It starts out slowly, almost leisurely.
You feel maybe a little distracted, your mind starts to wander. There’s a tingling in your fingertips and a lightness in your chest. Maybe you start to feel a twinge behind your eyes and your thoughts are consumed with one thing. Or maybe it’s almost a dizziness, like you’re starting to slowly drift away and it’s completely out of your control.
One thought seems to seep into your mind, and no matter what you can’t shake it. You try to focus on other things, to distract yourself. You fight tooth and nail to think about something, anything else.
But try as you might you fail. It’s too late; you’re in too deep.
And so you just accept it.
It is only 9 AM, but you’re already obsessed with the idea of lunch.
Sure, you had breakfast, and it was good. Those eggs were fluffy and delightful and the coffee that steamed up the lenses of your “haven’t put my contacts in yet” glasses bought a smile to your face. Maybe you munched on toast while looking over the trending news for the day, daintily licking crumbs off of your finger after dabbing them off of the plate.
But breakfast was an hour ago. It was fantastic and satiating, but it’s over. That bagel is gone, there’s no more fruit in a bowl, and even though it was lovely it wasn’t enough.
Because it may only be 9 AM, but you’re absolutely famished.
The logical part of your brain knows that you shouldn’t be. You shouldn’t be thinking about the burrito food truck down the block and picturing yourself bathing in guacamole. You shouldn’t be dreaming of sandwiches with slices of mozzarella and juicy tomatoes between thick, crunchy hunks of focaccia or brioche. You shouldn’t be making imaginary pho bowls and thinking about how adding sriracha is going to make it so much better. You shouldn’t be hungry, you shouldn’t be salivating. You should be content, full even.
You know, logically, that you aren’t starving. But the logical side of your brain has gone by the way side.
Because logical isn’t as fantastic as lunch. And all you can think of is how glorious lunch will be.
So you start counting down. You decide that 11 is the perfect slot. Not so early that you’ll be miserable come 4 PM, but no so late that the wait will be unbearable. Yes. 11 will be perfect.
11 will mean lunch.
So for those two hours, those terrible two hours, you plan. You look at food blogs in between ‘sort of’ getting work done. You figure out which places can deliver to where you are. You debate between Mexican or Cajun, Thai or Pizza. You mull over menus, stare at Seamless, fixate on food because it’s all you can think about.
And then suddenly, it’s 11.
And it’s absolutely everything you hoped for. Your taste buds are celebrating, your breath is unbearable. You feast like you’re in that scene with the imaginary food in Hook and you stuff your face like this is your own personal Last Supper. You dunk things into ranch and order the fries. You make wherever you are your own personal food party because it is what you deserve.
You lunch until you cannot lunch anymore. And then you waddle back to what you should have been doing instead of obsessing over food like the slave to the sustenance that you internally are.
You hope that tomorrow will be different. That tomorrow the coffee will be enough to keep your mind focused on normal things. That tomorrow breakfast will be what it takes and that you’ll be one of those people who’s surprised with noon comes around and it’s time for something to eat. Maybe tomorrow you won’t be at the mercy of your grumbling stomach and you’ll have some ounce of self-control.
But you know that won’t be the case.
Because without fail, 9 AM will roll around again.
And you’ll be ready for more…