A Run of the Meal Problem

We are lying atop our bed, my husband and I, and the television is on. The image is in black and white, even though our set is color.

We do not know anybody who still has a black and white TV set, so we assume that this image is being broadcast in black and white to indicate the stark seriousness of the matter at hand.

Eating.

That’s what is going on. The television is showing Americans stuffing their faces, mindlessly reaching into boxes of God-knows-what-but-it-doesn’t-take-too-much-to-imagine and taking whatever it is and depositing it inside their mouths. Wordlessly.

Which, now that I think of it, could be no other way.

These Americans are eating with such velocity that if they did attempt to comment about, say, preferring the onion ‘n’ garlic to the barbecue-flavored chips, we would have surely been tuned to “That’s Incredible!” and from what I understand, that’s been off the air for a while now.

Besides, this appears to be some kind of award-winning, gritty, reality-type documentary. And you know what that means.

As the disturbing images flash before us, a disembodied voice manages to convey a unifying narrative that tells a story with just the right mix of compassion and abject horror over how depraved we Americans really are.

“I’ve done that before,” I say to my husband. (A well-done documentary can always make me relate.)

“Huh?” he says.

At this moment, my husband is clutching a box of Wheat Thins, sort of resting it on his chest, which is bare. His mustache is dusted with small, wheaty crumbs.

“Eating like that,” I say. “When I was unhappy. When I was with. . . .”

(OK, I didn’t really just fade out there, but experience has taught me never to just drop a name in the newspaper willy-nilly, no matter how far outside of your circulation area the person attached to that name might be, because next thing you know, somebody will file a defamation of character suit or otherwise threaten great bodily harm.)

News item: CHAMBLEE, Ga.--A man named Noid, apparently annoyed by Domino’s Pizza’s “Avoid the Noid” ads, held two Domino’s employees at gunpoint for more than five hours before they escaped, and he surrendered after ordering and eating a pizza, authorities said.

So anyway, my husband says, “When you were with who ?,” referring to . . . .

By now he appears to have lost interest in the Wheat Thins.

“My ex-boyfriend,” I say. “You know.”

Which, of course, he does. All men do this. Feigning indifference about such matters is a true sign of manliness.

“Oh, yeah,” my husband says. “Is that the one who (disparaging remark)?”

And then, with hardly a breath in between, he says, “You did that ? I can’t believe that you ate like that.”

So it can happen.

You are married to a person for eight years this month. You have two children and two cats together. You thought you had more than enough in common: a love of fine Italian food and the good sense to slip into a state of catatonia at the mere mention of the word baseball .

And then your own husband doubts that you have the emotional depth to finish off, say, a couple of individual pizzas followed by a bowl of buttered popcorn and--who knows?--a few choice pastries.

I think that’s what it usually was. I am trying to think back. To when I was that unhappy, I mean. Before I met the man of my dreams.

Who has by now risen from bed and taken the Wheat Thins to the pantry in the kitchen.

But then here he comes, the next morning, this dream man, stepping out of the shower.

I am just about to wash my face at the sink. I can now turn on the hot water without stealing it off my husband’s back.

We are considerate like this, my husband and I. No flushing the toilet either when the other’s soaping up in the shower stall that shares the same water pipes.

So what I’m saying here is that my husband and I are close--intimate, as they say in legal briefs. We open up to each other all the time.

“I’m really upset about last night,” he says.

“Huh?” I respond.

“You know, on TV,” he says. “This eating thing.”

“What in the world are you talking about?” I say, sometimes perhaps just a tad forgetful the morning after.

“That’s me !” he says. “I was eating those Wheat Thins. I’m just like those fat people.”

“Oh, God,” I say. “You’re out of your mind.”

Which, call me Dr. Joyce Brothers if you must, is just the way I am. Compassionate. Concerned about the feelings of my loved ones. Always trying to get to the very root of any potential problem and nip it in the bud.

“Well, I’m not eating any more cookies,” my husband says.

“Fine with me,” I say.

Which is usually how it goes at our house. My husband and I know that a willingness to tackle the tough issues is the key to staying as happy as we are.

Hell, we could make a documentary about it all. Although I’m not too sure you can trust those things.

The real world is not black and white.