“It will be the last time, I swear. John needs me just as much as I need him.”
“You’ve been doing so well — didn’t you vow not to make this call no matter how drunk you got tonight?”
“But I’m drunk. It doesn’t count if I’m drunk….GIMME MY PHONE, LET ME LIVE MY LIFE GODDAMMIT.”
“Fine, I’m leaving, I guess. Don’t call me crying in the morning.”
“Great, I won’t.”
*dials number by heart*
“…Yes, Papa John’s? …For delivery.”
Would you like to know how I spent my last Thursday night (AKA the day it was announced Jen Aniston finally got married)? Getting drunk. Getting pretty. Getting more drunk. Getting ditched by a girlfriend. Getting even more drunk. And then calling an Uber. To Taco Bell.
Once I sobered up, and woke up from my food coma (covered in “cheese” and “meat”), I realized while my girlfriends answer booty calls, I make foodie calls. And both are exactly the same:
You start off each Saturday night with the very proclamation that you will not succumb to such behavior.
“I am not going to call Tommy tonight.”
“I am not going to call Domino’s tonight.”
In fact, you overcompensate with “healthy” pro-me behavior before going out. While my girls blast Kelly Clarkson or Taylor Swift and #GirlsNight, I’m jamming carrots down my throat and sipping a vodka tonic and making a fitness IG model my background. (So when I’m tempted to dial Papa John’s, I see what I’m working towards… My beer goggles fog this image though.)
You adopt a sponsor.
“You better not let me call him! In fact, take my phone.”
“You better not let me stop at a food truck! In fact, take my wallet.”
You start getting drunk, and that whole judgement thing dissolves with the ice in your drink.
“God, I’m so horny and haven’t been f*cked in weeks. I seriously miss doing it ‘doggy style.’”
“God, I’m so hungry and haven’t been to In N Out in months. I seriously need it ‘animal style.’”
You weigh your options.
“Okay. Technically, if I hook-up with him, my number stays the same, he knows how I like it, and you know, hashtag feminism.”
“Okay, I technically worked out this morning, and I can do extra cardio tomorrow. And plus I’m so drunk I’ll probably puke it up in the morning anyway. Hashtag, BBW!”
You make the call.
“Baby, I miss you. Let’s meet up. Can you come to my place?”
“…For delivery. Extra ranch dressing. Can you please come to my door this time?”
Your rendezvous take place in hidden places where no one can walk-in or see you. Hook-ups happen on dirty futons, and my drivebys with drive-thrus happen in abandoned parking lots. Specifically in the back of the establishment where patrons cannot see or pity me.
You wake-up next to wrappers. Condom wrappers or McDonald’s wrappers.
You make the walk of shame. Back to your car. Or the trash can.
You feel guilty and ashamed.
“Uh, I can’t believe I had sex with him again. I always go back.”
“I can’t believe I ordered food again. I always get those five pounds back.”
You vow each morning is a new day.
“New day, new me, no more booty calls.”
“New day, new diet, no more processed carbs.”
Carbs are like that toxic ex-boyfriend from college; you say each time will be different.
You say each time is the last time.
You need them most when you’re drunk and/or sad…and you’re constantly trying to tell yourself you’re better off without them.
And why? Because when we are drunk, our deepest desires for comfort come to the surface. We crave intimacy, we crave warmth, we crave love. We crave that high that can only come from something or someone that’s no good. When intoxicated, we pick the vices we have the most intoxicated relationships with. We all have a drug and a desire. It may be your ex’s lips. Or it may be Waffle House hashbrowns.