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Looking at Food Blogs Like They Are Late-Night Porn

by Lindsay Rae Brown 5 months ago in humanity

Confessions from an intermittent faster

Looking at Food Blogs Like They Are Late-Night Porn
Photo by Hans Vivek on Unsplash

My fast starts at 5:30 PM every night. I’ve learned that I cannot apply fasting to the usual slapdash schedule that I live by in everyday life. I have to be rigid because everything will fall apart if I do not keep to the program.

I’m on the 16–8 fasting schedule. I fast for 16 hours and have an 8 hour time window to eat during the day. The first few months were fasttastic (see how clever I am, even when I am starving myself). I’d get high off of the superiority I’d assume from the feeling of an empty stomach. Just another hour, I’d think then I can enjoy my eggs and toast to break my fast. What a glorious and important life I lead.

Now three months in and the novelty has begun to wear off. I’ve fallen off the wagon too many times to count. Finding myself in the fridge at 10 in the evening, scouring for that leftover carrot cake the kids made with their dad the other day. I don’t want to be this way. I want to be normal and have the self-awareness to know that eating sugary cake in the middle of the night isn’t good for me. But that’s not who I am. Therefore I must adhere to the strict fasting schedule every single goddamn day.

So I do what any self-respecting person who is just trying to get their life together would do, I turn to my phone.

Oh, the phone. Those tiny rectangular boxes of salvation. Our phones are the perfect distraction to keep us committed to becoming healthier individuals.

I don’t have a specific food blog that I go to when I feel those familiar pangs of hangriness. Instead, I like diversity in my food porn needs. By the way, I finally understand what they mean by food porn. Because that’s what it is. As I scroll through, looking at French pastry and raclette grilled cheese over steaming brisket — my heart starts pumping wildly, mouth watery with the imaginings of what this food might taste like.

My logical brain knows that I can’t physically eat this food, but that doesn’t matter anymore. The visuals are what get my motor revving. It’s all I need. Much like in porn — the real kind — these unattainable visuals are enough to break me into a cold sweat. I scroll through photos with mouth-watering fervour, every once in a while wondering if these housewives and grandmothers know how much their food photography is getting me off.

Is it really helping me with my food addiction?

I don’t know. I can say that since I’ve started this intense search of internet food pics, I don’t find myself in the fridge in those late-night hours. I’ve lost more weight, 30 pounds give or take. So there’s that.

I used to be that person who would make fun of food bloggers asking myself, why do I care about how your grandmother stole this recipe from her evil stepmother only to pass it down to you so you could share it all over the internet? Those long drawn out spiels of family backstory infuriated me because, in truth, I just wanted to get to the recipe so I could make the thing and eat it.

Now I read through that backstory with manic enthusiasm. I soak in the information as if studying for an exam I am sure to fail. I want to eat the stories the same way I might have eaten those cream puffs in another life, a life before intermittent fasting.

For now, this works. I can appease my insatiable need for food at odd hours by covertly looking up photos of the food that I cannot eat at this time in my life. Thus falling off the food wagon and having to start all over again. I tell myself I’m happy with the photos and the stories. Of course, I tell myself I’m delighted. I’m living the dream, man. Getting skinny while still, in a sense, consuming the food I love best.

Yet there are moments, late at night while the kids and my husband all are asleep in their beds, when I creep out to the living room, dim the lamplight and boot up the computer.

I find the pictures I so desperately want, and a feeling of shame comes over me.

What am I doing? Why do I need to do this? How embarrassing it would be for someone to walk in on me in such a state — drooling over homespun photos of piled-high sandwiches and blue-rare steak.

But then the stories pull me in, and I find myself forgetting these reservations, and down the rabbit hole, I go.

*Origionally published on ILLUMINATION, a Medium publication.

humanity
Lindsay Rae Brown
Lindsay Rae Brown
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Lindsay Rae Brown

Lindsay Brown is a freelance writer who loves to give people a chuckle with relatable stories about everyday life.

See all posts by Lindsay Rae Brown

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