Yesterday, I had very specific dinner cravings, like I usually do, so I called the man to see if he was on board with my pre-menstrual combination of fatty dairy products and farty proteins and about twenty-five different desserts. He told me, like he usually does, the equivalent of “whatever you want is fine by me, dear.” 

And then he told me he doesn’t have food cravings. Ever.

Huh??

I think the explanation I was given had something to do with Buddhism or advanced personality theory or the fact that he’s male but I can’t imagine a world in which the elimination of food cravings is even desirable. I mean, there are days at work where I’m torn between getting-a-running-start-and-leaping-out-my-second-story-window and consuming magenta toner in a water glass and the only thing that keeps me among the living is the handful of medjool dates I’ve hidden in my bottom desk drawer.

In July I come in for the free air conditioning, but that’s another story.

Seriously: I can’t imagine being craving-free. I’ve worked through the more destructive ones, but I’m not sure I would ever want to wake up without an inkling of exactly what I want for breakfast. Coconut pancake mornings are very different from steel-cut oatmeal days, which are, of course, widely disparate from “screw it I’m going straight for pizza.” It would take some serious time in the female equivalent of a Zen monastery to get that kind of food Buddhism to take hold.

Today has been very raisins-and-pecans thus far, heading into chicken enchiladas territory.

We atheists may not be the most serene folks on planet god-is-dead, but we sure know how to plan a menu.