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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