On Going Halfsies
I’m an only child and I think I’ve talked about this in various contexts, but whenever someone finds out this random fact about me they always have the same reaction, “OHHHHHH that makes so much sense!” Maybe it’s because I’m bossy and I’m always telling people to subscribe to my substack. Maybe it’s because I’m self-absorbed and always wondering why anyone would be talking about anything but me and all my great essays. Maybe it’s because I’m bad at sharing and the only thing I freely give away are these wonderful rambling thoughts. All I know, is that being an only child has deprived me of many situations that would have prepared me for the rest of my life. And, clearly, the most important of these situations, of which I am wholly unprepared to deal with, is going halfsies on a food order.
Now, any of you, my dear sweet readers, who grew up with siblings have spent your entire life sharing things. From food, to toys, to attention, to your ancestral throne and rule of your homeland which was given as primogeniture to your eldest sibling who is clearly too weak-willed to rule with the iron fist your family’s dynasty demands. I however have never had to share a single thing as long as I’ve lived. I am a walking, talking, writing, vibing black hole. I absorb everything I come into contact with, without second thought. If you put an order of fries in front of me, I’m hoovering up those bad boys. If you put wings in front of me, I’m eating until there’s nothing but bones left. If you make the mistake of putting a pint of ice cream in front of me, you better believe that it’s time to lock the doors, close the blinds, and clear the bathroom because I’m gonna eat allllll of that ice cream.
All of the above is to say, I’m not super good at sharing food…but not in the way you’d expect! I actually love sharable foods. I adore being able to try as many things as possible, variety is the spice of life, after all. But, because I never grew up sharing, I often times don’t know how to share food without aggressively forcing my companions to eat more than they want. I’m honestly so worried about my only-child-ness shining through like a solar flare on steroids, that I’ll eat what is CLEARLY less than half of the dish I’m splitting because I’m terrified if I eat 50.00001% of the French fries, you’ll never look at me the same way again. And don’t even get me started on things that don’t split evenly…like an odd number of pizza slices *shudders* I don’t even want to think about it.
The crazy thing is I’m not even a starving college student anymore! I can ask for another order of bruschetta without forever ruining myself financially…but it doesn’t matter, because what if you think I ate more than my fair share? I’d die of embarrassment.
So, what about you? Do you share food without fear of fair? Or are you neurotic as hell like me?
Our double date last week was a true egalitarian type beat. You never batted my hand out of the way as I reached for more wine. Didn't mind Aina's attempt at another slice of pizza. And we all certainly "shared" some laughs. [insert laugh track]
Let's do it again soon.
Amazing. You can live with someone for years and not realize they have a particular neurosis. As the author well knows, I spent his formative years across the dinner table from him (when I wasn't in a writers room eating my dinner in a mini-version of the Oklahoma land rush because we had forty pages of script to go through and it was already 7:30 and I wanted to be home before 2 a.m.) and didn't see this issue coming. The author also knows I grew up with a father who found eating a way to self-medicate, which means the image that still occasionally haunts my dreams is of my dad leaning across the table, his fork dangling menacingly over my half eaten...fill in the blank...and asking, "You through with that?" Maybe because of that, neither my brother, sister or myself, are nervous eaters. If anything, we can't eat when nervous. But also because of that, I do have a little problem with sharing. I want...no, I demand, the first bite of whatever I ordered. I hate when someone reaches over and tries to sample my dish before I have. To pick up on your medieval primogeniture run, it feels like a version of "droit du seigneur," the king's right to get first dibs on your spouse on your wedding night. And I want to make sure I get enough of what I ordered. Of course this applies to anyone but my kid. There is something in our genetic wiring that makes us willing to deny ourselves food if our offspring have eaten their share and are still hungry. As much of an over-eater as he was, I know this applied to my dad as well. It was just maybe a little harder for him.