red is the color of my fullness

Ah yes, spring. Tis a glorious time of year--it's not too hot yet, we get full rainy days instead of spits of showers that evaporate before they even hit the ground, and all those shades of green--jade, chartreuse, loden--framing shocks of red tulips, purple allium, white stars of sweet woodruff...

I'm trying to find the words to articulate the notion of "levels of hunger". Lately I've been poking around this psychic space that involves What Hunger Really Means, and How to Know When To Stop. A plate of food is placed before me and I see a traffic light in my brain. The light is red. I am still. The light pushes down to green and I take a deep breath, assess my Level of Hunger (as in, am I beginning this meal on a too-empty stomach? Am I eating for survival or pleasure or boredom or a combo pack of all three? Is the food before me a picture of balance or a fat laden mass of deliciousness that will give me nightmares in mere hours?) and dig in.

Frankly Mr. Shankly, I don't want to uber-conscious of everything I put in my freakin' mouth. The object of this task is to know when to STOP. This is a looooooong ass light. Hundreds of eaters pass through the intersection as I savor bite #5. Long draw of water. Corner of bread dipped in extra virgin olive oil and cracked black pepper. Follow with bites 6, 7, 8. Out of the corner of my eye, a flashing hand. The light suddenly goes yellow. I've got Morrissey on the brain, "that joke isn't funny anymore/it's too close to home and it's too near the bone/more than you'll ever know..."

Red light. Fork down. I'm halfway done with plate of food. What is on the plate matters little, really--it wouldn't be anything too dangerous. I can't handle dangerous these days, especially fried danger--makes me feel like I'm this close to driving through McDonalds for a super size fry. (Even though, for the record, I haven't eaten McDonald's fries for 8+ years.) Still, there's this sense of teetering on the lip of a fry daddy that's the size of the Grand Fucking Canyon, and one false move and I'm headfirst into it, only I know I won't emerge all golden and crispy--I'll be the limp, pale fry, the one with the burnt end that solicits looks of pity and comments like "no, I don't like the flaccid ones".

My, nothing like comparing yourself to a french fry.

So anyway, these levels of hunger, this idea that I CAN and WILL stop when the light-in-head-turns-red. I know that part of it, especially if the food is really good, is that I start feeling like THIS WILL NEVER PASS YOUR WAY AGAIN. Like whatever I'm eating is my last meal before I'm put to death. (Fat Woman Walking!) Except it could be that I'm eating a Chipotle chicken burrito with guacamole-- you know, the kind of burrito that could easily feed 10 Sudanese children--and every bite is big and good and um, big, and I know I shouldn't be eating it, or at least I should have cut the damn thing in thirds before I even started eating it, but I didn't--and I never eat burritos anymore, so this is something of a SPECIAL occasion, even though it's a rainy Tuesday in May and here in Denver there's a Chipotle on virtually every corner, so it's not like a NOVELTY--but still, this could be the last burrito I eat EVER.

Half way through the burrito I want to undo my Levi's. I pause. Look around. I am alone with my shame and a burrito the size of a boat bumper. One voice says "eat it all...you already ingested enough calories for the next two days...what's 700 more?" while another, softer voice says "wrap it up. No, actually, throw it away. Get up and throw it away. Get up..." I shake my head. Damn the voices. I don't want this shit in my head at all, to tell the truth. I want my body to reign supreme. I want IT to dictate the next step. So I ask it.

"Body, what say you?"

Trouble is, Body hasn't been called on for so long that it can't respond, made mute by the virtue of complete neligence. "Body," I say again, "time to speak up. I won't let Mind push you back into the nether regions."

Body croaks "see traffic light"

I should've known there was some collusion here. It's up to me to speak the words "I'm full" and up to me to stand up, grab the remainder of the boat bumper, walk to the trash, and dump it in. The world will not end if I do this. There will be other burritos in my lifetime. But for now, practice makes perfect. Full is not an invitation to become stuffed. It's a signal, like a red light, to stop.