist” is a 32-inch waist. We’d be a culture of anorexics if women’s sizing went to inches instead of meaningless numbers that don’t translate from store to store.
And I’m far from a “go women, rah-rah-rah” girl, but the day I sit in front of a man in a BCBG Max Azria dress in a size small and he tells me I’m in danger of becoming the fat kid, my consumption of cake isn’t the problem.
It’s rough enough to get out and date after burying Jason back in November, but to sit there and have some quite random man tell me that I’m eating myself down a path towards max density is simply…comical. If nothing else, it makes for great blog fodder and I’ve had great fun imagining him with the woman he’ll marry someday gain 20 pounds while she’s pregnant. He’ll probably be the guy asking her to “lighten up on junior in there – you don’t want the kid to come out fat.”
Cake, ladies. IT IS DELICIOUS. Why do we deny ourselves? There’s no victory in obesity but there’s none in denial, either. It is entirely possible to have your cake and eat it, too. And maybe we order the salad because we want to calorically budget for the cake. But deny ourselves? Shit. I hope to die with a slice of chocolate cake in my hands. Next to one of my bikes. And even though that sounds like some sick sideshow at a circus, this whole incident reminds me of a few things:
- I suck at dating and I’m re-stating my position that my Picker is broken and all recommendations for suitable men need to come from free-range associations and NOT online dating sites.
- Match.com should rename itself “ThisIsWhyYoureSingle.com.”
- There’s humor in every situation. Oh, god…is there!
- Always carry cash – it makes for speedy exits.
- If you don’t love yourself enough to not deny yourself something you love, you need to work on loving yourself a bit more.
Whatever YOUR version of cake might be, embrace it. Love it. Curl-up next to it in your dreams. Make a home grown porno with it. I really don’t care. But here’s the nitty gritty of the awesomeness that is (actually and metaphorically):
We ALL have cake in our lives. For some of us, it looks like this. For others, it’s this. Maybe this. Or this. And no one ever has the right to tell you what you should love. Just like love itself. We trip and fall into it. It’s not something we can wake up and say: hey, today, I’m going to love Bob/Jane/my job/laundry/skiing. It just happens.
I love cake for its simple decadence. A contrast in textures and the ideal frosting? Not too sugary that it overpowers the cake itself. The artistry that it takes to put one together (because I’ve tried and my cakes always look like a mid-seizure epileptic got hold of a frosting knife during an earthquake). The fact that you can eat it with a fork, spoon or your fingers.
That it’s great for any meal of the day (just ask Bill Cosby).
That, my friends, is CAKE. It is here today. You can order it AND eat it, too. And the same goes for the guys. If she doesn’t like you after the cake, it’s likely she didn’t really like you before the cake. Kick that bitch to the curb and dish it up. And find a gal who will share a slice with ya, for heaven’s sake.