Cheese, sauce, bread, and the occasional chopped meat product, a match made in heaven for many and for me, it's hell.
Let me start off by saying, I do not hate pizza. I like pizza. I am sort of in love with it, to be honest. Pizza is a universal meal shared among friends, family, co-workers, lovers, even enemies. Red, white, green, large, small, square, crispy, doughy, deep, all delicious. Pizza does not discriminate and neither do its consumers.
World peace-a pie.
The combination of all my favorite things melted onto a piece of crunchy, crusty bread and sliced into a sleek shape to stuff inside of my face hole is just too wonderful for me to even process. But when I am offered a slab of that gooey goodness, I decline gracefully, never breaking a sweat before responding, "I don't like pizza." But, I do. When I say I don't like pizza, I don't mean I don't like pizza. I mean I don't like commitment.
I have broken up with every boyfriend I have ever had. I just could never make it work. And I tried, believe me, I tried a lot. I dated an Italian who bought me roses every tuesday, a tattooed bad-boy with a soft spot for the Bachelor, a full-time employed photographer who had an obsession with my eyes, the list goes on. Each guy was better than the next; cheesy and sweet and a little spicy if I so pleased. The most unhealthy part was the thought in my head that I shouldn't have them, so I always ended up letting go. I let go because they each tried to become a part of me when I wanted to be less. I never felt good enough to enjoy what I had, so I stopped having it.
Like my exes, pizza is too clingy. Cheese clings to sauce clings to bread clings to...thighs and hips and the spaces between. I have never been one to keep things around.
For years, I weighed my options on the scale in my bathroom, and they always told me that I did not need love, and I did not need pizza.
So when I say I don't like pizza, I don't mean I don't like pizza. I mean I don't like myself.
But this year, I have made an effort to enjoy the things I love. This is the year that I allow things to stay.
In 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, I gave up. I gave up cheese, and sauce, and bread, and the comfort of comfort food. I gave up steady breathing, dinner parties, diner runs, holidays, bake sales, free samples at Costco. I gave up my mother's secret meatloaf recipe, Thin Mints, bread sticks, Mimosas at brunch. Then I gave up brunch, dinner, breakfast, and lunch. I gave up my hair, my skin, my nails, the calcium in my bones, rubbing against each other every step I took.
I gave up pizza.
In 2016, I gave up giving up. I gave up letting go. I gave myself a chance. I gave my boyfriend six months (and counting) of my love,
and I gave a call to Domino's.
