According to Mashable, I don’t exist. Apparently, the word “foodie” died with Rachel’s haircut in Friends. And, if their new-fangled terms are to be believed, I now fall into the “Roadeater” category of food lover – a term which, as some astute Twitter follower pointed out, makes it sound more like I eat roadkill than enjoy tasting the local food on my travels.
So screw it. I’m a foodie. And I don’t care what Mashable or anyone else says about it. (Including chefs, by the way, who seem to hate the term and all who go under it.) Only the thing about foodies is that everyone expects you to be the size of a bus. I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard things like:
“How do you eat out in all those restaurants all the time and still stay your size?”
“If you ever decide to internet-date, just make sure you include a full-length photo. Otherwise guys will take one look at your description (about your food obsession, no doubt) and assume you’re obese.” (Hmmm, would I want to date these guys anyway?)
Let’s just be clear here, readers. I’d still qualify as a plus-size model (if, you know, I was younger and prettier). I’m no ripped-up gym monkey, and I’ll never have what the mainstream media describes as a “beach body”. (Although I much prefer Hadley Freeman’s version, which goes something like: “Do you have a body? Are you going to the beach? Congratulations – you now have a beach body!”) I do, however, have a healthy BMI and no one has ever mistaken me for being pregnant. Given my job, I’ll take that as a win. (Actually, I’ll take part of that back: I once posted a photo of myself in front of a huge feast of food and wine in the Loire Valley in France with a caption about how I was pregnant with twin food babies. Unfortunately, several of my friends plus my own mother believed that I was actually pregnant with an actual baby. Still, crashing on…)