I Do Not Need My Own Sad Commercial Where You Can Feed Me for Pennies a Day, Thank You!

Or: In Which Lacey is Fascinated by Other People's Fascination With Her Stomach (And by Stomach I Actually Mean the Organ with which One Digests Food, Let's Just Get Those Assumptions Out of the Way Right Now)

Everybody kept up with me?  Okay, great, the end.

But seriously though.  What is up with people?

This is my fourth (full) year at Ellis.  Every one of those years I have had a lunch break, mostly because there is a point in the school day where all the kids are at lunch so there's just not much of anything for an aide to do and what there has been to do has been assigned to others.  So I find myself with a half hour or so to kill and fill it with whatever I can find.  I have never actually eaten lunch on my lunch break because I have always gone home within an hour of that break and it's always made more sense to just wait and eat at home than to pack a lunch or to pay for one from the cafeteria.

Every year I get comments about the fact that I don't eat lunch.  Every year I (less and less patiently) explain yet again (because it always seems to be the same people) that I am perfectly capable of going without a meal for an additional 30-60 minutes and prefer to eat then.  And every year it's the same people who can't seem to remember/get over the idea of me going FOUR WHOLE HOURS without gorging myself at a buffet or something.  (and yes, Katie, it's those two.)

Now let's get one thing straight right now: I look like I could be pregnant.  My body seems to sit naturally at that look that asks "did she eat an extra taco at lunch or is she three months along?"  Well, to put it bluntly, I've been three months along since I was about 14.  I don't know if I just have an abnormally rotund uterus or what, but that's just how I look.  And most days I'm okay with that.  But it seems that with some people there is just something about me, and I can only assume it's the permanent-food-baby (because I have no idea what else it could be), that gives off this aura of "I can't go more than a few minutes without food."

Seriously, I am SO glad I don't see much of any of the other aides this year, especially at lunch.  Because if I had to spend another day (much less year) listening to

"Oh my goodness, I don't know how you last so long without eating!"

and

"Aren't you just starving?!"

and

"I'm so impressed!  I don't have your willpower!"

and the like, I don't know that I could vouch for the survival of either myself or the commenters.

I mean, don't get me wrong, if you're going around offering fresh pineapple and Belgian chocolate I am not going to turn up my nose at them.  Heck, let's be honest here - old, hard skittles and chocolate sprinkles will usually satisfy me just as much.  But is there really something about me that says "I am Augustina Gloop!"?

And don't even get me started on the part where MY SHIFT LASTS FOR THREE AND A HALF HOURS. And they know that because everyone is limited to three and a half hours.  (except I did get that extra hour starting last week, yay!  but my point stands.)  Like, sure, I'm ready to eat pretty soon after I get home.  But if you can't go three hours without eating a full meal . . . like, you need to get that diagnosed, you know?  And . . . like . . . stop projecting that on to random other people going four or five hours between meals.  Because if you're older than, like, four or something?  And you're just starving after three hours?  Dude, I don't know what to tell you.  Other than the problem you have with me not eating is probably actually a problem you have with you eating.  Or not eating.  I don't know.  I'm not a shrink.

Anyway . . . yeah.  I'm self conscious enough about food (aren't we all?).  But do any of you see a reason these people won't leave me alone?


P. ost  S. cript
In case you needed proof that marching band/color guard > football.  Because that's just how it is.  (I'd say the whole video is proof, but the solid stuff is at the end.  The ones carrying metal didn't even blink, the ones wearing padding ran like little girls.)