Like my kale, I’m very high maintenance. I too am quite bitter until I’m massaged.
But I’m much more a chicken wing, easy, greasy, beautiful; craved by sweaty men swigging bargain brew, belching and belting along to football.
All the while fondling their balls.
I’m a pumpkin spice lady, a chicken wing woman. Unorthodox anomaly, exception to the rule. An indulgent damsel but not in distress, unless of course, seated with fans of the Jets.
It’s the chant of the ‘foodie,’ the ‘female foodie.’ ‘Females’ like ‘food’ like frosting, pumpkin spice. Women are stupid and so is fake flavor, but belligerent boys, slobbering spare ribs: they’re not beasts, they’re brilliant.
Females get ‘gluten-free,’ Frappuccinos. Men reign high over the mighty land of steak.
But most things are gendered: Spanish, French, deodorant. Food is no different, and beverages the same.
Steak goes with beer and beer is for boys; girls stay sexy when they stick to Smirnoff Ice.
Vodka’s for ladies, whiskey’s for men. Whiskey’s for meat sweats, sports games, wings. Vodka for cranberry, crying, calling exes.
I can’t eat from baskets. I’m a basket case myself.
I always get naked on wing night, on wing night I drink ‘like a man.’
I want to be gorgeous but gorge garlic wings, I don’t feel beautiful, I bathe in blue cheese. Calories sit on my conscious like my fat ass on bar stools, MyFitnessPal fuming from the depths of my bag.
I’m guilty, a glutton, guzzling ‘girly’ gimlets.
(Does straddling bar stools work out my core?)
I cancel therapy for wing night. They overlap: Mondays at eight.
I say I’m stable, overeat and then cry.
I’m emotional, crazy, I’m too much a woman.
Too much a bitch to be perched in this brewery.
It’s not my fault; Spanx cut off blood-flow to the brain.
It’s not my fault; blood flows out my genitalia.
Other patrons’ problems: the Patriots, their penis. The Packers, literally: balls, are they ‘packing?’
I bleed out like meat.
I am best kept frozen.
My anxiety worsens at wing night, so I order and then shake my bag. If my Klonopin rattles I know that I’m safe.
I’ve always liked snakes.
(They remind me of Grandma.)
I drink more to eat more at wing night. The drunker, the better the taste. It’s a trick my ex taught me; a sadist, in fact. Perhaps his ‘tip’ just a ‘tip’ to get his ‘tip’ in a bit quicker.
(Consent wasn’t really his thing.)
This same ex was not fond of wing night. He thought I loved wings more than him.
He offered to dip his tip in wing dip.
I’ll never see hot sauce the same.
I’m a giddy girl glutton at wing night. But I don’t belong – I’m the plus one.
My boyfriend, he fits in at wing night.
He likes sports, and shiny men. Deflating balls.
I’m the plus one. The spare rib.
The Eve to his Adam.
But I’ve always liked snakes.
And Apples are zero points in Weight Watchers.
I always drunk-dial on wing night.
“Sorry I’m not normal, I have daddy issues.”
“Ma’am, this is Pizza Hut. Please don’t call again.”
This piece first appeared in The Inquisitive Eater.